It's not you; it's me.

Dear Blog:

I know it's been awhile since we last spoke. Thanks for being so understanding and giving me some space.

You've always been there for me through thick and thin and I'm afraid I've treated you rather shabbily, haven't I? I know I've been neglectful and while you've been mostly silent in your reproaches, this has only served to increase my feelings of guilt.

There are so many things which have been happening in my life lately and I've failed to share them with you. I didn't mean to shut you out but I suppose I did.

I guess every couple reaches a point where the comfortable silences in between conversation become greater and greater in length. At what point does it become uncomfortable and unbearable?

I know our friends are wondering what has been happening with us lately; don't think I haven't heard the gossipy whispers of those who wonder whether we are on the verge of dissolving our relationship. I don't think I'm ready to let go of you just yet but neither am I ready for a full-fledged commitment. Please don't expect me to be with you every moment of the day or to think of you constantly when we are not together. The bloom of our relationship has faded; the excitement and obsessive passion of our early courtship days has waned but has been replaced by the knowledge and comfort that you are always there for me, watching and waiting patiently. Is that asking too much of you?

You must know that I've been faithful to you throughout. Not everyone is monogamous; some people bounce back and forth between their main blog and the OTHER blog. And then there are those friends of mine who have moved on and are onto their second, third or fourth blog. Not me. I may have been oblivious to your needs, but I've not been out there servicing the needs of others.

Please continue to be patient. I promise to come home for good when the time is right and hopefully we can pick up where we left off. Until then though, you will have to just satisfy yourself with our brief and infrequent conjugal visits. Please don't lash out again and compare yourself to a McDonald's drive through window -- I can't bear the hurtful comments you hurl at me.

Affectionately,
your loving partner
Earth Mother

Rip Van Winkle

Goodness ... has it been over a month since I've last posted?? Where does the time go?

Season's Greetings

I've been so incredibly swamped and scarily busy these past few weeks, so I haven't had much of an opportunity to post anything.

I wanted to wish everyone a Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays! Enjoy the break and try to survive any family gatherings.

Ripples

I was sickened by the late news last night about the woman who threw her young child over the rail of the 401 and then jumped immediately after.

As tragic and incomprehensible this act may be, I always wonder about the other stories that never get any media attention. How horrible it must have been for the drivers on the highway to have inadvertently hit a falling child. How can those people continue their lives without constantly replaying the awful sound of the thud which the bodies must have made against their vehicles?

I once sold a house which was located in a very swanky neighbourhood and was surrounded by million dollar homes. Despite its location however, this house sold for only half a million dollars because it was in a serious state of disrepair. Another agent informed me that the owner of the house was divorced, and that her ex-husband had been one of the pathologists who had worked on a horrific multiple homicide case in which the young teenage victims had been tortured, sexually assaulted and then dismembered. Apparently, he never got over the horrors of what he had seen and turned to alcohol for solace. As a result, his marriage disintegrated and he became estranged from his wife and children. Following the dissolution of his career and relationships, he fell further apart and wasn't able to support his family. His two sons suffered immensely as they struggled to school themselves, maintain a modicum of normalcy and help support their mother.

For every hair raising news story, there are so many more victims than we care to contemplate. I wish the media would just once acknowledge that fact.

The winner takes all

When my youngest child was about three months old, I was ambushed and subsequently interviewed for a local TV parenting show. Several questions were posed, the most memorable of which was "Do you think that parents today are competitve when it comes to their kids". I think at the time since I was incredibly sleep deprived I probably flubbed the question and chattered on incoherently, but my answer was essentially "yes".

Through the years I've been amazed by how parents choose to compete with one another. During the baby stages, competition appears to exist mainly between the mothers. Sometimes it begins as early as the day after the birth of their precious one -- "Well, I had natural childbirth despite the fact that I had the most excruciatingly painful back labour the entire time. It's too bad you caved in and had the epidural".

And it doesn't stop there; it goes on to encompass feeding, sleeping and pooping schedules. "My little guy goes down for five hours straight and he's only six weeks old. You must be doing something wrong if your four month old still isn't settling down for long stretches of time".

The other divisions of competition includes when the babies uttered their first words, who cut their first tooth, who started eating solids first, who crawled first, who rolled over first, who started walking first, who smiled first ...

Enter the toilet training years ... "My sweet darling is soooo smart ... she potty trained herself by the time she was eighteen months old. We only had two accidents and since then we've never looked back". "Your son sits down to pee? My guy always stands up like a big boy".

There are endless tasks at which one's child could be the best. Is your child an early reader? Did he or she learn to write his or her name by the time he or she was two? What about the alphabet song? Did they express an interest in the arts from the time they could talk and walk? Does he or she have a great sense of humour? Play the piano or violin? No? Well, you better get on that one. They say it's never too early to start. It helps boost their math skills. And on that topic, can your little one count to thirty yet?

I spent this past weekend at a squash tournament for my eldest son. He is and has always been fairly athletic and has a keen interest in sports of any kind. I guess at a certain age it's not enough to just play squash now and again; one wants to see how one ranks against the masses. So at his request and upon the direction of the raquets pro, I registered him for a junior silver tournament.

It was a marathon event, running from Friday until Sunday evening, and fortunately, it dovetailed quite nicely with our hockey schedule. J. was pumped for the whole event. He had been practising since September and he felt that his game had improved dramatically since last year.

I was a bit nervous about the whole thing because I knew that he would be playing against some of the province's top-ranked kids and I didn't want him to lose his love for the game if he got crushed early on. Fortunately, he held his own fairly well and although he didn't win, he did get the satisfaction of knowing that he was just as good as most of the kids there.

What fascinated me however, throughout the tourney was the dynamic between dads and lads. The squash courts were designed in such a way that the back wall was almost competely bulit of glass. This permitted a second floor viewing gallery where most parents opted to sit. As the tournament progressed however, parents began sitting downstairs so that they could pop open the court door at any given time and yell out instructins to their child.

I noticed that each boy would either look up towards the gallery or directly past the door at his dad when he missed a shot. The dads would often be making grimaces, wildly gesticulating while mouthing instructions "Go deep. Don't get sloppy with your backhand. Use your head".

Most of the moms on the other hand, simply smiled encouragingly and waved. Not that we women aren't sports fans ourselves, or don't engage in the game of squash. I had a number of tips I could have given my son had he asked, but I wasn't about to start screaming them out between games. It's interesting that while women appear to be competitive when our kids are babies, we often don't exhibit that streak of cmopetitiveness in the arena of sports. I guess it's because the dads step in with their pride of their sons in this regard. During the tournament, I heard so many fathers trying to one-up the other "My son is only eight and he's already got a killer serve." "Oh yeah? Well both my boys have been told that they could be number one in Ontario by next year".

Of course, I would have been delighted if my son had won, or at least made it into the finals. I wanted this not because I harbour a deep seated hope that he will be a squash champion, but because I wanted him to be rewarded for his hard work and I wanted to see him happy. One of the toughest moments of the tournaments was watching him lose his fifth and final game of an amazing, crowd-drawing match. He came off the court in tears, upset at the ref for missing an important shot, angry at the other player for being dishonest and just generally frustrated with himself for failing to return balls he felt he should have easily gotten. Inconsolable, he refused the hugs offered by the entire family and sobbed in a corner. Albeit seemingly unwillingly, he listened to me tell him that sports, and life itself, was all about focussing on the positive moments, that he just had to acknowledge any of the mistakes he made and just move on, without the negative feelings colouring any future games. He stared bleakly past me as I told him that the whole point of the tournament wasn't simply to waltz in and win, but to get some valuable feedback about oneself and to learn how to play against others in a respectful and sportsmanlike manner. In the end, I concluded, despite his loss, it was a postive event; he had learned that he could stand up against some of the best players and give them a worthy match.

What people forget when they try to establish that their children, and themselves by extension, are the best of blah-blah-blah is that these titles are meaningless. The glory of being Numero Uno is a worthless one really. The journey to get there however, regardless of whether one achieves the actual goal, is what counts. My son may never be among the top ranked squash players in Ontario, he may never make it to the finals in a tournament and he may never improve his strokes, but I hope that he will grow up with a great deal of character and that he will learn that it's important to always keep trying. Along the way, I hope he also remembers to conduct himself with respect.

For myself, I hope that I won't consider my children's victories to be my own and that I won't ever steal their thunder. I hope that I won't ever hope to bolster my own ego by looking to my children's accomplishments.

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar

The naivete and sheer innocence of children often reminds me of how jaded we adults are. Two stories come to mind whenever I think about how far and away from our childhood:

1. Within our household, we are fairly careful with our language. Not only do we refrain from using profanity, but we also discourage our children from employing words like "hate", "fart", "stupid", etc. Our children have been instructed to try to be positive in their thinking and in their speech. We've tried to impress upon them the adage that "if you've nothing good to say to someone, then don't say anything at all".

When my eldest son J., began grade one, he was exposed to all sorts of children, a few of whose parents didn't necessarily subscribe to the same school of thought as we did. Indeed, their philosophy appeared to be more along the lines of the blurt-whatever-comes-to-your-mind-however-inappropriate-it-may-be variety. J. was horrified that kids would say some of the things that he would never dare to utter.

On our way home from school one day, J. announced from the back of the car that one of his classmates constantly used the "S-word". While I thought that this language was somewhat inappropriate for a boy on the verge of his sixth birthday, I also knew that there was a small faction of kids within the school who consistently used what we deemed 'bad' language. The difficulty was how to keep our kids from employing obnoxious or inappropriate terms when others used it regularly.

While J. was expounding on the evils of employing the "S-word", his little sister suddenly piped up "What IS the S-word?" to which J. replied "You don't want to know ... it's SOOOOOOOOOOO bad". Of course, this just piqued her interest and she kept pressing him to tell her what the word was. After many refusals on J.'s part, she finally asked him to tell her what the word meant. J. hesitated and asked me to help him out with the definition, so I said "It's a not very nice word for poo". At this, J. said "It is? I thought it was the opposite of smart". Uh oh ...

I asked J. what exactly was the S-word and he leaned in and whispered in my ear "Stupid. What word were you thinking of?"

"Um ... never mind ..."


2. A few years ago, I was speaking with a close friend of J. This particular boy is utterly endearing; half-Parisian with a mop of hair, he possesses a charmingly earnest demeanour. On this particular occasion, he was walking alongside me and my children as we exited the school.

At one point, I glanced down at his feet and noticed that his shoes appeared to be several sizes larger than J's. Since J. has always asked me if he is of average height or not, I enquired as to the size of his friend's shoes. As it turned out his shoe size was probably only about two sizes smaller than my own -- large if you consider the fact that he was in grade two at the time.

When I exclaimed "Wow ... you have big feet for a kid your age", he replied with a "Well you know what they say about people with big shoes, right?"

I stopped dead in my tracks, my heart pounding, all the while thinking "Oh no ... this kid not only has way larger feet than J., he is clearly so much more precocious". After the boy prompted me again with his question, I then felt compelled to respond with a weak "Um well I've heard of something but I can't really remember ... so, WHAT do they say about people with big shoes?"

The answer with a lovely French lilt followed immediately, "Well, that they are fraidy cats. And that's not true because my cousin has really big feet and she's so brave. She's not scared of anything". He then followed it up with an innocent "Is that what you were told?" I smiled down at his big brown eyes and managed to stammer out "Why yes, I think I remember hearing something likethat".

Walk a mile in my shoes ... or not

Wow, I'm running so far behind in everything! I had a completely packed and busy week last week because of my son's tenth birthday followed immediately by Hallowe'en. Tons of baking went on in my house (I used a total of twenty cups of flour) as well as lots of binging.

I absolutely love Hallowe'en. When I was younger, that day was all about getting candy as my parents never had junk food or sweets in our house, so the 31st was our one day to make a big score and ration it out through the year. As I got older, I think I just got more and more enamoured with the whole idea of getting dressed up and cutting loose that one night. Once I had kids, I think I got off on the process of making the most creative, unique and fun costumes for them.

What is funny is that my kids -- the boys especially -- are not so into trick-or-treating. (This despite the fact that they drive me crazy in the weeks beforehand with the stress of finding or making the perfect costume). I suppose it's because, unlike my childhood household, my cupboards are bursting to the seams with all kinds of goodies and my kids can pick and choose between their treats.

We went trick-or-treating with one of my friends and her two sons who are both best friends with my two sons. Our whole experience didn't last beyond an hour though before our boys were clamouring to go home (die hard candy addict that she is, my daughter wanted to keep going for another hour or two). On our way home, my friend and I both declared loudly that our kids were just way too soft and that "back in our day, we would go trick-or-treating for four hours ... in minus fifteen degree weather ... and uh ... with no shoes ..."

Kids today ... they got it easy!

Those outfits aren't just aerodynamic ... they're waterproof, too

Once again, i've been so bogged down that I haven't had much of a chance to post. It's funny how blogging, which began as a pleasurable activity, has sometimes descended into the ranks of burdenous commitment! I suppose I should ease up on the pressure which I place upon myself if I don't post as regularly as I used to.

While I privately sort out my neurosis surrounding blogging, let me leave you with this amusing little anecdote:

My youngest child has a tendency to sleep with possessions that are brand new. When he got his first pair of running shoes, he insisted on putting them upon his bare feet before climbing into his crib for the night. When he got a new basketball that went into his crib as well.

Yesterday I bought him his Hallowe'en costume. Unlike my other two children, he is not interested in exploring the fun of homemade costumes. He's very much a commercially driven child who enjoys the canned pop culture version of life. His costume choice this year was Batman. For the whopping price of $35.00 we got a one-piece grey and black Batman jumpsuit, a yellow power belt and a fabulous black cape with the Batman mask attached. It was a veritable polyster-wrought masterpiece; in other words a young child's dream come to life. Of course, he had to don his superhero ensemble as soon as we'd cashed out of the store. (God forbid anyone should see him in his civvies).

No surprise that after his shower that night, rather than jumping into his pyjamas, he opted for his costume instead. His only concession to my concerns of nocturnal overheating was to abstain from wearing the cape and mask, although he insisted that they be placed next to him in bed. I guess he was anticipating that Toronto might have some emergency in the dead of the night which would require Batman's services.

At about 6:00 a.m. I was awakened by a very agitated mini Batman. Our young superhero was hopping back and forth from one foot to the other performing his best rendition of what is known in our household as The Pee Dance. Apparently, he awoke with a very full bladder but somehow couldn't negotiate his way out of his costume in order to relieve himself. Ironically, as soon as he was freed from the shackles of his nylon duds, he ran with superhero-like speed to the washroom. My husband and I chuckled throughout our little one's entire three minute-long pee session, and then laughed even harder when he very solemnly put his outfit on again before going back to bed.

God bless my kids ... without them I'd have absolutely nothing to blog about!

It's all about you ...

I've been so busy lately and haven't been moved to post at all.

I was at a social gathering on the weekend and a question was asked to the group at large which I still haven't been able to answer yet. Curious and interested enough to poll all you bloggers.

If you had to pick someone famous (and living) to spend one hour with, who would it be and why?

Both ends of the spectrum

My youngest son just keeps hitting those milestones mercilessly.

Within the first week of having begun first grade, he lost his first tooth. As if that wasn't a painful enough reminder that my baby is growing up, his sister came home from school last Thursday and announced that during recess that day, he had kissed a girl. On the lips, no less.

While I gazed down at him incredulously, my baby at least had the good sense to look shyly down and colour slightly. Still, when I enquired as to what his opinion was regarding how the whole event went, he responded cheerily "It was good". I was only moderately comforted by my daughter's remarks that the girl had been far more willing to participate than he had.

The following day when I picked up my kids from school, my daughter reported that this time, he had kissed a boy on the lips. Not sure who had made the first move although I have a fair idea.

My husband and I used to speculate on what life would be like when our children got older. He always described our eldest son as being more of a lover and the younger one a "banger" (his choice of words, not mine). We always imagined that our eldest would finally bring home a girl and that over the course of dinner, our youngest would make a play for her and charm her pants off.

Funny, even though I think of myself as a liberal and open-minded parent, I had had never considered the scenario in which my daughter's boyfriends might get stolen by her younger brother.

The next few years should be interesting ones ...

All we need to know, we should have learned in kindergarten

I am often fascinated by how easily children, boys especially, can get together and play.

It's as though all they say is "I'm a kid, you're a kid. Great, we have so much in common. Now let's go tussle out back".

A couple of years ago, I got back in touch with a university friend. We had been quite close during our undergrad years, but then drifted apart and lost touch with each other subsequently.

Upon our reunion, we discovered that our sons were about four months apart in age so we arranged an impromptu playdate. Without consulting her son, we arrived at her house with my eldest guy in tow. We discovered her son in the basement playing basketball by himself. As we stood awkwardly in the doorway watching him, my friend made the introductions, during which time our sons remained completely silent.

While my friend started chattering about how we had been best friends for years, her son suddenly bounce passed the ball to my son who, without missing a beat, caught it, entered the room, shot the ball and then bounce passed it back. Immediately, they fell into a rhythm of taking shots on net and passing the ball back to the other. All this went on wordlessly for several minutes. My friend and I watched this, shrugged our shoulders and went upstairs for a cup of coffee, leaving our children to their own devices.

I'm not sure at what point one of them finally spoke, and what was said exactly. But the two boys got on like a house on fire and hours later when they emerged from the basement, they were giggling and chatting as though they'd always known each other.

I've observed this kind of easy acceptance and camaraderie amongst other children on many occasions, and I'm constantly amazed by it. Many adults tend to complicate things in that they spend more time and energy sizing each other up and deciding if another person is the right gender, religion, personality type, intelligence level, etc. before they can decide if they want to go forward and extend any kind of friendship or friendly gesture.

Maybe we need to take a leaf out of our children's books and just learn to relax.

Copycat

Have any of you ever seen the movie Single White Female? It's about a woman who advertises for a roommate. Said roommate turns out to have a few screws loose, fixates upon the woman and ultimately tries to get rid of everyone important in her life so as to have an exclusive and close relationship. At one point, the deranged roommate from hell deliberately tries to look and dress just like the object of her obsession.

There is a young woman who used to teach my eldest son a couple of years ago. She is on the verge of turning thirty and is in all respects a very attractive person. For whatever reason, she has always liked me and my family, and that feeling has been mutually reciprocated.

A couple of weeks ago, she approached me and commented favourably on the outfit I was wearing. Among her gushing comments was the confession that she felt herself to be a "safe dresser" while she perceived me to be edgy and willing to take risks in the fashion arena. I suppose in a sea of Lulu Lemon clad women gingerly clutching Starbucks coffee cups so as not to ruin their French manicures, I might appear a little different, bur I'm hardly way out there.

Last week, the teacher sidled up to me in the courtyard and started fishing for compliments with regards to her outfit. I couldn't help but think that her ensemble seemed like an attempt to recreate the look that I'd had the week before, especially since her opening line was "I'm trying really hard to be a little edgier today". I complimented her nevertheless and said that as always, she looked wonderful.

On Friday of last week, I was dressed fairly conservatively as I'd been meeting with new clients. Still, my outfit had a bit of punch in that my skirt was of an unusual shape and was a beautiful shade of hot pink. That afternoon, the same teacher approached me, complimented me yet again on my look. She then went on to say that she had the exact same skirt and that she was "taking notes on my outfit".

Yesterday, as I entered the courtyard to pick up my children, I did a double take. Standing about twenty feet from me was the teacher clad in a virtually identical outfit as I had been wearing on Friday.

It's funny. That kind of thing always happened in high school. In every high school, I think there is always at least one girl who has a certain je ne sais quoi about her. Hand in hand with that girl is at least one friend who is mildly adoring and wants to be like her in every respect possible. Generally, that desire to emulate is expressed in terms of clothing. But for whatever reason, the obsessor can never quite pull it off.

During the summer, I was sitting in a coffee shop one day when in strolled these two young girls. They were probably about fifteen years old and they had that I-am-the-cat's-pyjamas-confidence that only a young teen can possess. I had to stifle a giggle watching them as they were dressed virtually identically in brown tank tops, fashionably frayed jean minis, flip flops and clutch purses. But even though they were fashion's answer to the Bobsey Twins, it was still obvious who was the trendsetter and who was the follower. I wanted to shake the second girl and say "What are you doing? Why do you want to be a clone? Wouldn't you rather be unique?"

I'm way past my high school years, but I have to admit that it does bother me to have a clone out there. It must be genetic because my daughter, who expresses herself by her own completely creative and unique sense of fashion, gets upset if anyone copies her.

Update: This afternoon when picking up my children, I was approached yet again by the teacher who asked where I got a particular item of clothing I was wearing today. She said that coincidentally she had just been flipping through a magazine this afternoon and had wanted to create the very same look I was sporting. Wondering if this means that tomorrow I will be greeted with a version of myself?

Tales from the fifth grade

Can't think,
Brain dumb,
Inspiration won't come.
Bum pen,
No ink,
Best wishes,
Amen.

That little rhymer was scribbled into my grade school autograph books on numerous occasions by various classmates.

In the third grade, the teasing began:

Not because you're dirty,
Not because you're clean,
But because you kissed a boy
Behind a magazine.

As we got older, the rhymes would take on a more lewd tone (at a third grade level, that is):

She offered her honour,
He honoured her offer,
And all night long,
He was on her and off her.

We tee-hee'd over that one, thinking we were so bad.

I haven't a clue why we persisted year after year, in ceremoniously making the rounds of the class in order to get each person's John Henry. We were very much a community school; there wasn't a single classmate that didn't walk to and from school. The day after school ended and every day during the summer, we would find each other at the neighbourhood public pool, so the point of bidding each other "adieu" in our Mickey Mouse autograph books was fairly pointless. I guess the idea was to hold onto the books on the off chance that one of our classmates would become a famous porn star or politician or both and then we'd have some priceless memorabilia. Unfortunately, i am the child of two completely unsentimental people who are the absolute anti-thesis of pack rats. Sigh ...

Bittersweet

Today was the first day of school. My youngest child began grade one. There are just way too many emotions to sort through.

I have a big lump in my throat.

Knit one, purl two

I've been so busy trying to soak up the last few weeks of summer that I've ignored the whole world of blogging. (Surprisingly the entire infrastructure did not collapse without my obsessive supervision).

I've also been spending a lot of time knitting. Throughout my life, I've tended to go off on these sporadic craft jags where I'll either knit, crochet or sew. Of the three, knitting is my favourite activity. There's something vaguely hypnotic and soothing about the whole thing. I'm endlessly fascinated by the fact that a fabulous creation can spring from two sticks and a ball of string.

Since I'm a fairly experienced and seasoned knitter, I tend to go on autopilot while completing a project. I find that I can just zone out and let my mind wander off on its own tangents. It's interesting where it sometimes meanders.

Most recently, for some reason, it played back a few scenes from my childhood. One of the earliest that kept flashing through my mind was a time when I was about two years old, if that. I remember that it was a crisp fall day and my father had taken me and my brother outside to play. The reason why we were dispatched into his charge was that my mother needed some peace and quiet within to finish sewing my new fall coat. My parents were both frugal people and always recycled things. Hence, the fabric for my coat came from one of my mother's maternity suits. My mother was very conscious of quality, so my coat was of a beautiful green wool pinstripe fabric.

I still remember how excited I was when my mother emerged from our apartment and presented me with the finished product. I immediately donned the coat and pranced around feeling incredibly grown-up.

At the time, i took for granted the fact that my mother is a creative genius. A number of items in my closet were hand-me-downs courtesy of my brother, but my mother always reworked them so that they looked nothing like boy's clothing. It never occurred to me at the time how much time and energy my mother expended on these tasks. Neither did I ever stop to consider how little of either precious commodity she had available.

The other memory that popped up was also from the same era; I may have even been younger than two years old because I seem to remember still being in diapers. My mother came home unexpectedly early one day and I ran to greet her excitedly. Since my mother went back to work within a month of giving birth, neither my brother nor I ever really had much play time with her and had to contend with a series of horrible babysitters. The prospect of having a little extra time with my mother was therefore, a thrilling one.

That particular day I was eating chocolate chip cookies and I had two, one clutched in each pudgy little fist. My hands and face were smeared with crumbs and chocolate. When I ran to hug my mother, she dropped down to her knees and gave me a hug, simultaneiously gracing me with a huge radiant smile. At some point, I remember looking down at one of my hands and seeing that the cookie had been bitten into. I was never sure if I'd eaten it, or if my mother had had a taste while I was busy chattering to her. I prefer the latter scenario because it makes me feel particularly close to my mom.

I've spent a lot of time on my blog here engaging in some form of therapy or another; sharing with the world at large some of the feelings that I've had with regards to my family and to my past. It's a new experience for me given that I spent my entire life keeping all of it secret and trying to invent a different family life than the one I had. I often feel guilty about the amount of indiscreet venting I've done with regards to both my childhood and to my family. A longtime friend of mine once made an idle comment about my lack of discretion online and I felt particularly ashamed because his mother passed away years ago while he was still far too young to be without a parent.

As I furiously and obsessively finished my sweater it occurred to me that perhaps I was doing more than just creating a fashion statement. As trivial and uneventful as my memories are, I hang onto them closely. I somehow believe that if I can just connect the dots between those types of moments, I can fashion a more positive and glowing view of my mother and overlook all the glaring problems that existed in our relationship.

And then like so many of the hang tags that accompany our store-bought garments, any deficiencies in the fabric would simply add to the beauty of the item itself.

Two sides of the same coin

I took my kids to see "Superman Returns". Most of the movie focussed on the relationship between Lois Lane and the tights-in-flight guy.

I know that it's fiction, but it's always bothered me that Lois Lane never gleans onto the fact that Clark Kent is really her super love interest. We are led to believe through our pop culture that love is all-encompassing and has the rare ability to change us. Yet, someone who claims to be in love with another being can't recognise him when he dons street clothes and geeky glasses.

In real life, are we really that superficial? Scarily, I sometimes think that we are indeed. People often fall in love with another, citing his or her good qualities, and fail to take into account that the less desirable qualities are simply the flip side of what we love. They also fail to realise that often you can't have one without the other. I think of my husband who is impulsive, spontaneous and has this incredible joy and passion for life. When I first met him, I was bowled over by his ability to be happy despite all odds. It was a novel concept for me since I grew up believing that enjoying life was frivolous and that planning was everything. What I later came to realise was that my husband is quite possibly also the single most disorganised person on the face of this earth. He would probably curl up and die if a strict nine-to-five regime was imposed upon him.

Am I charmed by the fact that his desk is constantly buried beneath a mountain of papers? Probably not, but I've come to realise that that comes hand in hand with his good qualities; he wouldn't be so able to give into the mood of the moment if he was an anal person.

At the heart of every plainly clothed person lies a superhero. I'm convinced of that fact. The hardest part is trying to love both the civilian and the hero equally.

Maybe they're onto something ...

This past weekend, I was at the cottage entertaining our wonderful friends from Denmark (five of the loveliest individuals one could ever have the pleasure of meeting).

At the request of the matriarch of the Danish crew, we went to the market at St. Jacob's, which is a Mennonite town about a twenty-five minute drive from the cottage. Whilst there, the eldest son would discreetly point to some of the hard core Mennonites. In his charming European adolescent fashion, he would comment about how their lives must suck. On this point, he was obdurate despite my explanations that there could be some beauty in the simplicity of it all. (While lecturing him of course, I was trying to block out the depressing conflict and dreariness which I'd read about in Miriam Toewes "A Complicated Kindness").

My teenage friend kept waxing and waning about a life devoid of cars, electronics and good clothes. Since Denmark is a socialist country, his is certainly not a life jammed with the commercial pleasures into which we greedy North Americans regularly dip our gouty little fingers. Because of this, I thought he could relate to the lives of the Mennonites. From his perspective though, he couldn't figure out why a North American would choose to forego the luxries which he himself was forced to do without.

This weekend, my car broke down, followed by my traiterous cell phone which decided to just literally fall apart within my hands. Then my Palm Pilot started acting up and I oculdn't figure out which end was up in my life anymore. I realised that the Mennonites had one up on us; they could easily star in a Survivor series and thrive, while I would lie moaning on the ground complaining about the lack of electrical outlets for my hair dryer. Speaking of a no hair dryer existence, I think I just figured out why the Mennonite womenfolk sport those hideous black bonnets ...

Bend over ... trust me

Growing up, I was cautioned to trust no one. My parents were very suspicious of others, particularly those of the non-Korean persuasion. I suspect that their mistrust found its roots in the early days of their emigration to North America, and was no doubt fuelled by their parents' and fellow countrymen's cautions.

As I grew up, my parents constantly chastised my brother and I for our apparent naivete. The fact that we naturally instilled any trust and belief in our friends was considered sheer stupidity. I felt conflicted at the best of times.

When adolescent rebellion set in, I began thinking, in typical teenage fashion, that my parents didn't know much about anything. Therefore this whole mistrust of the world at large was clearly silly. I felt that my parents were too paranoid and needed to rethink their position on others' intentions; not everyone was out to take advantage of us at every turn. Surely some people were good.

"Not so", declared my father from within my head in a Norman Bates' mother-like way.

"Oh. do shut up please," I thought as I resolutely ignored him and continued on my merry way.

As the daughter of a theoretical scientist, I can't help but feel that every hypothesis must first be tested before one could declare it a theory. Therefore, I went to the lab so to speak, and set out to prove my parents wrong, all the while feeling the weight of my parents' disapproval.

About four years ago, I made the acquaintance of a young man in his early twenties. We met in the street right outside of my house. I live in a very quiet middle-class neighbourhood. This particular man was visiting his girlfriend who rented a room in a house two doors away from me. The initial jumping off point of our conversation revolved around the question of ownership of two well-groomed dogs which were wandering up and down the street. Somehow our conversation evolved and within weeks, he was doing some odd manual work for my husband around our house and at one of our investment properties. After work, he would often play basketball with my eldest son and would chat with me. As he was on his own, I sort of took him under my wing.

One day, D. asked me about my large book collection which he had seen in the living room. After we had chatted about what types of books he preferred to read, I then selected several from my shelves and pressed them upon him. It was obvious that he was interested in reading them all, but he was quite reticient and suggested that I lend him one at a time rather than all three at once. I insisted that they were essential reads and that he should take them all at once as I had read them already and wouldn't need them back for awhile. He cautioned me several times that he was an extremely slow reader and that it would take him some time before he would be finished with them.

Shortly thereafter, D's girlfriend moved away from our street and out of neighbourhood. As I never go D's phone number, I lost touch with him.

Now, it should be known that the one possesion about which I am slightly obsessive is my books. Through the years, I have lent out many of my books to various people and have never gotten them back. Since I have a nearly photographic memory, I still remember to this day who has which book.

After D. stopped being a regular in our household, I would often have regrets about having been so reckless in my offer to him. One of the books in particular, had been given to me as a gift by my first love and had an inscription written in it. I felt a certain longing for a book that held a chunk of my past within its covers.

Several years later, I was going through my book shelves sorting through my collection. I thought fleetingly of D. and my lost books and silently cursed myself for having trusted a virtual stranger.

The next night as I was feeding my children dinner, I heard someone knocking at my front door. Our area is heavily canvassed by charities, schoolkids and Jehoval witnesses, so I'm somewhat leery about answering my door if I'm not expecting anyone. I peered out of the window and saw a tall man standing on my front stoop. He called out my name and although I couldn't place him, I thought it was someone I knew, so I opened the door. It took me a minute for the penny to drop before I realised it was D. He looked very different as he was dressed in a suit and had cut his dreadlocks off.

I invited him in and we began chatting about what he had been up to since we had last seen each other. Before we got very far in our conversation, he dashed out the door and ran to his car. He returned with my books and apologised for their late return. Apparently, he had moved many times over since we'd last spoken and had taken the books with him to each place. The most touching comment was that he'd felt honoured that I'd trusted a virtual stranger with my possessions and he had wanted to make sure they were returned to me.

At the time, I remember feeling that this was an important life lesson; that good feelings such as respect and trust which are given out to someone eventually boomerang and find their way home to you just as my precious books did. As I learned in my physics class, energy is never lost.

I'd like to end the story on a good note. Unfortunately, after our fuzzy reunion, D. ended up moving into an apartment in one of our investment properties and stiffed us for about four months' rent with neither an explanation nor an apology. The weird thing is that that did nothing to erase my feelings that he was a person with an honour code in place. (In fact, from what I learned afterwards from others, he was going through an extremely tough time in his life which no doubt contributed to his inability to pay). I suppose it's an indication of how much value I place upon my books.

David and Goliath

One of my neighbours got married and had a child later in life. Said child is extremely petite; she weighs twenty-two pounds and is about the size of an average fourteen month-old, despite the fact that she is a couple months away from her third birthday. As the product of a long-harboured desire, she appears to be indulged in very interesting ways.

Yesterday, I was on my way to another neighbour's house with my children. We were going to go swimming. My daughter ran into Thumbelina and played with her briefly before telling her of our plans. Thumbelina then decided that she was going to come with us and ran down the street to tell her father that she needed to put on her bathing suit.

My daughter waited for her and after nearly fifteen minutes, she finally emerged from her house with her mother in tow. Mrs. Thumbelina advised us that her daughter had never really been in a pool and didn't know how to swim. She also said that she didn't know the pool-owning neighbours upon whom her daughter had foisted herself.

After about fifteen minutes of splashing about, during which time Thumbelina commanded my children to fetch and carry, Mrs. Thumbelina asked her daughter if she thought they should leave. As anyone with half a brain would guess, the little one volleyed back with a resounding "no". What kid would chirp "Yes, in fact, I'm ready to go now, Mother dearest"??!!

Then followed thirty minutes of painful dialogue between mother and child. As it turned out, the mother was expecting dinner guests and she kept asking the child if she didn't think she should come home to visit with the guests who had no doubt already arrived. I couldn't figure out what the hell the two were doing there in the first place if the mother knew guests were imminent. Why didn't she just refuse to bring her child swimming when she asked?

So I sat there and bore witness to a twenty pounder pushing around an adult who very willingly took it. It was all I could do not to scream out "Just bloody take your child out of the pool and TELL her it's time to go home!" Why on earth did the mother feel compelled to keep asking her daughter for permission to leave?

Now I'm not the world's most perfect parent, but I do believe in setting boundaries for my children. I can't imagine ever asking them repeatedly "Kids, do you think it's time for to stop all your fun and go home?" Instead, I usually give them the five minute warning, throw in a bonus two minutes and then tell them to pack it up. And yes, on occasion, I have gotten angry if they haven't cooperated.

I sometimes have to stop and wonder if I'm being too hard on my kids. I grew up in a family where no respect or consideration was ever given to one's children or to their feelings, lest said children got horribly spoiled. Because this was the norm for me growing up, I have nothing else to reference when searching for a good role model. Therefore, the task of finding a happy medium between authoritarian parent and jellyfish permissive parent is sometimes a difficult one. In this case however, there is no way I would ever aspire to be like this geriatric mom.

Forget the metaphysical questions ... these are far more pressing

I heard on the radio yesterday that Wireton Willy died after a bout of pneumonia or some such groundhog version of the ailment.

I was curious how they will go about picking Willy's successor. Do they hold auditions by shining a flashlight above the groundhog to see how they will react? Do they pick one of Willy's children? Did Willy have any say in who would follow in his hallowed footsteps? Do they attend some kind of metereology training academy? Will they announce it and have a great big press conference?

Another of my pet peeves

Well since I'm feeling utterly wretched at the moment, i thought I'd just engage in some public bitching.

Why is that people feel compelled to speak some kind of condescending and retarded form of English around immigrants who don't have the greatest command of the language? I mean, I certainly modify how I speak somewhat in that I try to slow down a bit as I am slightly manic in my speech at times. I may also try to simplify my language a bit, in the same way as I would if I was speaking with a younger person.

What I don't do though is either speak in extremely loud tones (because the person is non-English speaking, not hearing impaired) or speak in a stilted and grammatically incorrect manner. I overheard a co-worker yelling at a tradesman, saying something along the lines of "You come his house. You come for fix his fence. I give you address, okay?"

I find the whole thing utterly distasteful and insulting. Newly landed immigrants may not speak English properly upon first arriving to Canada, but they certainly aren't stupid. Also, maybe the reason they might take longer to learn to speak correctly is that idiots deliberately slaughter the language on the premise that they are helping out.

Because I'm too tired and sick to be original

This came from Snooze and while I thought it was just in the name of good fun actually seems to really scream me.

Your Birthdate: January 24

You understand people well and are a natural born therapist. A peacemaker, people always seem to get along when you are around. You tend to be a father or mother figure to friends, even to those older than you. You enjoy your role, and you find that you are close to many people. Your strength: Your devotion Your weakness: Reliance on others for happiness Your power color: Lilac Your power symbol: Heart Your power month: June

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

Who are we kidding?

I just love how the fashion world patronises us in an oh-so-obvious way.

It's yesterday's news that on the whole, people are getting larger. Obesity is on the rise and will no doubt reach epidemic proportions within the near future.

I'm lucky in that I've been blessed with a fairly good metabolism. I may have gained about ten pounds within the last few years, but since I'd always been thin I'm now average in weight.

In years past, I was always a size eight, maybe even a ten depending upon whether the garment was cut on the smaller size. I believe I even have some vintage items from my mother that are a size twelve. But now thanks to our expanding waistlines and fashion's transparent attempt to make us think we still look like we are still fourteen years old, I'm a size zero or a two. Do I honestly care so long as I find something that fits me properly and does the job? Apparently though, lots of women do. It's a big thrill for some girls to suddenly find themselves down from size fourteen to a size eight. Enough to make them buy ten pairs of pants just to have that lovely small size tag staring back at them.

Children's clothes are also made much larger. So that we can tell larger children that "look you fit into a size ten tall ... see you're no different than your friends". I guess I can see the point given that eating disorders are also on the rise amongst our pre-teens. It's pretty scary to hear third and fourth graders worrying about calorie intake and fat content. We wouldn't want our girls developing complexes about their bodies, now would we? And yet, we then prance around and happily announce to our girlfriends that we now fit into a teeny size four, so aren't we so thin now?

In the end though, how blind do the fashion moguls think we are, or how much do they think we are willing to fool ourselves? I mean, I know I'm not really a size zero. I'm hardly overweight, but I'm no waif either. And my perfectly average and normally sized eight-year-old daughter isn't "teeny" or "petite" as the salespeople like to crow delightfully. She's just surrounded by a sea of overly large clothes.

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet and a larger person by any other hang tag is still going to be faced with her own mirror image at home. Intead of deluding ourselves into thinking we are something we aren't, shouldn't we just learn to love and accept what we are?

Transplanted in Toronto Soil and Proud of It

There are a lot of things I don't like about Toronto. Or more accurately, it's not that I dislike Toronto so much as the fact that, at the heart of it all, I'm a Montreal girl; even after all of these years of residing here, I still don't feel quite at home in Toronto. Something about the atmosphere being more Anglophone perhaps?

i was downtown today and found myself in the centre of the Pride Week Parade. It was an awesome experience and I was glad to be a part of it. It is pretty amazing and wonderful that Toronto hosts this kind of an event on an annual basis.

When I first moved to Toronto, I was struck by the amount of uptight and close-minded people I met. I encountered more racism, sexism, homophobia and open ignorance and intolerance here than I had back home. But maybe it's just that the biases are different. Quebec residents have their own set of prejudices and I suppose since I've grown up surrounded by them, I don't give it a second thought.

As I stood amidst the throng of people this afternoon, I wondered why Montreal doesn't host its own Gay Pride week. We bill ourselves as being European, liberal and cosmopolitan in our beliefs and yet, we don't celebrate the wide spectrum of sexuality. Are we really not as open-minded as I liked to give us credit as being, or is it that we are just too pre-occupied with the whole Quebecois identity to even think about anything else?

So much for the magic word

Does anyone remember good manners?

Don't get me wrong, I'm no Emily Post. I do occasionally put my elbows on the table, although never while eating; I don't write as many thank-you cards as I should although I did for all the more momentuous events (wedding, birth and christening gifts) and I have often issued verbal invites rather than the old-fashioned written ones for dinner parties and the like. But when it comes to the basics, I think I'm fairly well-versed.

It seems like etiquette is a dying art. I'm constantly appalled by the lack of respect people show for those older than themselves. Simple gestures such as holding the door open or allowing an older person to enter into or exit from an elevator first seem to be far and few.

I know I sound like an old fart, but honestly, back in my day we were trained to behave in a certain fashion. While I may not agree with the way in which those lessons were drummed into us, I do still believe that the lessons were important ones.

Today, we hosted our daughter's eighth birthday party. I am constantly amazed at the lack of consideration both parents and children exhibit during such events.

We issue written invitations to the entire class every year. Each year, I have to chase down about fifty percent of the parents to find out if their child will be attending. This despite the fact that I specifically ask that parents RSVP by a certain date. Because it's not my dream to run around at the last minute and buy extra loot bags or order a bigger cake to accomodate the late stragglers.

I'm always amazed at the cheekiness that some of the guests possess. Who paws through the loot bags before they are given out and then declares loudly that "it sucks"? Who proclaims that vanilla cake is most decidely not their favourite and then goes on to ask if there is another dessert for them? What the hell ever happened to the rule "if you have nothing good to say, say nothing"?

Many of the parents didn't even bother to thank my daughter or I for inviting their child. I always make sure that at the end of a party or playdate my children seek out all the adults who helped out and thank them, as well as going to the host child and passing on their thanks and/or birthday wishes. Apparently, this is unusual and rare behaviour.

Am I being overly and unrealistically demanding? Or is common etiquette going the way of the dial tone phone?

We are definitely old ...

I went to a dance performance held by my kids' school this evening. It was far better than I hadanticipated it would be. It was really cute to watch some of the kids strut their stuff.

Somewhat simultaenously sobering and amusing, was that the emcee would occasionally announce that a "retro mix" would follow. Music from the eighties and nineties would then be played ... you know stuff that I listened to as a teenager or during my university years.

Even scarier was the fact that these songs had no relevance for our kids. They had no idea that some of these tunes were so popular during our formative years. To them it was just some obscure weird music.

Yikes! Our music is vintage ...

Eh vs Huh

So while I'm on my rant about racial stereotypes, I thought I'd add in this post.

A few weeks ago, I snuck out for a much needed mental health break. Some friends invited me to go along with them to Niagara Falls for a few hours to visit the casino and have dinner. Since I'd never been to a casino before, other than the temporary one that runs during the CNE, I jumped at the chance.

After everyone had had their fill of the casino, we decided to go for dinner. One of my friends insisted that we cross the river to the States and go for dinner at their casino. He claimed that the buffet at this particular location was amazing. Starving, we all climbed into his car and headed for the bridge to cross the border.

I have to stop and give a little background on the occupants of the car. There were five of us in total; three men, two of whom were Caucasian and one who was of Persian descent. The other woman in the car was of Taiwanese descent. Three of us were Canadian born (the two Caucasian guys and myself), the other two were Canadian citizens.

The only ones in the car who had acceptable forms of identification were me (I carry my birth certificate at all times) and the Persian guy who had his citizenship card. EVeryone else just had their drivers' licences.

The customs officer at the border was this whitebread type who just seemed to be on a power trip. He had the temerity to say that I and the two other non-Caucasian passengers didn't look like the average North Americans and that we would therefore have to proceed upstairs. Now, I completely understand the reasons for taking extra precautions. What I didn't agree with was the way in which he felt it necessary to point out that since three of us were non-Caucasian, we didn't fit the bill of a Canadian. I mean, truly, what the hell does a Canadian look like anyway? My friends kept shushing me because I started on my spiel about how I was under the impression that North America was a multi-cultural continent.

What made me even more irritated was the attitude of the officers upstairs. We were called in as a group and each of us were asked to state our birth country. I pulled out my birth certificate yet again as I re-stated that I was Canadian born. I was then subjected to a multitude of questions, obviously posed to sniff out an imposter. What burned me was that my two Caucasian friends only had to say that they were Canadian and were immediately and politely dismissed. They weren't required to produce any corroborating documents or identification. The Taiwanese born woman? Like the other two guys, she didn't have anything other than her driver's licence and yet she was raked over the coals. And despite the fact that the other guy had his citizenship card, he was given the third degree and treated like shit for the longest amount of time. I would have thought that as soon as he produced his card, the conversation would have been over.

The entire time this was taking place, I thought about a childhood lesson I'd been given regarding diplomacy: you can ask for almost anything if you just ask nicely and with respect. I would have been fine with having the extra security measures taken if everyone hadn't gone so obviously out of their way to make their racial stereotypes known. Why didn't the guy at the booth simply say "Some of you appear not to have adequate identification. Please proceed upstairs"?

Of course, now I'm left with the lingering impression and ensuing stereotype that all U.S. Customs Officers are ignorant, power tripping asses.

Forty isn't too old for a frat party, is it?

The other night I went to the worst and stupidest excuse for a party ever.

The event in question was a neighbour's birthday party. The birthday boy has a natural daily inclination towards inebriation. He clearly enjoys his drink. Since we are acquainted with a few of his friends who are also heavy drinkers, we knew that this party would be one big long alcohol fest.

What I didn't realise was that it was also going to be a party filled with alcoholic affluent but ignorant WASPs. Apart from the five nannies who were working industriously in the kitchen that night, I was the only non-Caucasian there.

All of the nannies in our neighbourhood (and there are plenty) are from the Phillipines. Apparently, this couple's nanny was asked to find assistance for the party, so she got a bunch of her friends and fellow countrymen to come in and help out.

We arrived about forty minutes fashionably late. By that point, most of the party-goers were half in the bag. About twenty minutes post-arrival, I got hit on by some guy who was completely wasted. So drunk that he first dropped his cutlery onto the ground and spent several minutes crawling around trying to find it to no avail. He then went back into the house to get extra cutlery and emerged shortly thereafter clutching two forks ("just in case, you know"). Apparently, the combination of speaking and sitting was just too much in his state, and he promptly dropped his plate facedown into the grass. He then scooped his food back onto his plate and began eating it quickly, all the while trying to pay me disingenuous compliments in a very slurred voice. At the first available opportunity, I excused myself and hurried into the house.

Unfortunately, the company that awaited me inside was no better. As I was squeezing through the bodies in the hallway to get to the washroom, another guy spotted me and enquired very loudly if I was the nanny. He then proceeded to tell me how he was looking for a nanny and that he would love to hire me since he'd always wanted to have a hot woman working for him. When the host informed him that I was most definitely not the nanny, but rather a neighbour with a bunch of kids of my own, the idiot thought he was kidding and kept asking "No, but seriously, whose nanny is she?" Brcause what else could an Asian girl be but a nanny? I personally loved the way he ignored the fact that I was dressed quite nicely, spoke English better than he did and was holding a wine glass.

It got worse. When the host was finally able to convince him that I really was a neighbour, the idiot then asked if I was the next-door neighbour's wife, knowing full well that that particular guy rented a single room in the house next door. Because apparently, there was no way an Asian girl could not be a nanny AND own viable real estate. When I pointed out which house I lived in, he then reverted back to the obnoxious question "Are you sure you're not having me on? You really are the nanny, aren't you?"

The last straw was when I went back outside to find my husband, and the wasted guy who ate his dinner from the ground, felt me up while I had both hands completely occupied (one holding a wineglass, the other holding some chick's umbrella while she rummaged around in her purse for a lighter).

The whole night reminded me of my experiences from my early twenties. The joke amongst my friends was that I always managed to attract the weirdest men in any given situation (I even got hit on at a Homo Hop by the one heterosexual guy who had no idea where he was). Not that I ever enjoyed being around ignorant drunken men, but at least back in my university days they were a whole lot cuter.

Back in my day ...

When I was growing up, a few of my friends and I used to have some fun with the phone. On PA days and during the summer holidays, we would phone kids from our class and pretended that we were officials from some kind of adolescent group and were gathering information via a phone survey. We wrote up a script so that our opening patter was flawless, and without pausing, we would move straight from it into a list of questions. We began innocuously enough, enquiring about their age and grade level, whether or not they smoked or drank or did drugs. From there we would quickly move the interrogations towards sex. Since we were only in the fifth or sixth grade, our questions revolved around the basics like "Have you ever been kissed? Have you ever French kissed? Have you ever been felt up? Do you masturbate?"

It was amazing how many of our classmates actually fell for this and were forthcoming with so much personal information. It was hard for us not to burst out laughing during key moments. Surprisingly, no one guessed our identity.

As we got older, our fun with the phone evolved. Through one of our older siblings, we caught wind of something called "looped lines". These were dedicated phone lines used, I believe, by Bell telephone employees to communicate between themselves. My usually photographic memory is a bit foggy on this front, but these numbers either all had the same first three numbers, or the same last four numbers. If you happened to dial in while someone else was also dialing that particular number, you got connected or your lines became looped. Otherwise, you simply encountered dead air.

My friends and I used to congregate at one or the others' houses after school and after quickly doing our homework (we were good students, after all!) would spend hours cruising the looped lines. I'm not sure exactly what our intentions were. Mainly, the lines were jammed with older teenage guys looking for phone sex. As fascinated as we were, we were only twelve or thirteen at the time, and therefore lacked the experience or the desire to have these kinds of conversations. Nevertheless we continued to make these calls on a regular basis and pretend that we were much older girls.

One day while at one of my closest friend's house, her younger sister gave us a slip of paper with a name, a phone number and a brief description of a person (twenty-eight, very horny and dirty-minded) whom she'd accidentally called once and who stupidly (or desperately) gave her his correct home number during the process. Curious as hell, we dialed the number and crowded around the receiver, giggling as it rang.

Quite obviously, the voice on the other end belonged to a man in his late twenties or early thirties. For whatever reason, he very willingly entered into a conversation with us and was quite graphic in his descriptions of what he liked to do. The most bizarre thing was that he never once asked us who we were and how we had gotten his number.

I'd like to say that our fun ended there, but unfortunately, we were strangely drawn to this aberration of a man. We called him on a regular basis, with different friends present, and essentially egged him on to tell us about himself and his sexual conquests. Each time, he never once asked us who we were, must simply eased himself into conversation without question.

Finally, one day many phone calls later, a friend and I decided it was time to find out what this pervert looked like. We made arrangements for him to come and pick us up at a street corner, and then watched from far away as he sat in his car and stopped every girl that might match the description we'd given him.

I grew up firmly believing that one should never judge a book by its cover, but really, this guy was completely ugly and slimy looking. He was quite obviously desperate for something because he apparently hung around waiting for us for close to an hour (we hopped on a bus and went shopping after the first five minutes, but found this out during a subsequent phone call).

I haven't thought about this stuff in years. I'd almost completely forgotten about looped lines until just the other day. Ironically I had been patting myself on the back the other day about how vigilant and careful I am about my kids' use of the computer and internet at home, when really they could have been in the other room using the phone for all I knew.

The only thing I have over them is that at least I was focussed -- I didn't multi-task!

Don't think it through, just do it

I read a little miscellaneous bit of nothing in the Globe and Mail the other day. The title of the blurb was "Why we need sex". (I realise I sound like some kind of obsessed nympho since I'm so often writing about sex and correlated issues, so I should abstain this one time, but this was just too damn funny to pass on).

The bit of piffle referred to research which looked into why members of the Kingdom Animalia engage in sexual relations versus asexual reproduction. Indeed, according to a quote from Smithsonian Magazine, the act of sexual reproduction requires a great deal of energy to carry out, while it only allowes an individual the possibility of passing on half of its genes, as compared to cloning in which one hundred percent of an organism's genes are transferred.

The part that cracked me up was the following quote: "Scientists have long wondered why organisms bother".

Um hello? Have you guys been spending that much time in the lab that you don't know the answer to that question? I realise that this was meant within the context of energy expended as compared to the genetic output, but really!

Why do we bother to have sex? The answer list to that could be endless ... because we're trying to have a baby, because it's damn good fun, because we're horny, because we're bored, because the power is out and the T.V. doesn't work, because we're too broke or cheap to go out on a real date, because we're procrastinating on a work deadline and this seemed like more fun, because she wanted the old geezer to give her a pretty and expensive bauble and this seemed like a good way to get it, because this is a good way to destress, because we just fought and the make-up sex is the best, or just because it feels amazingly, awesomely good.

The real issue here is why would anyone even question the reasons for doing it? I mean, why look a gift horse in the mouth? Are scientists going to come up with a more efficient (and less pleasurable) way for us humans to reproduce?

I was curious if any of those genius scientists had done any research into why people bother to engage in oral or anal sex. Why does that physiological drive exist when it doesn't have anything to do with reproduction per se? I smell a doctoral thesis in there somewhere.

Labour of Love

A number of my friends have buns in their ovens at the moment, and it's caused me to reflect back upon my own pregnancies. Snooze once said I should post something about my first pregnancy in particular. Apparently, she finds this little anecdote quite amusing for some reason -- no dobut because it was about me and not her.

I think I am not in the minority when I state that first pregnancies are special. The novelty is, at first, completely exciting; the excitement then gives way to nerve-wracking insecurities, a fear of the unknown and the anticipation of an irrevocable change in one's life.

Now, most sensible people think things through before they decide to conceive. Although typically a planner, I somehow naively and unthinkingly went along with the general idea that we would start trying to get pregnant. Fortunately, or unfortunately, my husband and I are a walking ad for the saying that "it only takes one time". We literally got pregnant the very first time we had sex after deciding to try.

In the ensuing excitement of pre-natal vitamins, leafing through What to Expect When You're Expecting, and eating healthily, my husband decided that it would be a nice idea to put together a photographic triptych paying homage to the dramatic changes happening to my body. The idea was that he would take a picture of me wearing the same outfit and posing the same way each trimester. Since I was self-conscious and shy back then, I refused to do nudies and the shots were of me clad in bra and panties, as well as in a black dress. It became almost a pregnancy flipbook because other than the emerging bump, the photos were identical.

We eagerly awaited the arrival of the first two trimesters so we could immortalise my tummy in our photo shoot. Time being relative, those early months just crept along while the last two flew by. During the final trimester, I would fall into bed exhausted at the end of each day and as I would be turning out the light, my husband would remind me that we hadn't taken the final preggo shots yet.

One week before I was due to give birth, I was at my office helping out a colleague prepare for an offer presentation. After counselling her, I returned home at midnight and felt compelled to start cleaning the house like a fanatic because I deemed it to be in a complete state of shambles. That should have been my first clue that something was up. The second clue that should have tipped us off was my subsequent freak out over my discovery of hubby's dirty socks on the floor. After kicking toys and clothes around and nonsensically screaming four letter words, I flopped into bed, frothing at the mouth and silently resolved to never again speak to my husband.

My mortatorium on silence lasted but a short while for several moments later, I felt something weird -- a sort of scratching from the inside of my stomach. I held my breath and lay in the dark with my eyes wide open. After a few minutes, I whispered my husband's name. He was instantly awake and off the bed like a shot.

"Whaaaaaa??!! I'm up ... I'm up," he exclaimed, running around the room as if his rear end was on fire.

I quietly explained that I felt weird but wasn't sure why. He immediately reached for the multitude of pregnancy reference books which he'd purchased for his own sanity during the early hormone infused days of my condition. He quickly flipped through each of the dog eared tomes to the "Signs that you are in labour" sections and started reading off symptoms. At this point, I was sitting up with my back against the headboard and was beginning to feel silly because that scratching feeling had completely disappeared.

Suddenly, a small river wound its way down the bed. I jumped up in horror and disgust.

"What in the bloody HELL is THAT?" I shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at the mess on the bed.

Hubby looked up from his books and then nervously flipped to the index, all the while muttering "Membranes rupturing or water breaking". At this point, I started protesting that it wasn't that; I wasn't entirely unsure if maybe I'd just lost control of my bladder.

My husband recited a passage out loud that described the smell of amniotic fluid in great detail. This is where we reached the point of no return. We looked up from our respective positions on either side of the bed and without hesitation, my beloved husband then bent down, put his face close to the pool of liquid, took a deep whiff and then announced that yes indeed, my water had broken.

I knew right then and there that if one's relationship is at the point where one is sniffing the significant other's bodily fluids, it's a pretty good indication that one is going to be with the other for life.

While I frantically rushed about the house simultaneously trying to get dressed, throw random things into a bag to take to the hospital and communicate with the triage nurse on one phone line while calling my doula on another, my husband suddenly came to a screeching halt.

"The pictures! The damn pictures! We haven't taken the last set of pictures!", he exclaimed.

He coaxed and cajoled me into first stripping down to my unmentionables for the first shot, then donning the black dress for the second shot. In the meantime, that scratching feeling had suddenly transformed into full-blown contractions. I started snarling at my husband to hurry up and capture the moment already. (Much later, a close friend of the family saw the triptych pictures and asked why in the last framed shot, I'd looked so upset).

As if that wasn't enough ... as we drove away to the hospital, my husband realised that I didn't have any suitable nursing bras. Obviously we weren't thinking very clearly because in my leaky condition, who really gave a fig what kind of a post-partum over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder I had stashed away in my bag? So, while I sat in the car panting and puffing, he stopped off at several 24 hour drugstores and purchased a couple at each location. This while my uterus continued to expel amniotic fluid all over the car seat -- who knew a woman's body could hold so much liquid!!

Twenty-four hours later, our beautiful son came into the world and the whole importance of a prenatal photo triptych simply vanished. It was unimaginable that we'd once spent so much time discussing it and planning it, to the point where we'd taken the last shots at the nth hour. The only images we cared to capture on film were those of our scrumptious baby. It was ludicrous that I'd sat with my legs tightly crossed in the car while my husband shopped for some stupid undergarments. Suddenly none of that mattered any longer.

So for all you moms and expectant moms, I wish you a Happy Mother's Day.

Firsts

A few months ago, my step-daughter called me from university to announce that THE event had happened: she'd lost her virginity. Since the recipient wasn't someone whom she'd been dating for any great length of time (they were both a bit drunk), she'd failed to inform him that it was her first time.

As their relationship progressed (they are now officially boyfriend-girlfriend and in love), she never fessed up because it became too awkward to bring up with the passing of time.

The whole situation reminded me of a guy with whom I had a few brief interludes during our second year of university. P. and I had been part of the same circle of friends since we were about seventeen years old, but we never really got close to each other. We were somewhat attracted to each other, both physically and otherwise. I believe that we both sensed that we were a lot alike in some respects; P. was often uncomfortable in large groups and social situations. I felt much the same way but was far more successful at faking it.

We flirted playfully and harmlessly with each other on and off but never pursued anything. When I moved away to Toronto to attend university, we began corresponding, and our friendship developed.

The big moment came when I went home for a weekend visit. Naturally, I was scheduled to get together with all of my friends who still lived in Montreal and attended McGill. We were supposed to meet to watch a movie outdoors on campus one evening. Somehow only P. and I showed up. It started to rain and P. wrapped us both up in the blanket which he'd conveniently brought. Being that close to P. after all the years of eyeing each other longingly without acting upon our lustful thoughts, was just too much. We exchanged a few kisses and came away from that evening knowing that the next step was inevitable.

Because of the distance, P. and I had few opportunities to see each other over the next few months. Since we were both terrible communicators, we never really discussed our thoughts, feelings or expectations, and therefore neither of us knew what those intimate moments meant to the other. For my part, I was seeing other people, but I thought off and on about P.

Later, when I met someone else with whom I was developing a potentially serious relationship, I didn't know how to deal with the awkwardness of resuming a non-sexual friendship with P. At the first opportunity, I picked a fight with P. and ended all communication with him. It was fairly easy to avoid P. since the rest of our circle of friends had been having some difficulties with him and had stopped associating with him as well.

A few years ago, I was able to get back in touch with P. Luckily, we've both matured (sort of) and were able to put aside the past and pick up the thread of friendship. Finally, we were able to be honest about some of the issues which we'd both had in the past which had affected our relationship.

During one of our candid conversations, P. confessed a jaw-dropping secret: I'd been his first lover. I certainly would have never guessed that given that he'd seemed so self-assured and confident.

I wonder if it will take my step-daughter over twenty years to confess to her boyfriend that he had been her first.

If ...

When I was in the second grade, my father was on a year-long sabbatical. He chose to go to Brussels, Belgium, mainly I believe so that he could meet Dr. Ilya Prigogine, the Nobel Prize Winner for Chemistry.

Although we didn't fully appreciate it at the time, it was a rich and fabulous experience for my brother and I to live in another continent. We were immediately immersed into Belgian culture and although we looked markedly different than the average Belgian child, within months, we were spouting French and Dutch as though we had lived there all of our lives.

Since we were already in Europe, my mom and dad decided to take full advantage of our ability to travel. I'm sure they broke the bank that year because we went to France, Germany, London, Italy, Luxembourg, Holland and various other places during the school year and our summer holidays.

One of my favourite trips was when we travelled several days by train to the south of Italy and then to Rome. The idea of spending a night in a sleeper car was an absolutely magical and enchanting one for us.

Sadly though, since I was relatively young, a lot of the culture was lost on me. After all, taking young kids on cultural trips can often be a waste of time and money. In retrospect, I realise what a wonderul experience we had; however, at the time I failed to appreciate a great deal of it because let's face it, when you're seven or eight, traisping through various countries in Europe and visiting museums, art galleries and other sightseeing landmarks at a less than leisurely rate can start to wear thin after awhile.

I remember when we travelled to Rome. We had spent about three blissful weeks in a villa in the south of Italy and then travelled from there to the Holy City for a brief stay. Not wanting to miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime, my parents dragged us everywhere worth seeing in Rome. By the afternoon of our second or third day there, I was exhausted, hot and extremely thirsty. My parents, being frugal people, weren't one to stop and buy us drinks or snacks. We'd run out of our own water which we'd been carrying and by this point, I could barely work up enough saliva to keep my mouth from achieving desert status. I asked my mother incessantly when we could stop and get a drink, and my enquiries were met with the unsatisfactory response that drinks were expensive and that we'd have to wait until mealtime before we'd get to order our libations.

At last, we reached the final destination of our sightseeing tour that day -- the Trevi Fountain. My parents spent several minutes oohing and aahing over it. No doubt, they'd seen it in Fellini's La Dolce Vita and were impressed with the real McCoy. I had no knowledge of the magnitude and importance of what was in my presence. All I knew was that my feet were killing and that I was unbelievably hot and dehydrated.

My mother then took my brother and I aside and told us that this was a famous fountain and that if you threw a coin over your right shoulder whilst making a wish, that wish would come true. She then pressed a coin into each of our palms.

Being older, smarter, savvier and more mature, my brother considered carefully before tossing his coin into the waters of the Trevi. I, on the other hand, closed my eyes and thought "I wish my parents would break down on their rules and just buy us a drink now", before pitching my coin over my right shoulder into the fountain.

As soon as I opened my eyes, my mother announced that she was going to go and buy the family some soft drinks from a street vendor; a statement which if you knew my parents and their stance on both the evils of sugary pop and spending money needlessly, could only have been propelled by some miraculous force.

I enjoyed the ice cold bottle of Coke immensely, but it was gone all too soon, and I was suddenly struck by the thought that I'd wasted a wish. If the Trevi fountain had this kind of power to make my mother open her pocketbook and buy us a round of pop, what else could it do? I needed another coin to make a really proper wish!!

I ran to my mother and asked for another coin. Unfortunately, my mother had a one-wish-per-customer policy in effect. Since she'd already spent money on drinks, there was no way she was going to give me more money so I could throw it into the Trevi. I begged, pleaded, wheedled and whined to no avail. I was dragged away from the Trevi fountain, all the while looking back longingly and mournfully.

I've never been back to either Italy or Rome since but I know that when I do, a trip to the Trevi will top my itinerary list. This time I'll be wishing for more than just a drink.

Whither the arm candy?

I hate ironing. It is the absolute bane of my existence. I've never liked it, even as a small child when dreary domestic stuff seemed sort of neat and exciting.

Whenever I am carrying out the dreaded task, I always feel as though I'm trapped in some kind of existentialist horror novel. Didn't I just iron this shirt the other day? What is the point of doing it again if it keeps coming back at me?

When I was single, I remember once dressing hurriedly for work one morning. I had this beautiful suit and needed a blouse to wear underneath. The problem was that I'd done the laundry but hadn't done any ironing. Checking my watch, I realised that I wouldn't have enough time to iron my white blouse, so I quickly ironed the cuffs and collars, buttoned the jacket and presto! I looked fabulously professional.

Later on at the office, I was dying of heat because we were at that dubious point in the year when building maintenance staff err on the side of caution and don't shut off the heat and turn on the air-conditioning. Everyone was walking around the office in shirt sleeves and several colleagues repeatedly suggested that I remove my jacket. As I knew my blouse was a total disaster beneath my jacket, I frantically declined, insisting that I was fine. This despite the perspiration streaming down my face.

The whole experience reminded me of that universal warning all moms give their kids about ensuring that one is wearing clean underwear at all times in case one gets into an accident.

When I first met my husband, his standard daily uniform was a pair of Edwin's baggy jeans or khakis, a button down Oxford-type shirt and a pair of deck shoes. He was the picture of immaculate preppiness. His shirts and jeans were always ironed perfectly, so despite the fact that he was dressed casually, he looked good.

As we began to have more children, I started suddenly looking at ways in which I could lighten my domestic load. Naturally, I turned to my least favourite zone -- the ironing pile. Despite all of my efforts, that damn pile never seemed to get any smaller. Worst of all, none of the clothes in the pile were mine! I started counting the items in the pile and realised that my husband was wearing about seven to ten pairs of pants and ten to fourteen shirts a week. This was just too much, so I started to scheme up ways in which to lighten the load. (Dry cleaning wasn't an option since I just couldn't justify the cost).

I started small. I began by attacking my husband in a subtle way.

"Exactly who irons their jeans? That just seems a bit too anal and fastidious. Jeans are meant to be worn unironed. Can't we just hang them up carefully after they've been washed to produce that crease?"

Unconvinced and skeptical, my husband insisted that I could never recreate the razor sharp crease. However, when I simply refused to iron his jeans, he had no choice but to capitulate.

Step two of my grand plan involved convincing my husband to wear shirts that didn't require ironing. Like long sleeved polo shirts or t-shirts.

Step three involved the khakis mysteriously disappearing.

Eventually I managed to get my ironing pile down to a manageable minimum -- the occasional dress shirt several times a year. I was in heaven.

Last week, my husband and I made arrangements to meet up somewhere. As I sat waiting for him, I noticed this very unkempt man approaching me in a pair of unfashionably creased jeans and a crew neck shirt. With a shock, I came out of my reverie long enough to realise that the man was my husband. While I sat there wondering why he looked so awful and so completely removed from the preppy, clean cut man I'd married (Geez, he's really let himself go, hasn't he?), it suddenly occurred to me that I was singlehandedly responsible for this vision.

Earth Mother's moral is that "Behind every untidy man, lies a lazy woman".

Shit happens ... (don't read this if you are squeamish)

My day started off on a revolting note, then quickly descended into humiliation and defensive bitchiness.

Last week, I took my daughter to the doctor. She had been complaining about stomach pains on a daily basis for quite some time now. In addition, she had other accompanying symptoms which led me to believe that she had something worthy of looking into (I am refraining from details and won't get that graphic because it might gross you all out).

Our pediatrician decided that a stool culture was in order and dismissed us with a lab requisition form. I was told to bring a sample to the neighbourhood lab ASAP. Ew ...

Since it was nearly the weekend, I decided to have my daughter produce by Monday because there was no way I was going to hang onto a sample until the labs re-opened. Of course, the problem is that the weekend actually presents itself as the easiest time to obtain a sample since she is at home and not at school.

Finally, this morning after breakfast my daughter announces that today was to be the momentous event, and trotted off to the washroom in short order. Minutes later, she emerged with a disgusted look on her face and handed me the container. I bagged it (tightly and several times over), fished out the requisition form from my pile of papers littering my desk and stuffed it (the requisition form, not the container) into my purse.

After I dropped off my kids at school, I headed straight for the lab because there was no way I was going to have this thing in my car for any longer than was necessary. I figured that I would probably be able to just palm off the sample onto the technician and basically run in the opposite direction. No such luck.

I had the misfortune of having to deal with the world's unhappiest and rudest receptionist. After standing in line for about five minutes and listening to her kvetch loudly at other patients, I finally made my way to her desk and handed her my daughter's health card, the requisition form and the triple bagged container.

"What's this," she asked loudly, looking around the room.

"A stool sample," I whispered, suddenly turning a lovely beet red.

"What?" she practically yelled out.

I repeated myself about half a decibel louder.

She then asked me really loudly where I got the container from. Well duh ... it's a disposable tupperware as she can plainly see through the three opaque bags acting as a shield. Am I supposed to tell her where I shop for my goods now? What the hell difference does it make where I got the container from?

She shook her head, made this annoying "tch tch" sound that I've only ever heard from my ex-nanny and her family and then muttered nastily that the sample needed to be placed into a different container. All this while I stood in front of a packed room with all eyes on me.

She proceeded to pound on the keyboard in front of her, and yell indiscreetly at another patient about his test requirements, before she turned her attention to my requisition form.

"What's this" she asked, pointing to the part of the form that my doctor had filled out.

"It says 'stool culture'," I stupidly read off.

"No, this! Is this a stool?" she asked. I stared blankly at her wondering what the hell she was asking me exactly.

I then realised that she was pointing to this miniscule damp spot on the form.

"It's water," I chirped brightly. "It's raining outside".

She then leaned in and practically sniffed me (I kid you not).

"It's not water," she snapped loudly. "I think it's some of the stool sample. It's contaminated".

I shook my head and assured her that it was most decidely not spillage from the sample, while simultaneously grossing out and feeling pissed off that she'd think I was that much of a pig that I'd have splatter stains on the form.

Sour-faced, the woman banged down two labelled containers and then snapped that the stool samples needed to be moved into them. She then dismissed me with a comment that the washroom was one floor above.

At this point, I was steaming. Mainly because I knew that the lab has a washroom for patients to use when producing urine samples and that she was making me walk up a flight of stairs for stupid reasons, rather than offering to let me use the washroom onsite. Oh, that's right ... it's because she thought I was a contaminated slob and felt compelled to announce it to the entire patient population in the waiting room.

Normally, I'm a fairly patient and polite person, but this just ticked me right off. How can a cow like this be allowed to work in the healthcare field where respect for a patient's right to privacy, confidentiality and respect are essential? I then said very quietly that I would be happy to accomodate her by going upstairs to the public washroom, but could she please provide me with a pair of rubber gloves?

My request was met with indignation and blatant bitchiness.

"You want what?" she practically yelled out.

"Rubber gloves. You have those, don't you?", I asked snottily. After all, this is a chick who clearly has contamination issues -- you'd think she'd come to work entirely dressed in latex.

She stood there glaring at me and shook her head. I gave her THE look in response ... this is the same stony stare I give my kids on the rare occasion when they are being openly defiant. I continued to stand there tapping my fingers against the counter and refused to move aside for the patient behind me.
Now, I won't elaborate upon some of the details but the containers that I was supposed to transfer the samples into were small pill containers. I was supposed to do this with my bare hands? I guess in Bitchy Receptionist's opinion, it shouldn't matter since I was already contaminated.

Moments into my stare fest, a technician emerged, looked at me sympathetically and handed me a pair of rubber gloves.

Later, the deed having been done, I dumped the bagged containers onto Bitchface's desk. She snapped that they were to be deposited into the bin by the washroom which I wasn't permitted to use. I threw her another dirty stare and complied, but as I sailed out, I made a special point of coughing and wiping my hands on her desk counter.

Moral of the story: Just because someone has crap in their hands, doesn't entitle you to treat them like crap.

Perplexed

What is it about young kids and their aversion to bread crusts? I've never been able to figure it out, but it seems to be a universal dislike.

For lunch today, I made my children pizza bagels. They adored them, particularly since they were Montreal bagels which I'd bribed a friend of mine to bring back on his last trip to my hometown.

My youngest son asked for second and third helpings of the mini pizzas. What cracked me up was that he left three small rings on his plate. Since when did bagels have a crust?

Ain't technology grand?

Just read an article about a robot birth simulator which is in high demand within the North American medical community.

Noelle, the life-sized blonde (of course) high-tech mannequin is used to train professionals in situations surrounding live births. Apparently, she can be programmed for a variety of complications, as well as for cervix dilation. Ultimately, she delivers a plastic doll, which can change colours (pink for healthy glow, blue for oxygen deficiency). Both computerized bots emit "realistic pulse rates and can urinate and breathe". During the birth scenario, according to one doctor "if she is bleeding, there will be ample blood in evidence everywhere".

Wonder who had the honours of knocking up Noelle? Also, curious as to what some of the more desperate staff do with Noelle once she gets off work ...

How to Look like a Schizophrenic Sleaze

So much for being good on Good Friday ...

I was talking on my cell phone today while driving. Since I'm a responsible and careful driver, I was using my headset so I could have both hands free (one to hold the steering wheel, the other to flip the bird at those who are shitty drivers).

Since it's a holiday today and I was just planning on spending the day with my kids, I dressed in a completely non-professional (read slobby and grungy) outfit. I was a walking fashion faux pas but happy as a clam.

The person with whom I was conversing is a male friend of mine. Since we are such good friends, almost no subject is sacrosanct. Recently, he told me about some great condoms he'd picked up at Shoppers Drugmart. The thing he found most fascinating was that he'd discovered them in the women's section. Indeed, they were billed as being contraceptives for "her pleasure".

So while we were chit chatting, I passed a Shoppers and decided to go in. I needed to get my husband a last-minute birthday card and that was the only store open. I told my friend that I was going to stay on the phone with him during my shopping expedition because I wanted to check out the women's aisle and make sure he wasn't just pulling my leg. As I disembarked from my car, I elected to keep the head set on and pocketed my phone.

We were like two school kids, giggling conspiratorially while I walked up and down the aisles searching for feminine products and reporting on my progress all the while.

"Ah ha!" I exclaimed as I rounded an aisle.

"I found it! Let's see ... douches, flavoured lubricants ... oh here they are ... wow! You really weren't kidding me ... there's a whole bunch of of different types of condoms for her!" I squealed with delight.

My friend then instructed me to read some of the labels to him. We chortled over the names of some of the products. We chuckled when I told him that there was a disposable vibrating cock ring. I roared with laughter when he observed that since they omitted the word "cock" from the label, some moron might buy it and put it on his or her finger.

We were having a great time, until I happened to turn around and see some elderly lady standing about two feet away from me with her jaw hanging to her knees. Since I have long hair, she couldn't see the piece attached to my ear. I can only assume that she thought I was talking to myself.

I high tailed it out of the store practically screaming with laughter. My reputation as a morally challenged person has been sealed.

Ssshh ...

Snooze tagged me a long time ago with a meme that required me to name three unknown facts about myself. I honestly meant to do it but was so challenged by the whole notion of what to reveal. I somehow had forgotten until recently, that when I'd first begun blogging, I'd sent out an announcement to a whole bunch of people in my address book. As I later found out from random e-mails, people with whom I'm only vaguely acquainted are reading my blog surreptiously. It led me to wonder who exactly I'd told about my blog. Six degrees of separation being what it is, I figured one of my mom's good friends would probably end up at my site. The thought was a sobering one.

Beyond that though, I think I have a whole set of neuroses around secrets. I grew up in a household where pretty much everything was a big fat secret from the entire world. When you are raised in that kind of climate from birth, you just develop this habit of compartmentalising things and facts, and even yourself. Hence, we always had a public face. What went on behind our closed doors, of course, was quite another thing.

I remember this scene from the movie Body Heat. Kathleen Turner kicks her lover, William Hurt, out of the bed so she can change the sheets before the maid comes for the day. Naive Willie asks he why she just doesn't let the paid help do her job, to which Katie responds that she doesn't want her seeing the stains on the sheets. "Knowledge is power," she maintains in her smoky voice. Willie comments that the saying wasn't meant to be applied in that particular way.

Now, while I do know the true intent behind the meaning of that saying, I still am very much like the Kathleen Turner character. I am very careful about what people see and know about me because I can't really shake that concept that my parents beat into me at a young age which states that you must hold your cards closely lest someone use that information against you.

What I later discovered though is that no one really likes a secretive person. Sure, they respect and trust someone who is capable of keeping a secret, but there is a distinct and palatable difference between a discreet person and a secretive one.

What I've also discovered is that most people aren't discreet, and a lot are too stupid to be secretive. I've got some secrets that I'll take to my grave, and they're not even secrets that necessarily apply to me. It's just that if I promise someone I'm not going to say anything to anyone, I believe in standing true to that promise.

When I was in university, I was seeing this one particular guy. For whatever reasons, after we'd meet up secretly, he'd more or less make it obvious that he didn't want anyone to know about us. There weren't really any nefarious reasons for the secrecy, such as a girlfriend in the picture; I think it was more that he didn't want to appear serious with any girl and he was worried that I was going to cramp his style somewhat. True to my word, I didn't tell a soul, not even my close girlfriends. Much later, I discovered that he'd been just too proud of his conquests to keep it to himself, and a ton of people knew about us through Mr. Loose Lips himself. It reinforced what my parents had told me -- you can't always trust everyone.

I'd like to think now that I'm better about the whole aspect of secrecy. I am pretty open about a lot, but sometimes it's not always appropriate to tell all to absolutely everyone. Would I want some of my colleagues knowing about my private life, for instance? Probably not.

So Snooze, I think it may be awhile before I actually post that meme, if I ever get around to it at all!

Tracking the madness

So I'm of two opinions when it comes to my blogging. But first, a brief synopsis:

I lost my rhythm awhile ago. I attribute it to a few factors. Firstly, we had that elderly man who was losing his mind living in our house for a few weeks during the month of December. It was a singularly painful experience watching the deterioration of such a disciplined and strong man. Although I was sympathetic to his situation, it was emotionally draining having him in my house. That and he had to be waited on hand and foot. Somehow he seemed to eat away at what little creative juices I had.

Then Christmas rolled around in all its loveliness. We had some mildly horrible things happen here -- well okay, not horrible in the grand scale of life but just plain bad for me in terms of my psyche. I wanted to do a post on it shortly after Christmas because it was mildly amusing, but I never got around to it because I was so busy recovering from the various traumas of my household.

Then I had my mother-in-law living with us for her lengthy three month stay. Talk about stifling. Somehow I couldn't work myself out of my funk enough to get it together to write anything worthy of posting. I tried ... believe me I tried. There are about two dozen posts sitting as drafts. I sometimes feel like they call to me; "Delete me or rewrite me, damnit!"

After Christmas, I got sick a whole bunch of times -- four to be exact. In between a couple of my illnesses, my dad had his heart attack. Couldn't get it together to post anything without bursting into tears.

Then of course, inertia kicked in. It's been so long since I've posted on a regular basis and I'm just not sure where to begin. Do I wait until I feel the creative urge again, or do I just jump back onto the horse and nauseate the crap out of you guys with my straight-stream-of-consciousness drivel and hope that in so doing, eventually my blogging inspiration will come back?

Guess which one I picked?

Happy Anniversary!

I just realised that it's been a little over a year since I began blogging.

A year for me is a significant period of time. For one thing, up until my husband, I'd never had a romantic relationship that lasted beyond a year. I had some commitment issues which were fuelled by my insecurities and poor self-image, and so I always managed to end things at the one-year mark. The logic being that once you got beyond a year, things became considerably more serious and you would find yourself at the tinkle-or-get-off-the-pot point. Since my secret fear was that it was only a matter of time before I would be found out and revealed as being a bad tinkler, I hurriedly got off the pot.

Fourteen years and three kids later coupled with many hours of introspective therapy, I'd like to think that I've laid all those demons to rest. But then I have to wonder about my commitment to blogging.

In the beginning, as with most relationships, things were hot and heavy. I referenced the world and my life in terms of whether I could blog about it. Snooze and I once had a laugh about our obsessive blog behaviours, because we said that we both actually found ourselves composing blogs about an event while said event was stili unfolding. My husband would come home, find me glued to my computer and would just ask "Can I talk to you now or are you blogging?" (most of the time, he would quietly slink off after I would wave him away whilst madly typing).

Sadly, I've become negligent in my blogging duties. Not only have I failed to post on a regular basis, but I've also stopped checking in every other second with my fellow bloggers. Does this mean that while I may have affectionate feelings for blogging, I have fallen out of love with it? Could it be that we've reached our tinkle point, and my failure to perform means that I must give up my seat on the pot? Should we seek counselling, or should we just maturely acknowledge it's over and go our separate ways?

PC = Politcally Confused

Every time I offer my mother-in-law some Brazil nuts, she recounts in hushed tones the name by which, during her childhood, they were called. Nigger's toes.

Back then, of course, "nigger" was the term du jour. It may not have been acceptable to refer to a black person, nay a person of African-American descent, in this manner, but it was common. (Think of the children's chant Eeeny, meeny, miney, moe ... catch a nigger by the toe. Now of course, the nigger has been changed to tiger, but that's not the original version). Those who were more cultured, like my mother-in-law, referred to them as being "coloured" (no doubt while they secretly thought of them as "niggers)..

Now, while I privately express shock and dismay at either of these terms, I had to wonder last night if I wasn't guilty of the same crime.

I have a nightly ritual with my children. They each like having me come and spend a couple of minutes in bed with them. I'm not allowed to just lie there though; I have to come prepared with a funny story. At the end of the story, we then kiss and hug. My daughter's kiss-and-hug routine takes place in four parts: we kiss, hug, bump heads and then Eskimo kiss.

Last night, my eldest son pointed out that Eskimo is an outdated and unacceptable term. Inuit was the correct word. Of course, I know this, and never refer to an Inuit as an Eskimo, but somehow, I never extrapolated that term and carried it over to "Eskimo kiss". Should I have?

Similarly, when referring to the lovely Oriental carpet in my parent's home, should I be calling it an Asian carpet? Growing up, we always referred to ourselves as being Oriental, but now that's not the PC term. But where does that leave the carpets?

Killing me soft(ly)

Like Snooze, I'm a real stickler for good grammar and spelling. While I am somewhat more lax about applying these rules when speaking rather than when writing, some things make me cringe.

At the moment, I am going into month three of my mother-in-law's visit. Now, I adore my mother-in-law. She is supportive, a wonderful and caring grandmother, and would do anything for me. This should be good enough for me, right? In a perfect world, it would be. Unfortunately, in a perfect world, bitchy women like me wouldn't exist.

Sadly, my mother-in-law seems to have an allergy to adverbs. I know it's petty of me, but it drives me insane to hear her utter statements like the following:

I found a pear that wasn't froze.
Make sure you drive careful.
Please sit quiet.

I mean, is it too much to ask her to add the appropriate letters to the end of each of those last words in the sentence??!!

Along with her obvious omission of adverbs, she somehow manages to slaughter the King's English in other ways. These are a few of my all-time favourites:

There is some boughten water in the fridge.
The cat ran acrosstt the street.

Sigh ... I know these things shouldn't matter. She's a good person, but I find I have to bite my tongue when she speaks in this manner.

Recently, my mom asked me to help out a young girl who is applying for pre-med at McGill. The girl had asked my mom for a reference letter. She passed along her four page cover letter to my mother, which sent my poor mom into a tizzy. Since shit flows downstream, my mother gave me a copy of the offending letter and asked me to help the girl fix it up. Shocked and appalled at the lack of the girl's ability to write properly and convey her ideas in a clear and concise manner, my mother kept repeating "But she was born, raised and educated here" (i.e. in Canada).

I suppose this is what I find so disturbing about people's inability to speak or write correctly; English is their first language. My mom and dad arrived in North America as adults. English wasn't their first language. Hell, it wasn't even their second language. My dad has a huge number of publications to his name and has always been complimented by colleages on his incredible grasp and use of the English language. I have to admit, even if from a biased point of view, that my dad is a beautiful writer and an articulate speaker.

Why then, I ask you, is it so hard for Canadians to speak and write properly? I feel like Canada's answer to Henry Higgins!!

You suck (face)

Got laid up on Valentine's Day with a wicked case of the stomach flu. It's now swept through my entire household. I've logged in countless hours on the bathroom floor, either personally worshipping the porcelain god or holding a wee one's head as he or she paid his or her respects.

Anyway, didn't get a chance to do up the loving Valentine's Day post that I'd hoped to have tackled. Since I'm still feeling relatively crappy, thought I'd save the heartfelt saccharine sweet stuff for another day.

As I was reflecting upon all of the good things and people in my life, I had a few moments to consider some of the less pleasurable things I've endured. Chiefly, I was remembering all of the bad kissers I've encountered. As I mentally counted, I realised that there were more bad ones than good. Why is this? Are good kissers so rare, or have I just had a run of bad luck?

A kiss is probably one of the most intimate actions I know of. Sex isn't necessarily so. Remember Julia Roberts in that modern Cinderella flick Pretty Woman? She is able to carry out any sexual act with anyone so long as lip locking isn't involved. I totally understood that.

Some of the worst kissers I've encountered:

1. Doggy style: He not only sucked on my upper lip incessantly, but also felt compelled to lick my nose as well.

2. Oxygen bar: During a deep kiss he would suck all the air out of my mouth. For variety, he would sometimes try blowing hot air into my mouth.

3. Show me the money: I felt as though he had no lips to speak of during said kiss. We do like gentle kisses sometimes, but I'd still like to feel I'm kissing something more than mushy oatmeal.

4. Deep throat: I think this man wanted to tickle my tonsils with his tongue. I've never encountered such major lingual thrusting before. Thinking about it now when I've been so nauseous lately makes me shudder.

5. Crotch encounter of the worst kind: Immediately upon our lips first touching, his knee found it way right between my legs whereupon it began rubbing quite vigorously. I actually don't even remember if the actual kiss itself was good or not because I was so put off by the thrusting leg.

6. Tetanus anyone? While some gentle biting can be quite erotic, please refrain from chewing my lips off, especially during a first kiss. Especially if you are hoping for a second kiss.


The good news is that I've had some amazing kissing sessions, the kind which leave you quite breathless and dazed. So I do know what I am talking about with regards to the above being considered a turn-off. On the other hand, working on the premise that it takes all kinds, perhaps there are some women out there who might consider any one of those moves exciting.

I know men log in a great deal of time talking about the women they've bagged, but how much time do they spend discussing the kisses they've dispensed? Perhaps locker room talk would best be enhanced by a discussion on lingual technique.

Unfortunately, I now have to go back to my post on the washroom floor. Not sure if my visit has been psychologically induced by the trip down memory lane, or if the flu bug is more persistent than I thought.

Happy belated Valentine's Day everyone!

Flashback

The longer you put off doing something, the harder it becomes to do it. I can think of a few prime examples -- the gym routine being one of mine.

When I was nine years old, I was invited to a classmate's birthday party. Back then, parties were relatively tame affairs involving a small handful of friends at the birthday person's home. (I think I far prefer that whole way of celebrating than the out-of-control and over-the-top events that parents feel compelled to throw in honour of their precious one turning two).

Being a Montrealer, fashion has always been a big part of my upbringing. It was always important to be presentable and, when possible, to look utterly fabulous. At that age, I was somewhat unsure what was considered acceptable attire at any given point in time. My mother, who encouraged me to dress more like an adult than a child, didn't exactly foster my desire to fit in. All too often, I showed up at school or at social occasions looking like some miniature thirty-something, replete with scarves, cameo brooches and/or handbags as my accessories. I might have looked fab if I'd been twenty years older. As a child, I stuck out like a sore thumb.

So, hours before the party was to begin, I stood before my closet and surveyed the goods. What to wear? I was a very timid child and felt that control always lay without, namely with my parents, the powers-that-were, and more specifically with my mother. For some reason, I felt paralysed to make this particular fashion decision without her sanction, so I consulted her. "Mommy, what should I wear?"

For whatever reason, my mother was not in good humour that day and reacted very badly to my question. I guess she thought I was being weak, dependent and incapable of making my own decision (she was right). Now, my mother while she has the best of intentions, seems to never know how to effectively realise those goals. Her people skills' toolbox is often empty. Noticeably absent are encouragement and finesse.

She chose that day to try and empower me. Good plan, but wrong execution. Essentially she freaked and yelled, among other things, that I was immature,weak and silly. Before she dismissed me from her room, she instructed me to select my own party ensemble after which I was to appear before her and utter the words "Is this satisfactory, Mom?"

Well, for some unknown reason, her speech didn't elicit any action. If anything, it had the opposite effect. I went to my room and immediately picked out a dress which I'd worn to the last birthday party I'd been to. Then suddenly, I lost my nerve and couldn't bring myself to ask for my mother's approval. The script she'd given me felt utterly unnatural and foreign to my ears. Nervously, I waited, completely immobilised, within the confines of my small room and hoped that I would gain the courage to bare my soul to my mother. The more time that passed, the more rooted I felt; since I'd taken so long to make a decision, I became worried that my mother might feel that it wasn't good enough. Neither courage, nor my mother, ever appeared that afternoon.

Hours later, feeling defeated, I changed back to my play clothes. I'd missed the party and the opportunity to show my mother that I wasn't a silly weak girl but a strong, independent one with knock-your-socks-off fashion sense.

It's been so long since I've posted. I've been waiting for inspiration to show up and give me a good subject to write about. Somehow it was too painful to sift through and write about the complex emotions and thoughts that arose when my dad was in hospital. Suddenly, the funny little post I'd been working on about my children discovering the non-existence of Santa Claus seemed so trivial in the face of the possible death of my father. Then, as I started to feel a little less stressed out, I tried to come up with something brilliant to write about as I felt the need to wow everyone after my long absence. So much for empowerment ...

I'm still alive!

I've had a number of phone calls and e-mails from friends and fellow bloggers concerned about my absence from the blogging world. It's all been very touching.

For those of you with whom I haven't spoken (as well as all the people surfing for porn who keep getting mysteriously directed to my blog), I am okay. It's been a crazily busy time for me what with the Christmas holidays, a serious bout of flu and most recently my dad suffering a heart attack, so I will resume posting once I've gotten a handle on everything.

In the meantime, I will be travelling back and forth between here and la belle ville de Montreal (my hometown), so won't have much time to blog. Hopefully I don't go into withdrawal!

Thanks everyone for your concern, and as Arnie once said "I'll be baaaah-ck!"

Canadian Priorities

My eldest son recently learned that the hockey season is generally sold out by this point in time, and that one cannot acquire tickets through Ticketmaster (or whichever company it is that sells them).

We have season tickets purchased in partnership with another friend. The majority of the games are sold, but we retain a few tickets to give out to clients or for ourselves.

After absorbing all this information, my son approached me in the kitchen with a few questions. The following is an accurate representation of our conversation.

Son: Are you on the list?

Me: What list?

Son: You know ... the list so that you get tickets every year.

Me: No. The seats aren't in my name.

Son: But that's soooooo bad!

Me: Why honey?

Son: Well, what happens if Daddy dies tomorrow? Then we'll stop getting tickets.

Me: No, the seats are in a company's name.

Son: Oh, that's a relief.


Yes, so your father and I can go ahead and die now because the tickets will still keep coming. My mind is completely at ease now.


N.B. I realise that the above makes my son sound callous and cold-hearted. He is actually quite a thoughtful, loving child and is very attached to both his dad and I. I'm sure when he's sitting at the ACC watching a hockey game, he'll be missing us both very much.

The Way to a Man's Heart

I recently had an opportunity to see a few nineteen or twenty year-old boys get visibly aroused. It was an interesting experience.

Growing up, my parents always told me that intelligence trumped physical beauty. I do believe this, but I also believe that part of the reason why they kept repeating this was that I was such an ugly duckling (their term, not mine). My dad used to look at me, shake his head sadly and then say "Well, at least you're smart".

Despite what I believe, there does appear to be a certain order in terms of what attracts one person to another. Generally, one's looks are the primary hook to getting another's attention. One doesn't have to be a knock-out, but something about one's physical appearance should speak to another person. After said other person's interest has been piqued, the looks should be backed up by something more substantial. That's my personal philosophy of course; I've met some couples whom I can't figure out (i.e. one person is wildly attractive in all senses and the other is aesthetically pleasing to the detached eye, but utterly two-dimensional -- which always makes me rethink whether the wildly attractive person is really all that great if s/he could have such shallow needs).

But I digress. My point is that I've grown up with the belief that it's not enough to be puff pastry, although of course, it is sometimes nice to walk into a room and have people ogle you (and not because you unknowingly have toilet paper hanging from the seat of your pants or something along those lines).

Recently, I was supposed to meet a friend for lunch at a restaurant located within a mall. Parking at this mall is free, and therefore a rare commodity. It is always an absolute bitch to find a space, particularly one close to a mall entrance. Most of the time, I employ the stalker approach; I hover near an exit until I see someone with shopping bags in hand, and follow that person slowly. (This method doesn't always pay off though, and I swear that people like to torture you by deliberately taking their time getting to their car in the most circuituous route possible).

On this particular occasion, I spied what appeared at first blush to be a desirable spot. Eager not to lose it, I sped over quickly. Important to note is the fact that I drive a fairly large vehicle (Chevrolet Suburban), which according to a friend of mine carries with it more square footage than his house. I therefore always back into a parking spot, because one never knows what might happen when it's time to leave. There is an art to parking my car though. My husband, who normally is an exceptionally good and confident driver, parks my car as though he's a myopic ninety-year-old lady.

As I approached the spot, I realised the reason why it was empty was that it was a fairly tight squeeze for any car, let alone a large SUV. I was debating the odds of finding another parking space in time to make my lunch appointment, when I noticed three young guys standing close by chatting with each other. One of them glanced up at me, and then nudged his buddies. With a smirk on his acne mottled face, he said something to his friends, at which point all three burst into raucous laughter. I imagined that the script went something along the lines of "Let's watch this chick try to park her big ass truck in this teensy spot".

Now, I'm used to all the bad driving jokes about women, Asians and Montrealers. I fall into the unfortunate category of belonging to all three groups. Stereotypes notwithstanding, I fancy myself to be a rather good driver. Determined not be be the object of ridicule, I gunned my engine and backed into the rather cramped spot in one smooth and very rapid tire squealing move. I then jumped out, slammed the door and sauntered off whistling, but not before glancing over my shoulder at the suddenly silent guys and grinning cheekishly. It wouldn't have mattered if I'd been a two-tonne granny -- they were clearly turned on by a girl who could adeptly maneouvre a large vehicle.

I'll have to amend my theory of attraction of physical appearance preceeding intelligence. Driving abilities seems to trump them both.

Bad Blogger

Is blogging like riding a bicycle? (i.e. Is it something you never forget, not does it give you saddle sores). I haven't posted in such a long time, I can't help wondering if I've lost my touch or not.

We've assumed care of this old man who is running the full spectrum of what appears to be dementia. He has been living in our home for the past couple of weeks, and his presence has literally sucked the life out of me. I never thought I'd get to a point where I just couldn't face blogging, but that's what happened. I felt impotent.

Anyway, for those who may have wondered, I am alive and I will be posting shortly. I can't promise that it will be even moderately interesting, but at least it will be one step above the topic of sex with courgettes and the like.

Six Degrees of Separation ... from porn, that is

It's Bloody Monday again and only twenty more days until Christmas ... bah humbug! Don't get me wrong ...I love Christmas; I just hate the commercialism that envelops it (but more on that another time).

Anyway, I have this terrible cold ('tis the season) at the moment and feel like crap, so I can't pull it together to write anything witty or brilliant (okay, so when do I ever? But the dreamer can always dream, no?)

I'll leave you all with this thought:

Somehow someone used a search engine for "Japanese transvestites in thigh high boots" and discovered my blog. So now I'm frantically scratching my brain trying to figure out when I've ever talked about trannies or thigh high boots. What a disappointment it must have been for the person to arrive at my site and find such mundane stuff. Which makes me think that maybe I should be spicing it up in here abit ... which means of course that I need to either lie my ass off, or stop editing out the gorier details.

Nevermore

My post from last week re. my old boyfriend elicited, among many things, a phone call from a close male friend. I've been friends with A. for many years now but we'd always had this weird chemistry between the two of us. So yes, inevitably we did become lovers for a short period of time (I know, I know ... I seem to have an abundance of friends-turned-lovers-turned-friends-again) before deciding for many reasons to confine our relationship to friendship (or at least, the pretense of one during the early years while we let the embers die).

The reason that prompted A. to pick up the phone and call was my disclaimer that the only person other than my husband with whom I'd been head over heels in love was my old boyfriend. He was somewhat hurt by this comment. Specifically, was I denying that there had been anything between the two of us? Tough question and the answer was equally difficult.

We had somewhat of an interesting conversation during which we more or less conducted an archaelogical dig and unearthed some of our memories. Mostly we reminsced about the more troubled times of our friendship. A. recalled a moment in which he had turned up after a long period of absence in my life in an attempt to pick up where we had left off. Despite my nearly photographic memory, I had surprisingly buried that incident completely, probably because of my shoddy and immature conduct; mercilessly, A. recounted how he'd felt when I triumphantly threw it up in his face that I was seeing someone else. We also discussed our respective perspectives regarding his unexpected appearance months later at a housewarming party. He made his exit after twenty uncomfortably polite minutes during which neither one of us voiced what we were truly feeling or thinking.

It was funny dissecting what had been going through each of our minds at the time of both incidents, because we certainly didn't act on our instincts. Instead, we both held back and then reacted to the other person's actions (or inactions) which fed further into our insecurities and feelings of resentment. Both of us were too proud and too immature to apologise to the other for our appalling behaviour and we were definitely not even in the ballpark at that time at attempting to repair our friendship.

At the end of our conversation, I felt closer to A. but also inexplicably sad. We both expressed some regret for how we had treated the other in the past, and of course, we wondered aloud how things might have ended up had we instead been smarter and kinder. The ironic thing is that these regrets exist despite the fact that both of us are happy in our current situations. I wouldn't give up my relationship with my husband or with my kids for the world. A. is also in a long-term stable relationship, very established in his life and deliriously happy with it as well. It was hard for us come to terms with the fact that regret for what might have been didn't negate the happiness and satisfaction with what we have now.

I have this firm belief that we are the sum total of our experiences. Therefore, if I hadn't had a relationship with A., would I be who and where I am now? Would I have been able to appreciate all that I have with my husband and my family? Certainly, I am sorry that I didn't take the opportunity years ago to tell A. all that I was feeling; in failing to take some chances and be honest, we doomed our relationship to what was essentially a six month one-night stand. But my regret stems less from the failure of our relationship, and more from the fact that I wasn't being true to myself, that I held back so much to the point where I felt like I was giving nothing. I'm not sorry that things didn't work out on a different level with A. though. I'm happy and grateful that despite all that has come to pass, we are now able to enjoy a friendship. I think my recent sadness grew out of a belated mourning. Although our romantic relationship died years ago, neither one of us really grieved about it at that time because we were both too pigheaded and stupid to let on to the other that it might have meant something.

Once a few years ago, a very bright and talented man with whom I am acquainted showed me a poem he had written. The subject matter dealt with a missed opportunity, a longed-for relationship that never took place. The object of the man's desire is not named directly, but is instead cleverly referred to as "Should Have Been" or "Never Was". I wish I could post the poem here, but unfortunately, I lost my copy of it when my computer crashed sometime ago. It would serve as a good eulogy for my relationship with A.

Taking a Mental Health Break

I've started up about half a dozen posts in the last few days, but have been unable to actually complete them.

I've been feeling fairly blue, probably because of the weather and because of the imminent anniversary of a friend's suicide. My lengthy and dreary to-do list in the face of feeling immobilised doesn't help matters either. The fact that I feel that I should be blogging, but can't seem to string a coherent or interesting sentence together further exacerbates my feeling like a complete loser.

I'm officially taking a bit of a breather from blogging, but will be checking into each and everyone of your blogs for my amusement. Keep posting and stay warm!

If only we'd named our last child Manolo ...

When I was young(er), my brother sometimes used to abuse me. If I complained about it, the blame would be deposited back onto me. That is, if I hadn't been behaving in such an irritating manner, he wouldn't have been forced to beat the crap out of me. It wasn't until many years later that I actually began to question the rationale of his logic; it meant that I was responsible not only for my own bad behaviour, but for his as well. How could one possibly cite another person's behaviour as a reasonable excuse for one's own poor conduct? It never made sense to me ... well ... until today that is.

After taking our kids to see the new Harry Potter movie this afternoon, we paid a visit to a nearby outlet mall. We had a little bit of time to kill before our son's hockey game, and my husband suggested that we take a look at some of the stores. Reluctant to spend a beautiful afternoon shopping, but realising that he was in desperate need of some shirts, I agreed. Unfortunately, we both had different motives for our mall visit; I was under the impression that we were going to select some clothes for him (he's lost weight over the past year or so and his clothes look dreadful on him) while he wanted to buy me a new winter coat (the one that I wear is fifteen years old and has never done a good job keeping me warm). It was a fairly irritating and unproductive visit as both of us refused to cooperate with the other.

As we were walking around pleading with each other to see reason, I came to a screeching halt in front of the Brown Shoes Outlet Store. Having a mild shoe addiction, I just had to go in and have a tiny peek. Hubby and kids had a quick look of their own and then deposited themselves onto the comfy leather sofa while I felt compelled to walk around and touch all the merchandise. Then suddenly, I spied a fabulously sexy and fun number and picked it up to take a closer look.

Oh my God, I thought, suddenly unable to breathe, I'm hallucinating. It just can't be.

I rushed back to the sofa and wordlessly dangled my precious find under my husband's nose.

"That's neat," he said "Are you going to try it on?"

"Hhhh-ow much does the label say it is?" I stuttered as I flipped the shoe over so that the price sticker affixed to the sole was visible.

"$99.50," hubby read and then repeated "Are you going to try them on?"

Stunned, I sat down and then turned suddenly towards my husband.
"They're Manolo's," I whispered reverentially "And they're only a hundred bucks?"

"What is Manolo?", enquired my poor sweet ignoramus.

"You're kidding me, right?" I said looking up in surprise. The blank stare that met my gaze was clearly not kidding.

"Maaaaaaahhhhhhh-NO-low," I bleated, raising my eyebrows significantly. Another blank stare followed.

"Maaaaaaahhhhhhh-NO-low," I repeated as though speaking to a child. "Maaaaaaahhhhhhh-NO-low as in Blahnik," thinking that last hint should jog his memory. We did after all, watch Sex and the City religiously. Just what the hell had he been focussing on during that show, if not for Sarah Jessica Parker's great shoe collection and the women's repeated references to the reknown Mr. Blahnik?

"Oh, for the love of God!," I screeched as the realisation sunk in that he'd quite obviously been distracted by Kim Cattrall's breasts. "Who the hell doesn't know Manolo Blahnik?!!"

"Um, what is that? Is that the style of shoe?"

Too exasperated and irritated to continue speaking, I grabbed a passing salesperson's arm and asked for the shoe's mate. The salesman arrived and deposited the box into my lap before rushing off to help another customer. It was at that point that my husband cottoned onto the idea that Manolo might actually be a term worth knowing, because, printed on the side of the box was the pre-sale price.

"A thousand? Dollars??!!" he exclaimed.

"No, pesos," I thought dryly.

"Of course dollars, you nimbus. They're Manolos ... I told you! And actually it's eleven hundred and fifty dollars ... not including tax".

As I slipped my feet into the shoes, a beatific smile slowly spread over my face. My God, they fit wonderfully and felt absolutely heavenly. No wonder all those women raved about the genius of Manolo.

I stood up and pranced around the store feeling like an absolute goddess. A passing customer looked down at my feet, smiled and said "Those look amazingly sexy on you", to which I replied "They're Manolos and they're only a hundred dollars". She was clearly well versed in designer footwear because she gasped appropriately and let out an appreciative wolf whistle.

I proceeded to the cash with purchase in hand and hubby trailing behind, still asking "But what are Ma-whosies? Are they famous? Why are they normally so expensive?"

The interrogation continued as we exited the store.

"So, is it like a famous brand or something? Does everyone know about Ma ... whatever? Are they comfortable? What are they called again? Manny Black?"

I wheeled around suddenly, hissing "Manolo, Manolo, Manolo Blahnik!!! And yes, they're famous. Everyone freaking knows about Manolo Blahnik. Geez!" before I stomped off.

I did feel vaguely guilty for having been so condescending, rude and dismissive towards him, but such blind ignorance on his part is clearly deserving of that, isn't it??

Top Ten Signs You're a Blog-o-holic

This grew out of my rendez-vous with Sensational Snooze last night.

10. You get together with a dear friend who is also a blogger and whom you haven't seen in absolute ages, and spend the night discussing people you've never met (fellow-bloggers) and their posts.

9. You fight over the rights to be the first to blog about a particular event when with another blogger, to the point where after having offered to drive the other blogger home, you then contemplate retracting it so that you beat her home and can then be the first to post your take. (Don't be fooled by all the details here ... it's just a hypothetically based example ... really, it is!)

8. You find yourself obsessively checking your round of blogs and get frustrated when they don't post often enough or fast enough for your liking.

7. Your computer breaks down and you go through hell to get to an internet cafe or some third party computer just so you can keep up with the world of blogging.

6. You find yourself sneaking upstairs to your computer on the pretext of going to the washroom (during dinner) so that you can check and see if bloggers have either posted comments to your latest blog, or they have responded to your comments on their own blogs.

5. After said sneaking upstairs, you tiptoe to the washroom and flush the toilet to cover up what you've really been doing.

4. You find yourself composing your next post about a certain incident, while said incident is still taking place and unfolding.

3. You try to figure out ways to entice more readers to your blog.

2. You feel rejected and pissed off when people you don't even know delink you from their blogger lists.

And the number one sign you're a blog-o-holic is ...

1. You've been nodding your head vigorously in agreement as you read through the above items.

The Lion's Den

I am debating calling an old boyfriend of mine. Actually, he was THE boyfriend. The only man before my husband with whom I was seriously head over heels in love, enough to contemplate spending the rest of my life with him.

Unfortunately, he's also the one who had a hard time getting over me and got pretty obsessive, to the point where years after we'd broken up, friends, colleagues and business acquaintances were advising me to get a restraining order issued against him. He's the reason why I don't venture very often into my old neighbourhood (Little Italy) because he still lives in the area and I've been told that he's still mourning the loss of our relationship (fourteen years later).

The reason I'm seriously thinking of giving him a call is because he's in possession of about a dozen black and white professional photographs of me from my early twenties. I had them taken as a birthday gift to him by a very talented artsy photographer. I realised the other day when speaking with my kids that there are no pictures of me beyond my nineteenth birthday (the year I left home). Even within the last decade or so, there are only a handful of photos of me (I'm usually the photographer, or the one trying to dodge the camera as I'm shy). My parents aren't into picture taking, or memorbilia of any kind, hence they didn't even purchase my university graduation photos.

My kids know what I looked like as a child and teenager, but they've asked about what I looked like before I got married and had kids. I have nothing to leave them with to help fill in the blanks. Only my old boyfriend has these wonderful pictures of them, and I would like to either ask for them back (because what does he need with a dozen five-by-seven's of me?) or ask if I might scan them for my own kids.

I'm worried about opening up a Pandora's box though; that in contacting him, I might be stirring up a pot of trouble. However, I've become quite obsessed with the idea of reclaiming these pictures in some fashion or another. I'm not a materialistic person and normally have no problems with letting go of personal possession, but I feel that this is something of a legacy for my kids.

Take Two

This comes courtesy of Epicurist who is either trying to make nice with me, or hates me ...


Two Names You Go By --
1. Cats (or variations thereof such as Cat and Catwoman)
2. Tiny (only my husband calls me this)

Two Parts of Your Heritage --
1. South Korean by descent (unless my mom would like to tell me about our postman)
2. Quebecoise (by dint of birth geography -- it feels like it's in my blood now)

Two Things That Scare You --
1. Possibility of unspeakably bad things happening to my kids
2. Finding out I may have taken important people in my life for granted

Two of Your Everyday Essentials --
1. Hugs and kisses from my kiddie crew (marks the beginning and end of each day)
2. Toothpaste (dental hygiene is everything!)

Two Things You Are Wearing Right Now --
1. Fabulous nail polish with great name (Thigh High)
2. Five extra pounds I'm trying to lose (damn that Hallowe'en candy)

Two of Your Favorite Bands or Musical Artists (at the moment) --
1. Coldplay
2. Led Zeppelin (I'm working my way through my old collection of albums)

Two Things You Want in a Relationship (other than Real Love) --
1. Honesty at all costs
2. Wild, fabulous, exciting and passionate sex

Two Truths --
1. When I was a teenager, I wanted to be a professional dancer (not exotic!)
2. I have many secrets that might shock the socks off of people

Two Physical Things that Appeal to You --
1. Eyes and how they look when a person smiles
2. Hands

Two of Your Favorite Hobbies --
1. Reading (especially if accompanied by eating chocolate)
2. Dancing

Two Things You Want Really Badly --
1. A trip to NYC with some of my best girlfriends
2. A toss-up between either a live-in chef or a daily private session with a yoga instructor

Two Places You Want to go on Vacation --
1. Cuba
2. South Africa

Two Things You Want to Do Before You Die --
1. Travel extensively and learn several languages of my favourite countries
2. Learn how to make a quilt and turn out a fabulous masterpiece

Two Ways that you are stereotypically a Guy (I know I was probably supposed to change that to Girl, but it's more interesting this way) --
1. I don't believe that love is a necessary accompaniment to sex
2. I'd rather do anything than go shopping

Two Things You Normally Wouldn't Admit --
1. I am quite the Martha Stewart if I want to be
2. My checkered past (which clashes with my Martha Stewart self)

Two Things You Are Thinking About Now --
1. How filling this out has revealed just how boring and lame I really am
2. The package of M & M's I've squirrelled away (how am I going to lose those five pounds with all this temptation surrounding me?)

Two Stores You Shop At -- (Ugh, didn't I mention how I abhor shopping?)
1. Winners
2. Indigo

Two people I haven't talked to in a while --
1. My brother
2. An ex-lover (from many years ago) now good friend, from my hometown (this means call me, D!!!)

Two bloggers who may now dislike you for passing this on to them --
1. Sister Staceypatrick
2. Krave

Booby Trap

I caught about ten minutes worth of Oprah today. I've never watched her show but my friend insisted that I tune in as today's subject matter was one which we had discussed at great lengths recently whilst getting drunk. Not sure what the whole show was about, but the first bit had to do with women who wore ill-fitting bras. Oprah brought in thirty-five expert bra fitters from around the country to help out a panel of women selected from the audience. Not surprisingly, every single participant was wearing the wrong size bra.

The show made me reflect upon my own mammary history. Growing up, I had always been very underweight, hence developing was a term I used more in reference to photography than I did to my own body. At five foot six inches and ninety-five pounds, I was a carpenter's wet dream.

Since I didn't reach menarche until I was midway through grade nine (probably about three years beyond the average of my peers) and I graduated high school after grade eleven, most of my highschool classmates never got to see me in my full-blown glory. I started blooming very late in the game, and then at a very rapid and scary rate (I had to buy a new bra every month for a year while my body adjusted).

Unfortunately, being raised in a very close-mouthed household where most topics surrounding our bodies were never discussed or even addressed, I was pretty much on my own when it came to all these feminine issues. I had no idea what I was doing when it came to bra shopping, and I was too embarassed to ask the saleswomen for help (I mean, please if you've ever been to the department stores and seen the older ladies who pose as staff in the lingerie sections, you'd understand why as a shy sixteen year-old, the whole idea of getting their assistance was a daunting and distastelful one).

So I would essentially rush in and grab some stuff off a rack and then shuffle off red-faced to the counter where I would stand looking at some distant point beyond the cashier while she rang in my purchases. Because I was so busty, I erroneously thought that I should be buying larger sizes. Consequently, I was wearing a size 38 B or C cup at one point, when really back then I was probably a 32 or 34 D or E. If I'd gotten into an accident, I'm sure the paramedics would have dropped dead of shock at the state of my underthings.

After a few years, I got somewhat over my whole shyness with regards to my body. (Although having kids drove the nail in the coffin on the modesty issue -- something about having a roomful of people, my mother-in-law included, staring at my vagina in a disassociated manner while I lay writhing on the bed completely naked. I now have no problems whipping my clothes off in front of the world -- too bad no one is going to pay me the big bucks to strip). One day when I was getting a suit fitted, the seamstress commented that my breasts were in the wrong place. Excuse me? She proceeded to yank at my bra straps from outside the jacket and move my breasts around until they were where she wanted them to be. Oh, I thought, many questions having been answered. She sent me off packing to a lingerie specialty store to get properly fitted and kitted.

Now, for you ladies who have never had the pleasure of a bra fitting, let me tell you, it's quite the experience. I've had sex with people who've never gotten this close to me. I went to this very large well known lingerie store. The proprietor is a lady in her sixties who has been in the biz for years. When I quietly whispered that I wanted to purchase a bra, she led me into a dressing room and told me to strip down as she needed to see what kind of breasts I had. In the badly lit, cramped room under her gaze, I hurriedly took my top and bra off and stood there as she scrutinized me for what seemed like an eternity, making me turn every which way. She then measured my rib cage, poked at one of my breasts and rushed off into the store. Minutes later, she returned with a couple of different bras which she helped me to put on. Basically this entailed her slipping my arms through the straps from behind and then pushing me down so that I was bent over. She then hooked up the bra, yanked me back up and then stuck her hand into the cups to adjust my breasts. Afterwards, she stepped back to examine her handiwork. Very nice, she said, see how much better this fits? I murmured something politely back, but jeez, I was still trying to catch my breath after her lightening fast cop-a-feel routine.

I have to say though, that a properly fitted bra makes the world of difference. And since our bodies change constantly, it is a good idea to go for periodic fittings. Watching my ten minutes of Oprah reminded me that I'm probably overdue for another feel-up session.

The next time I go though, I'm going to turn my cellphone off. A couple of years ago, while shopping for an appropriate undergarment for an evening gown, my husband phoned to say hello and to comment that our daughter's bedroom seemed a little small, and wouldn't it be nice one day if we enlarged it. This was while I was bent over with a chick's hands cupping each of my breasts (no exaggeration) all in the name of helping me, so I basically yelled out breathlessly "Sure honey, that would be nice, wouldn't it? Gotta run now" before disconnecting. I returned home to find our daughter's newly painted bedroom wall knocked down -- he'd taken a sledgehammer to it (without covering up all my equipment in the adjacent office, I might add -- I spent days freeing my printer, fax machine, keyboard, etc. of the debris and dust).

Moral of the story: bra shopping should never be done in conjunction with anything else.

Scattered thoughts

Without sounding unduly holistic and granola spiritual, I was thinking today about the energy that people put forth. I know that sounds just so airy fairy, and I usually like to think of myself as being such a pragmatic, down-to-earth kind of gal, but I don't know what other words to employ.

I've just returned from a visit to a funeral home. I really don't understand the purpose of having an open casket; the absence of one's being speaks volumes in the presence of what has been left behind. It simply serves to reminds us of what and who we are missing. In this particular instance, I kept marvelling over how small the body seemed absent the man's expansive personality. I remember the first time I paid a condolence call to the bereaved parents of a schoolmate at the age of fourteen. I was struck by how the body, although arranged to look as if the former occupant was in peaceful repose, just seemed empty. It's weird how we can instinctively tell, even from a distance, the difference between a sleeping person and a dead one.

About two years ago, one of my cats died while in her sleep. At a glance, it was obvious that she wasn't peacefully slumbering away, but had passed into the great feline beyond. What is it that signals to us that what is left behind is but a shell? That who we are isn't defined by our bodies, but by something else less tangible and comprehensible.

The other day my eldest son slept over at his friend's. As soon as he'd left, the house felt substantially different. Of course, it was a bit quieter, but that wasn't the qualitative difference. There was a hole that he left in the general fabric of our household. Even my husband, who is more on the oblivious side sometimes, came home after all the kids were in bed asleep and commented how the house felt empty somehow. Interestingly enough, he'd forgotten about the arrangements that had been made and had no idea that we were less one child that night. So he was responding either to my attitude or to the absence of our son. Either way, he felt something in the air.

Have you ever been around someone and for some unknown reason couldn't stand them? For whatever reason, they just triggered an almost physical response of revulsion or discomfort? And of course, there's the opposite scenario in which you meet someone and instantly feel a connection.

So call it chemistry or energy or whatever term you'd like to use, but it's undeniably there, isn't it?

Having been raised in a very academic and scientifically inclined household, I can't help but refer back to my core sciences degree. I remember an amusing moment in my grade ten physics class when we were taught that one can calculate the electro-magnetic force between any two objects. To illustrate his point, our prof used me and this really nice but wholly unattractive guy who sat next to me. He plugged our body masses and the distance between the two of us into an equation to calculate the electrical attraction between us.

So, it's not an entirely crazy scenario then to assume that there are differing energies between people, is it?

Don't get me wrong, I don't automatically meet someone and make a decision about them. In general, I think I'm pretty easygoing and assume I'm going to like everyone, but there have been a few notable exceptions.

Many years ago, I met a guy through mutual acquaintances. He was intelligent, average looking and probably a nice enough man. But I never felt comfortable with him. It's difficult when you don't have anything upon which to base your immediate dislike of a person, other than he made my skin crawl everytime he came near me. I tried to be friends with him and even contemplated taking him on as a lover (to prove to myself that I could do it). In the end, I just had to cut all ties to him because I couldn't stand the man. I haven't any valid reasons which I can voice to bolster my decision. It's just that whatever energy he puts out there seems to clash with mine.

So, I'm back to that word again -- "energy". I know, I know ... it sounds like I'm some kind of yoga-licious, Birkenstock-sporting, vegan-loving, hemp-clad crazed woman.

But again ... when my kids were born, I remember thinking that I could have found them in the dark within a roomful of infants. Each one of them felt so different to the touch. My eldest son emanated an intensity unlike anything I've ever experienced, my daughter exuded strength and my youngest son oozed sweetness, amiability and affability from every pore.

I've got friends whom I call upon depending upon my mood and needs, because some have a calming air about them while others have an exciting one. I think it's fair to say that people's beings do occupy a certain space within the world. There is a certain emptiness when that energy is withdrawn. I guess the $64,000.00 question is where does the energy go?

Worth every red cent

Quick on the heels of women who make me ashamed we share the same gender, here is a story which a client recently related to me.

This particular client is a bizarre albeit benignly harmless fellow. He is a self-professed big drinker (we had to factor in the cost of his habit, when qualifying him for a mortgage). The day his deal firmed up, he ended up at my place around the dinner hour. Since he appeared to be ravenous and was literally salivating at the smells emanating from my kitchen, I invited him to stay and break bread with my kids. Afterwards, he politely turned down my offers of coffee or tea, but looked expectant. I twigged to the fact that he probably wanted a digestif along the alcoholic lines, so I offered to open up a bottle of wine. He proceeded to drink me under the table quite easily, and as he drank, he got even more chatty than usual.

Somehow the topic turned to his single status. He told me that he hadn't had a girlfriend in some months now, and that if I found him one, he would give me $800.00. Of course, I just had to question how he arrived at that particular amount. Not too interesting an answer actually; he said he'd once made the same offer to a friend for a cool thousand, but now figured that that had been far too much money. (It would make for an interesting Mastercard commercial though, wouldn't it? Acquiring beautiful, intelligent girlfriend: $800.00. First date with said girlfriend: $150.00. Floral arrangement sent to girlfriend after discovery of covert deal with friend: $100.00. Antihistamines purchased after now ex-girlfriend throws flowers in face: $12.00. Grief at blowing opportunity to spend life with great girl because of sheer stupidity: Priceless).

As we approached the end of the bottle of wine which we "shared" (I had half a glass, he had the rest), the client shared another little anecdote with me, hailing from his university days. It involved his then-current girlfriend with whom he'd been going out for about six months at the time of the incident.

One night she turned away from his sexual overtures, and stated that she wasn't in the mood. Desperately horny, he offered to pay her if she'd have sex with him. Rather than smacking him senseless and walking out on him, she instead asked him how much. In turn, he replied "What would you like?", all the while thinking that he'd be willing to part with fifty bucks. In true insecure female fashion, she valued her booty at a whopping ten dollars.

Here's the part of the story which the client thought was truly amusing, and which I found utterly revolting. Instead of handing over the pitiful sum of money and having his way with her, the client figured that surely there must be wiggle room for negotiation. So he countered her offer with $5.00 which she then countered for $9.00. They finally settled on $8.00, which was used afterwards to buy a pack of cigarettes and some milk. As if that wasn't bad enough, the client bragged that he'd smoked half the pack and drank most of the milk anyway.

I certainly hope he at least gave her a few orgasms.

It's all in the presentation ...

Okay, so now I've heard everything. Apparently, one of the hottest dining crazes sweeping through the United States is something called "nearly naked sushi". The nearly naked part refers not to the diners themselves, but rather to the sushi server. I use the term "server" loosely.

What it entails:

A beautiful woman, clad only in the most minimal of G-strings, lies prone on a table. Her nearly naked body is then covered with strategically placed leaves, shells and bits of cellophane upon which one's sushi order is balanced. Diners can then pick and choose from this lovely platter as they chat and eat at their leisure. For a party of four to six people, the cost is typically $500.00 per person. Yes, the price tag associated with objectifying and exploiting women (because it's only women who are employed as sushi servers thus far) can be steep if food is involved. After all, as I understand it, the going rate of a blow job from your local hooker will only run you about $20.00.

In an interview with the press, one of the sushi servers defended her job and went so far as to dub it "performance art". Uh huh, and the accidental groping that might occur as clients clumsily manipulate their chopsticks would count as applause for said art?

For those of you who were avid watchers of Sex and the City, recall the episode in which Charlotte asks Samantha to refrain from employing the crude term "pussy" (in reference to a woman's genitalia). Of course, since Samantha couldn't abstain completely from the subject matter, she was forced to find a substitute word that was less offensive to Charlotte's delicate sensibilities. "Sushi" then became the girls' discreet code word. Wonder what Charlotte would make of this dining extravaganza, because truly, those women really do serve up a mean sushi ... in all respects.

More food for thought: As a complete aside ... when at a restaurant, if you should be so unlucky as to find a hair in your food, the general protocol is that it gets returned to the kitchen and the manager appears with profuse apologies and free desserts, etc. Well, in this case, would it just be considered one of the hazards of the meal?

Another Difference Between Boys and Girls

I am very relaxed and easygoing in my household with regards to nudity. As a result my kids aren't shy about their bodies around immediate family members. It's a common daily occurrence to find at least one of us in some state of undress or other, conversing casually or carrying out a task without anyone batting an eyelash.

This morning, my two younger kids were taking longer than usual to go downstairs for breakfast; although they were dressed, they were in the boys' room giggling away and playing merrily, oblivious as to the lateness of the hour. I was in the middle of getting dressed when I noticed the time and dashed to their room to remind them to hustle downstairs. Upon seeing me, this was the conversation that ensued:

Daughter: I really like your pants, Mummy.

Me: Thanks honey. Now hurry up and go eat your breakfast.

Youngest son: I really like your nipples, Mummy.

Me (choking back a laugh): Thanks honey. Now hurry up and go eat your breakfast.


See ... I knew it ... women look at what other women are wearing and ooh and aah, while men only notice what the clothes aren't covering.

Ignorance is Blind

I just had my piano tuned today by an older blind man. I'm not sure if it's politically correct anymore to refer to someone as blind; is the proper term now visually challenged? That particular phrase just doesn't sound right somehow because truly, I think I've met a number of people whom I would deem visually challenged and yet their eyesight is probably twenty-twenty.

For the last year-and-a-half, I have been mistaken for this local chick who appears on TV daily. This has happened at least a dozen times. Those who know I'm not her (my doctor's and dentist's staff, for example) ask me instead if she is my sister. Since each person has sworn up and down that we could be twins, I just had to see for myself who this babe was. I taped the show one day and played it back and ... I just couldn't see the resemblance. I mean, she's clearly of Asian descent and she has funky hair with fun streaks of colours in it, but the similarities more or less ended there. I even asked my husband if he thought we looked alike, and he looked similarly confused when I recounted all the stories about how I've been accosted by adoring fans. His comment was "Well ... I can't even figure it out. I guess she's kind of good-looking, right? So they're paying you a compliment, aren't they?"

I suppose maybe it is all meant to be complimentary, but I can't help getting mildly offended at the ignorance contained within the comments. In the past, I've been compared to every Asian celebrity under the sun (Lucy Liu, Sandra Oh, Connie Chung, the girl from Raise the Red Lantern, etc.) And truly, I look like none of these women. And honestly, exactly what physical characteristics do Lucy Liu and Sandra Oh have in common? Oh yes, they're both Asian.

Growing up in the seventies, I heard a lot of ignorant comments regarding my heritage and my appearance. It really wasn't uncommon for a Caucasian to blurt out that "you all look alike" (or, my all-time favourite -- to ask me exactly how I was able to see through my eyes). Uh huh ... so the reason I can spot a person of Chinese descent amongst a crowd of Japanese would be? Oh yes, it's different if you're actually Asian (or Oriental, as it used to be called back in my childhood days).

I remember once being asked by a Caucasian guy if someone else was Jewish or Christian. When I responded that I hadn't asked that question, and therefore didn't know the answer, he replied "Well how could you not tell? It's pretty obvious". Well, I suppose in some cases it may be (i.e. the guy's name is Rabbi Moishe Goldstein and he's wearing a kippa), but since I don't have a tendency to try and classify people in that way, I couldn't correctly answer the question. Instead I flippantly said "Hmm ... I don't know because all you white folk look the same to me". Apparently, that is not a politcally correct thing to say; the guy was shocked and offended that I would utter such an insensitive and unkind remark. But the truth of the matter is that it isn't deemed unacceptable to say that Chinese, Japanese, Philipinos, Vietnamese, Koreans, etc. all look alike.

My children, especially my eldest who has quite unusual colouring, get asked often about their ancestry in rather rude and limiting ways (Are you Chinese or Japanese? What is your dad? What is your mom?) They truly have no understanding as to why people would pose these kinds of questions and why that aspect about them in particular, is of any interest. My son's stock response to questions as to his cultural background is "I'm Canadian. What about you?" It's not meant to be a flip answer; he just honestly doesn't identify with anything else, and he's never thought of me as being of Korean descent. To him, I'm his mom first and une Quebecoise second. I find that thinking surprisingly refreshing, when truly, it should be the norm.

The Day After Yesterday

Spent Saturday night with my Montreal girlfriend J. and two of her friends, all of whom blew into town for the weekend. Our goal was to repeat our last fun night out on the town.

After we had dinner, we headed over to a club nearby which the girls were curious about (it had been under renovations on their last visit). This particular club hosts a real mix of clientele of all ages and types. However, since it's far more spacious than the previous club we'd been to, people watching (my favourite activity) was virtually impossible.

The most unfortunate part of this club however, was its DJ. We weren't sure if he suffered from ADD or was just trying to be cool, but he never played a song in its entirety. It was pretty annoying to get lured to the dance floor by a tune you loved, only to have it suddenly changed to some unfamiliar hip hop rap song within forty-five seconds. Talk about switch and bait.

We all love to dance, so we occupied a very busy spot on the periphery of the dance floor for much of the night. Periodically J. would take her camera out and snap pictures of us all. At one point, I wrestled the camera away and tried to get a shot of her. Suddenly, I was approached from behind by two young guys who wanted me to take their picture. One of them even bared a nipple for the money shot. (Not sure why though ... maybe I egged him on? My memory is a little fuzzy on that front). After the picture was taken, the less insane guy (non-nipple flasher) stayed behind and started chatting me up. I wasn't sure if the goal all along had been to approach us, or if the opportunity just arose, but rather than being unfriendly, I decided to keep conversing with him. (See this is how I know I've matured ... many years ago, I more or less told anyone who came within ten feet of me to get lost. Now I assume that life is a series of experiences and that one should just go with the flow).

Very early into our conversation the question of age came up not so subtly ("So how old are you? I know you're not supposed to ask girls this question but ..."), at which point I grinned and told the guy that not only was I probably way older than he thought I was, but that I was also way older than him. Of course, he then went into the whole "No way" routine while sniffing around to find out what I considered to be old. In response to my statement that I was ancient, he then threw out a guess, which turned out to be almost two years younger than my actual age (well, I guess if you're young, anything approaching forty is ghastly). Finally, I put him out of his misery and confessed that I was a couple months shy of thirty-eight, at which point polite flattery made a brief appearance (Gee, the Oil of Olay is really doing its job).

Continuing to fumble his way around in what was actually a very funny and charming young way, he then said "Wow, your parents must be in shock. I mean, almost thirty-eight and unmarried ... they must wonder what's wrong with you". (Yes, imagine that a woman in her late thirties might have elected to remain single. The horror!) I then looked him straight in the eye and deadpanned "What makes you think I'm not married?" The slow and horrifed shock on his face as I flashed him my ring finger and the ensuing "Oh my God" that erupted from his mouth was priceless ... imagine that he'd wasted at least fifteen minutes trying to make nice to an old married hound! Perversely wanting to bump up the torture a notch or two, I then told him that I had three kids. I even considered offering to show him my stretch marks (although surprisingly, I actually don't have any) but since he really was a nice guy, I thought I'd back off a bit and give him a break. I turned the conversation towards his work and not surprisingly, he eventually announced that he was going to go find his friends whom he'd obviously abandoned for what he thought was a twenty-something single chick.

Later on, the same guy did turn up again, emboldened no doubt by a few drinks and perhaps by his friends' advice to investigate the possibility that he'd uncovered a Mrs. Robinson. At one point when he leaned in to say something, I caught a whiff of his breath and observed out loud that he was a smoker (there is an enclosed smoking room in the club -- gorgeous in all respects save and except for the lack of oxygen within), and asked if he was a regular smoker or a social smoker. Eventually, he ended up inviting me to accompany him into the smoking room which I declined to do initially, but then curiosity getting the better of me, changed my mind.

Now, I don't want to complain, but for some reason, the music that is miked into the smoking room isn't the DJ's selection, but something more along the heavy rock, head banging variety. Is that a stereotype about smokers? Intrigued by the people in the room, and taking it all in visually as we entered, I was unfortunately looking in all directions but down towards my feet. So, I missed the fact that there were a couple of shallow steps down to the main floor. Oops ... I tripped and hurtled headlong into the room, making quite the suave entrance. Young smoker dude caught up to me and laughingly enquired if I was okay, then hurried to assure me (without prompting) that he didn't think anyone had noticed. Oh right, so it was just my imagination that the bouncer was checking me out, undoubtedly making a mental note to spread the word to the bartenders not to serve me any more alcohol (for the record, I'd only had two drinks that night, so wasn't drunk in the least).

After about five minutes of inhaling the special mix of carbon monoxide and nicotine within the room, I'd pretty much reached my limit. We burst out of that room into the fresh clean air. Having exhausted all possible topics of conversation, we then looked for a graceful manner in which to go our separate ways. Points scored for the guy who said something along the lines of "Well, it's too bad you're married, because ... yadda yadda yadda" and then hugged and kissed me chastely on both cheeks good-bye. It was an experience that reminded me that not everyone who frequented clubs was slimy, desperate or on the make. (Although based on what took place as we tried to collect our jackets and file out of the club, I think he was in the minority).

After seeing my friends back to their hotel where we were invited by some army guys to come up to their hotel room for a party (wondering if they thought we might have been hookers since we were hanging around on the lobby couches and party was code for something else) I made my way home on very tired feet (I'd danced for about three hours non-stop).

As I lay in bed in the minutes before I passed out from exhaustion, I wondered what appeal clubbing had for me these days. In my early twenties, I went in search of a good time partying with my friends. Also, I think the possibility of seeing the cute crush of the moment, factored into the excitement. I'm not entirely sure what it is that I like about going out. Admittedly, I love to dance and can't get enough of that in my life, but I'm not certain if that's the sole impetus behind my girls' nights out.

Back in university, there was a group of post-graduates in their late twenties who frequented our Friday night college pub. Most of the other regulars who flocked to the pub lived in residence close by and we all looked forward to the once-weekly event during which we could drink our faces off and blow off a little steam. The post-grads came because that particular pub represented a fun time in their lives, perhaps even the ultimate time, and they were reluctant to let it go. Setting aside the fact that they appeared somewhat ridiculous hitting on girls who were ten years younger than them, it always struck me as kind of sad that the highlight of one's life should be the hours spent in a university refectory converted to a Friday night drinking hole.

But now I can't help but wonder if I'm not doing something along the same lines. Of course to me, it feels significantly different. I don't go out for the same reasons that I did in my youth and I don't react the same way that I did then either. But am I holding onto an activity that should have been laid to rest many moons ago? At one point should one be letting go of a facet of one self?

Can I Be the Exception to the Rule?

Ick ... I'm sitting here trying to force feed myself some chicken. Ever since I got ill a few weeks ago, I've lost my appetite, which is highly unusual for me. I've got this giant love of food, love to cook and sample new types of cuisine. I come from a family that believes in sitting down and enjoying our food in copious amounts (thankfully, we've been blessed with good metabolisms). As a mother, I've embraced the whole feeding-the-world reflex.

Since I'm also a firm believer in eating properly and healthily, I generally eat three meals and four or five snacks a day. It's been pretty torturous lately because I just can't get excited about any of the foods I've had in front of me.

A friend of mine and I used to subscribe to the idea of food as a parable for sex. We believed that people's eating habits could tell you a lot about how they were in bed. My friend who was Italian and loved to eat (God we used to pig out at her family's Sunday brunches) claimed that people who constantly watched what they ate or who lacked a gusto for food were lousy lovers. We had extrapolated every possibility of eating habits -- from those who would stick to the same foods regularly (missionary position with the lights out) to those who binged and purged (post-coital guilty feelings which might inhibit enjoyment).

Of course, we all like to think we're great lovers so naturally I've prided myself on my abilities in the boudoir. To put it simply -- I love to eat good food, in great quantities and whenever possible (the phrases "I'm too full" or "I'm not hungry" heretofore have never crossed my lips), I love to cook and am very inventive, creative and daring in my combinations of ingredients, I strive for variety in my diet and believe that eating is more about enjoyment than it is survival.

So what does it say about me that I now don't crave anything at all foodwise, could care less whether you handed me a gourmet meal and that I could probably go for long periods of time without eating?

Pound Foolish No More

I have this huge piggy bank of my own which stands about three feet high. It's amazing how quickly it fills up. Every four months or so, I start to empty it out and spend hours separating change and rolling it. I generally concentrate on the loonies, twoonies and quarters since the pay-off is larger for the amount of backbreaking gross work it takes (one year, we paid our mortgage for several months with the change that had accumulated).

Sometimes I enlist my kids to help out, but since the task often takes hours to fully complete, they start losing interest within the first hour. What usually happens is that I dump out the contents of the piggy bank onto a newspaper, separate out the bigger change and roll that, and then deposit all the smaller change back into the piggy bank. This means that I've accumulated a ton of pennies. I know it's Hallowe'en today, but we never have that much of a demand for Unicef that I can rid myself of the thousands of pennies in my possession.

There are those Cashstop machines at the grocery stores that I've kept passing but have never used. Recently, I stopped and checked it out. The surcharge is almost ten cents per dollar counted (nine and eight-tenths to be exact). I was pretty astounded when I first saw that and thought "Forget it. I'll just do it myself. That's way too much money to lose".

But then I thought about it. I have A LOT of pennies and the bank will only accept them for deposit if they are rolled into those plastic sleeves. I usually only buy the sleeves for everything but pennies, because they cost a dollar (at the dollar store of course) for a package of ten. It's fine to pay that if you're going to roll loonies and twoonies because you spend a minimal amount to net out a fairly large chunk of cash, but in the case of pennies, I realised that one package of sleeves would only roll five dollars worth of change. I would therefore be losing one-fifth of my money, not to mention the amount of time it would take to carry out the gross and grimy task (I hate how mucky my hands get within minutes of touching all that change). How many hours would it take to roll the number of pennies that I had and couldn't I use that time in a way that might make me more money than I was trying to save?

Once I realised that it was more cost-effective to use the machine for the pennies, I shovelled all the pennies into a large strong canvas bag and humped it down to the store. It was a pretty staggering weight. I thought I was going to get a hernia trying to lift it into my car.

As it turned out after only ten minutes of depositing all my change into the machine, I ended up with a little over $440.00 worth of pennies. The surcharge was $40.00 (as compared to the $88.00 it would have cost me in plastic rolling sleeves) and it was worth every penny in my opinion. That and the experience of getting out to the grocery store where everyone gawked at me and my big bag of change made it all worth it.

P.S. I had some sexagenarian attempting to flirt with me while his elderly wife looked on ... I'm not sure if he was turned on by the fact that I was a babe who saved or if he wanted to hit me up for some cash. He stood there watching me and chatting me up for a good five minutes. It was really quite funny.

Sorry but my gang bang card is full

Once after a fun drunken evening, I fell into bed with a man only to wake up the next morning and find two totally different but really cute half-naked guys on either side of me. Sounds great, no? Talk about a woman's fabulous fantasy come to life!

Punch line is that the gorgeous dudes were my sons. Apparently, they'd missed me when I'd been out kicking up my heels, so after I'd come home and passed out, they crawled into bed next to me and kicked out their dad. Freud might have had a field day with that one, I'm sure.

This evening I got a phone call from some guy who has been hitting on me repeatedly. Nice guy who's actually pretty intelligent and interesting and we were friends of a sort until he decided to take it upon himself to try and move things up a notch. Sad really because I liked the idea of having a platonic relationship with him but for whatever reason, his current goal is to try and bed me. Dunno why ... I mean, who fantasizes about sex with older married mothers? I've tried all kinds of ways to cool his jets but he's pretty persistent. I guess it's all in the thrill of the chase maybe?

Anyway, tonight my eldest son is having his sleep-over party in celebration of his ninth birthday. Four of his closest friends arrived here several hours ago and will be staying until lunchtime tomorrow. It's not as bad as it sounds. Boys are pretty low-key -- just point them in the general direction of the Playstation and they don't emerge for hours, except for pizza and bathroom breaks. At least that's what happened last year.

So in the middle of all the festivities, this guy calls and starts sniffing around for a get-together. Now, it usually starts as a suggestion that we have coffee ... which we used to do until he tried to cop a feel over a latte, so I'm now somewhat wary about going for Round 2. But it seems the more I just tell him that "really, I'm only interested in being non-sexual friends", the harder he tries. I'm reluctant to tell him to fuck off because I'm just never comfortable with being that way with anyone. (Something about bad karma maybe, I don't know, or maybe because I'm somewhat wussy). So tonight after we'd exchanged greetings, I interrupted him with a breathy "I can't really talk right now. As you can hear, I've got a bunch of people here. They're all guys and I'm really pretty busy servicing their needs. Gotta run! Later dude!" before I hung up.

Think I'll hear back from him?

It's Good For You

I recently read a Forbes article citing scientific findings with regards to the hazards of female sexual abstinence. So I'm curious about whether or not proponents for the saving-yourself-for-marriage theory might be swayed by the study's conclusions. Apparently, "women who abstain from sex run some risks ... these include vaginal atrophy". The article goes on to cite a case in which a physician, whose patient hadn't had sexual intercourse in three years, advised said patient to "buy a vibrator" as she was well on her way to "los(ing) function there". My goodness, I'm trying to imagine any of my doctors suggesting the purchase of a dildo or vibrator ...

According to the study's findings, there appears to be a bit of a problem going on because apparently, men can sustain permanent damage from having too much sex while women just can't get enough. So while we women have to protect ourselves against the perils of celibacy, you men have to try and abstain a little bit more. Does anyone detect a wee problem going on there? It's almost as if the article is advocating that women have a coterie of lovers.

It seems to me that where sex is concerned, the rules of society don't seem to jive with nature's ways. This is one such example. Another prime one is the fact that boys reach their sexual peak at the age of seventeen, while women don't attain that milestone until their late thirties. And yet society often seems to think that women should partner up with men who are more or less their own age. Oh sure, we've heard all the little consoling remarks that a man's experience is supposed to kick in some kind of contributing factor post-seventeen, but really if he can only do it once or twice in an evening without imperiling the health of his genitalia and we thirty-something sexually insatiable women can do it all night long ... I mean it practically guarantees that we have to assume the role of Mrs. Robinson at some point in our lives, doesn't it?

P.S. As an aside, the article cited a doctor from England who said that there is "little or no risk of a woman's overdosing on sex. In fact ... regular sessions will not only firm a woman's tummy and buttocks but also improve her posture". So forget the aerobics classes, ladies and have a great time!

In the Blink of an Eye

Last Friday marked my ten year wedding anniversary. This Sunday is my eldest's son's ninth birthday. Hard to believe that so much time has passed in what seemed like a nano second.

I'm not sure which milestone freaks me out more, my anniversary or my son's birthday. I suspect it is probably the latter. It's hard to believe that my first-born is only a couple of years away from adolescence. I can still remember the moment he was born; the doctor placed him on my stomach and I looked down into his face and felt as though I was seeing someone I'd known all my life. It was a really weird experience; electrifying and comforting all at once. Afterwards, I spent hours holding him and rubbing my cheek against the soft downy fuzz of his head.

Two days ago, my son came home from his hockey practice complaining of a stomach ache. The first thing he did was head upstairs to see me. I ended up holding him much like I did when he was a baby, stroking his head and back and whispering "ssh" into his hair. It's funny how even though kids can get bigger, they still revert back to that infantile stage in moments of stress. Although I felt badly that he was suffering so much, I have to confess that it was so nice to cuddle him like I used to when he was a newborn.

Reflecting back upon the last ten years of my life, I wondered if I've gotten any more mature than when I was in my twenties. I have this horrible suspicion that, if anything, I might have regressed. I suppose I could point to the fact that I'm in a long-term relationship as proof of my maturity, since prior to our fourteen years together (ack!), I'd always made sure to end relationships at the one-year mark, but really the truth of the matter is that it's more a credit to his patience than anything else. We're like some perverse twist on A Portrait of Dorian Gray; as he gets older and more mature, I get more childish and silly. Wonder what I'll be doing on our twentieth anniversary?

The Art of Conversation or How to Say Nothing in As Many Words as Possible

I'm still feeling uninspired to write anything, but Snooze has given me a big kick to post an entry after my long sojourn of laziness, so I've decided to just engage in general cocktail talk. (Don't you just love that word? It conjures up such lurid sexual images).

I come from a family that believes in every moment, action, gesture, thought, etc. being a deeply significant one. We weren't permitted the luxury of waste at any level. So to sit around and chatter about topics lacking real substance was really considered insipid and generally useless. My dad used to hate going to faculty parties and the like because it meant that he might find himself trapped in some trivial conversation, and what was the point of that when he could be doing something truly important? We weren't really a family well-versed in communication of any kind (unless you counted yelling at each other in which case we were brilliant conversationalists).

I often tell my kids that if they can't say something nice to someone, to refrain from commenting at all. Growing up, the golden unspoken rule was "If you haven't anything intelligent to say, don't say anything at all". So I spent much of my younger years rehearsing the words in my head before uttering them, or in more instances than not, choking them back after judging them "too silly to say". I was a pretty silent child, who spent most of my time watching and listening to others, and while this sullen retentive attitude might have passed for good behaviour, I had the unfortunate occasional habit of blurting out attempted witticisms in the heat of the moment (a compulsion to which I still give in). My parents chastised me for my "slick tongue" and these outbursts effectively cancelled out my otherwise clean record of verbal abstinence.

As a teenager, I stuck out like a sore thumb in many social situations because I continued to adhere to the rule of refraining from the so-called mindless chitter chatter that most adolescent girls were prone to indulge in. I did remarkably well at my parents' dinner parties in which middle-aged academics were present, but quite honestly, when you're thirteen, you really don't consider it a compliment if a forty-something professor tells you how poised and mature you are; what you really want is for his cute teenage son to tumble at your feet in adoration and worship, and if you couldn't behave like any other normal pre-pubescent girl, how on earth were you going to accomplish this lofty goal??!!

I remember once how the love of my early teenage life was the unfortunate recipient of me phoning him up to treat him to endless silence, all because I would run through what I might say to him (eg. nice weather we're having) and then think to myself "No, no, I can't say that. That's not a deep and profound topic. Think, think of something else to say". Poor boy tried to keep up a running patter, but then inevitably would get so turned off that he'd finally find an excuse to hang up in a hurry. I realised many years later, that he would have been happy to listen to pretty much anything I'd said and would have volleyed back with comments of his own until we'd built ourselves up to a comfortable conversational level. The irony is that in my attempts to be brilliant, profound and interesting, I ended up instead being billed as stupid and boring.

Unfortunately, these kind of uncomfortable silences punctuated much of my adolescent and early post-adolescent years. I was just not well-versed in the art of cocktail talk, and I suffered from the mistaken belief that the world at large wanted to be treated to a constant deeply intellectual patter. What never occurred to me was that my intelligence might still shine through during the parentally-deemed inoccuous chit chat. I failed to realise that in the absence of having anything intelligent to say (which is nearly all the time), I can at least inquire after people's health and comment on the weather. There is a certain art, I think, in successfully pulling off cocktail chatter; if done correctly, it tends to put people at ease (unless you're my dad in which case the inanity of it all is simply enervating and irritating).

Many years later, I've become fairly well-versed in talking about seemingly nothing. After all, I've created an entire blog about pretty much nothing. But since some people have been clamouring for more, I guess the vacuity has provided them with some sort of amusement. Smoke and mirror, my friends, smoke and mirrors.

Lazy Ass Syndrome

I am feeling so incredibly unmotivated today. I've done hardly anything and yet I'm exhausted already. In fact, by the time I got dressed this morning, I was pooped. Is this a sign of old age?

Warm Fuzzy Feelings

Urp ... sitting here feeling somewhat like a beached whale after the big Thanksgiving smorgasbord. I'm somewhat exhausted after the all-day cooking and cleaning fest, followed by the shameless gorging. Just sitting here waiting for the effects of the turkey's L-tryptophan to kick in ...

In the meantime, figured I should spend some time thinking about all the good things in my life. As we sat down to dinner tonight, I asked my kids what they were most thankful for, and my seven-year-old daughter replied without missing a beat, "I'm thankful for my family". I thought that was a particularly amazing comment for someone so young, but maybe that's just my mom biased pride colouring my judgement.

So top of the list for me, is of course, my family. I'm surrounded by a bevy of wonderful people within my household, and that's wonderfully reassuring and comforting, even though it can be downright exhausting at times.

I spent all week feeling really awful and ill, so now that I'm feeling almost back to my old self, I guess I'd have to say my good health is also a boon. Touch wood that I remain moderately healthy for a long time. I'm don't make a very good patient. (By the way, thank you to all who read my post and took the time to wish me well).

One thing that amazed me during this past week, was the amount of support I had from people. Some of the moms saw me at school during the drop-off and pick-ups earlier in the week, and commented on my worn-out and pale appearance. Before I knew it, I suddenly had a number of the parents volunteering to drive my kids to and from school. Now, I'm not one who ever asks to be on the receiving end of favours, although I'm very willing to help out most people whenever required, but I actually did take up some of the mothers on their offers after one in particular phoned me several times and insisted that I let her help out because she could see how poorly I was feeling. It was so touching to know that people noticed and cared enough about me to extend themselves. I really do have such extraordinary friends.

One of the greatest things I am most thankful for, is the fact that I'm at a point in my life where I can recognise, appreciate and embrace the good parts of life itself. It sounds fairly trite and trivial, but a decade ago, I don't think I ever really did stop to smell the roses, much less notice them, so I'm glad that I'm able now to see all the small wonderful moments and things that make my day.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Letters from the Sickbed

Ick. I've been felled by some nasty virus and can't even wrap my mind around blogging. Unfortunately have nothing amusing or interesting to share with anybody other than my germs.

Will post when I am feeling human again and can string together a coherent thought.

Thanks for stopping in.

Thank God for Judaism

It's Monday ... and not to plagiarise the Boomtown Rats, but I just don't like Mondays. Unless it's a holiday Monday. Then I can cavort around the house in my pyjamas until noon if I like, instead of yelling at my kids every two minutes to hurry up and get ready for school.

This past month, Monday afternoons have been particularly hellish as my kids have swimming lessons immediately after school (rush for the afternoon pick up), followed by my eldest son's soccer game at 6:00 (rush to get to the game). This means that I've had to make and pack dinner at 2:30 p.m. so that we can eat it either in the car en route to said soccer game, or have a quick picnic on the soccer field. It's been somewhat difficult if I've had an afternoon meeting that day because I've had to rush home to make dinner quickly before racing out to pick up the kids.

Today however, Rosh Hashana (the Jewish New Year) begins at sundown. Since my son's soccer team is almost entirely comprised of Jewish kids (we are one of three Gentile families on the team), I've gotten a reprieve. Gotta love them Jewish high holidays!

Shana Tovah to one and all!

Passing the Torch

I had this long-standing tradition with two of my university girlfriends; all three of us have birthdays within weeks of each other, so we've celebrated them together year after year, by going for high tea at the Four Seasons Hotel.

A couple of years ago on my daughter's fourth birthday, one of my girlfriends presented her with a card entitling her to tea with the "girls", as part of her initiation into big girl status. Naturally, my daughter loved the whole idea of sipping sweet milky tea from grown up china cups and munching on delectable pastries and tea biscuits (gotta love that clotted cream).

Lately, my girlfriends and I haven't been able to get it together and have our annual birthday tea. Not wanting such a lovely tradition to die, I decided to revive it with my daughter.

I promised her last week that we would go for tea this weekend. In honour of the event, she made us tea crowns. They were lovely colourful creations with the words "Tea Queen" emblazoned across the front, and our names at the back. She'd also made me these fabulous dangly earrings, one purple and the other apple green (she didn't have enough beads of each colour to make a pair), which I'd promised her I would wear only on special occasions. I figured the initation of a mother-daughter tea tradition counted as such.

We had a blast-and-a-half. As soon as we were seated, we placed our tea crowns solemnly upon our heads and proceeded to order the afternoon full tea. We drew a few envious looks from those seated nearby. My daughter got a big kick out of the server's constant references to her as "the beautiful Tea Queen". I was complimented many times on my gorgeous earrings, which caused my daughter to beam and glow.

And for the first time ever ... the Lobby Bar, which never validates parking, did so gladly and willingly. I'm sure this wouldn't happen for any normal plebians, but since we were Tea Queens after all, they were more than happy to oblige.

And so a new tradition is born ...

Think Pink

I've been invited by some friends and clients to this charitable event tonight. I went a couple of years ago (as guests of the same friends/clients) and it was a hoot. Never seen so many drag queens and tuxedoed corporate types in the same room all at once.

I'm too pooped right now to get myself ready, so here I sit in my little pink undies debating what to wear. Any of my usual little black dresses simply will not do tonight. Since the event is to raise money for breast cancer research, I'm told that I should show up wearing something pink and fabulous. I own about three pink articles of clothing -- all t-shirts -- so I'm sort of screwed. I'm seriously considering throwing a trench coat on top of my pink unmentionables and calling it an ensemble.

Actually the last time I went to this event, I was strong armed by my friend into bidding on an item during the silent auction portion of the evening. It was a pink dress (the designer was there modelling one as well) which no one had placed a bid on. I got it at the bargain basement price of $85.00. Of course, there was a reason that no one had bid on it: it isn't something you can wear very often (if at all) or which can be worn by many people. I'm pretty sure I'm not among the few who can pull it off. So I've been staring at this slutty little pink number wondering how I can tone it down to an acceptable level. Unfortunately, my brain has still not caught up with my new gym work out schedule and I'm not coming up with any feasible solutions.

That trench coat is looking better by the minute.

From Flab to Fab

Tired, so tired today ... must get sleep ...

My body is in a state of shock, I think. I've gone back to the gym again and gone full tilt no less (never do anything half-assed is my motto). I have this love-hate relationship with the gym. Actually, with exercise in general, I think. Many moons ago when I used to be on the school track and field team and ran long distances every day, I swore I actually hated running. And yet, I would find myself itching to go for that long run at the end of the day. Bizarre.

Now that I don't run every day, or work out obsessively like I used to, I have those rare days when my body will remember what it used to feel like to be in good shape, and will then crave some form of exercise (sex and lifting the arm for drinking or eating don't count). In response, I decided to try and go back to a workout schedule that may fit into my life. After one week of this, my body is utterly confused. My brain is struggling to keep up with the body during waking hours (I'm having trouble stringing coherent thoughts together). My muscles have called an emergency meeting to decide whether their status is as a working out group or a couch potato group. Hopefully, they'll keep me posted as to their decision. In the meantime, I'm going to collapse on the couch briefly.

Move Over Dr. Atkins ...

I just read an article in the newspaper about the latest diet craze. No, it's not Atkins, The Zone or South Beach. People have suddenly discovered that the best way to lose weight is to cut down on unhealthy junk food while increasing their intake of fruits, vegetables and whole grains as well as adding exercise to their weekly routine. Wow, quelle discovery! As my kids would say ... duh!

According to the article, health practitioners are confident that this latest craze might catch on. Yes, so people can only put into practice what they've known all along once it becomes fashionable?

Maybe I'm being overly bitchy and insensitive. I've been blessed with a great metabolism and have been thin to average build all my life. Even though I now bemoan the fact that I need to lose a few pounds and get into shape, I realise that I'm nowhere near being morbidly obese, and that my need for change arises from personal preferences rather than from health threatening issues. But also, I was raised by parents who never ate nor served processed foods. We were taught to snack on fruits or nuts. We ate a lot of tofu before it ever became fashionable. We went for walks after dinner. We rode our bikes to school. We limited our intake of cholesterol rich foods.

And I suspect that we weren't an anamoly. It's not as though only my parents were possessed with the knowledge that healthy living came from healthy eating. So why suddenly is it like a huge revelation that we should eschew en masses the fad low carb diets and ephedra-free pills in favour of the lifestyle we are meant to lead? Are we a society that can only do what is trendy?

Uh ... excuse me sir ... will this be on tomorrow's test?

I was watching television on Friday night with my step-daughter. She's home from university for the first time for a day-and-a-half visit. We'd just returned from a three hour bubble tea and shopping expedition and, neither of us wanting to end the wonderful moment of togetherness, decided to crash out on the couch and find a cheesy movie to pick apart.

We ended up doing a lot of chatting while we channel surfed. As we bounced around from one bad show to the next, we conversed about all kinds of topics serious and funny alike -- from her fears and insecurities about losing her virginity (she hasn't yet) to oral sex, genital herpes, drinking and recreational drugs, to the virtues of spending your days draped completely in sweats (her preference).

At one point, while we scanned the TV menu, we chanced upon Wife Swap, which is a seriously bad reality show (but then again, find me one that isn't) involving two families, often polar opposites, who have beefs with the moms. The premise of the show is to switch matriarchs for a two week period of time. During the first week, the mom has to live by the rules of the adopted family, but during the second, she imposes her rules upon them.

We were busy discussing the hilarity of how anyone would survive in our household when C. suddenly turned to me and asked me which of her personality traits might bother someone. I tossed off a breezy "Nothing darling, you're absolute perfection" but then realised she was quite serious. I gave it some thought briefly, but couldn't come up with anything appropriate at the moment, so I simply told her it was more a question of good fit versus bad fit, and that since we obviously were a good match, it was hard for me to think outside the box.

The next night my step-daughter was getting ready to leave. Her best friend who was also home for the weekend, was picking her up, so she was hurriedly packing her belongings. Once finished, she then started tearing her room apart looking for a specific CD case. She told me that she'd borrowed the CD from her best friend's sister a long time ago, but then had misplaced the CD case. She'd returned the CD in a plain plastic jacket, but apparently the sister, being an obsessive-compulsive according to my step-daughter, kept haranguing her to return the original case.

C. then showed me a pair of grey sweat pants which also belonged to her friend's sister. and which had been in C.'s possession for many months. She said that the sister had phoned and specifically asked that C. bring them back with the CD case. C. went on to say that she didn't understand why this girl was making such a federal case out of an ordinary pair of sweat pants and a CD case, neither of which was a big deal.

The answer to the question that had been posed to me the night before suddenly came in a flash. My step-daughter lacks an ability to see the big picture. In this particular case, she couldn't comprehend the fact that while neither the sweats nor the CD case were important to her, they might be significant to someone else.

I was reminded of the fact that my step-daughter is pretty careless when it comes to belongings, whether it's her own or others, and that she has little insight into how this might bother someone who exercises more care. Once very long ago, she borrowed one of my vintage hair clips (I had a set of two), lost it and then submitted its twin when asked to return the clip. Needless to say, it took me all of about thirty seconds to realise what had transpired once I went to put the clip back in my jewelry box and noticed the other was missing. Although I was somewhat upset about losing something that had been so beautiful, I got over its loss fairly quickly as the clip had no sentimental value (I'd purchased it for myself). What lingered beyond the mourning period, was a bit of mistrust though. The whole incident caused me to look back on each of the times that my step-daughter had borrowed something of mine. I realised then that each time I would lend her one of my belongings, she would say "I'll give it back", which is a given in the world of borrowing, and therefore a redundant and unnecessary promise. It occurred to me that the reassurance was more for herself than it was for me because she knew she was so careless with things. It also occurred to me that in every instance when she'd borrowed something from me, I'd had to go and either lobby for its return or find it myself after unsuccessful and repeated requests.

I remember telling my step-daughter at the time, that when you borrowed someone's belongings, regardless of what the item was, you were really trading on their trust, and that failure to take care of said item and return it in a timely manner and in its original state was really showing a flagrant disregard for that person's feelings, and therefore chipped away at the trust. I found myself reiterating this once again to C. on Saturday night after her comment that she didn't understand why this girl was freaking out over trivial material goods.

I realise that the inability to see the big picture is something C. will grow out of with the passage of time. She's an amazing girl for an eighteen-year-old, with an astonishingly mature insight and honesty. It's only a matter of time before the realisation that there exists an accompanying subtext to seemingly inane or incomprehensible actions, find its way onto her radar.

I couldn't help but think about my parents, or more specifically my mother. She would often set us up so as to teach us a lesson. Everything was seen as essentially a test of character (or lack thereof). It was tough growing up with the realisation that you'd failed miserably. I do sort of get her point though; if I'd loaned C. something as a test to see how she'd behave, it wouldn't do to tell her that it was an experiment, now would it? My mother's view was that the test should be conducted as a blind study and that therefore, the participants (my brother and I) would act completely in character, instead of attempting to perform to expectations. It's sort of the same logic our high school teachers employed when they'd pop quiz us to see if we really did absorb what they taught us, or if we just crammed for tests.

I differ somewhat from my mother though; I don't think it's necessary to set up all these little field experiments and then stand by with clipboard in hand to mark our children. I think that it's the little experiences which are really the pop quizzes in life. I have faith that when C. has to go back and tell her friend's sister that she's lost her CD case (and then have to endure the ensuing freakout and consequences), she may learn something about both herself and her friends

I have faith that hopefully, eventually I'll learn from the pop quizzes that are thrown my way. Better learn quickly though, before my family signs me up as an ideal candidate for Wife Swap.

Sleep is Highly Overrated

I've been sharing my bed this past week with two beautiful babies.

Each night their mother comes over and tucks them in. It's quite sweet to watch -- she soothes them, sings them a song, then finally lays them down and strokes their heads for a few minutes before giving them a loving kiss good-night. Once the bedtime ritual is over, she promptly leaves but not before reading me the riot act and giving me a thousand and one instructions about what to do and what not to do. Like, I've never been a mother before?

Each night, I vow to myself that I'm going to put my foot down and have a word with the mom, because I just can't sleep very well with a couple of extra bodies in my bed. (Oh AND their mom insists that they need to have their plushy teddy bears with them for emotional security purposes, making even less room there for me). Some nights I swear under my breath and resist the incredible urge to pitch them onto the floor and plead sleepwalking or night terrors when their mom comes to collect them the next day. The worst was the night their mom told me that one of them had been puking up a storm that day, and that she needed to be watched carefully during the night in case she gave any indications of further vomiting.

I need to be firmer and assert my rights to my own time and my own bed. I already had three kids; I've had my fair share of giving up space in my life and my bed for small babies. I've had enough sleepless nights to last me a lifetime; I shouldn't have to put myself out for someone else, now should I?

So tonight, I've decided I'm going to do it. I'm going to just take a deep breath and say to my daughter "Honey, Mummy just can't babysit your dolls anymore. Besides which, I think they're probaby old enough that they can sleep in their very own crib".

Hopefully, she'll understand and won't call Children's Aid on me.

P.S. I actually ended up with yet another baby in my end last night. Yesterday, a friend of mine gave my daughter a small doll as a belated birthday gift. The doll looked exactly like my daughter had as a baby (big rosy cheeks, rosebud lips, inky black hair and Asian eyes), so it became difficult to refuse its right to be in my bed. I actually found myself kissing it good-night when my daughter did, too!

To Wear is Human ...

Okay, so maybe I'm old-fashioned, but isn't there some kind of tacit agreement regarding the taboo of cavorting around in summer white attire (white pants, shorts, shoes, etc.) after Labour Day? I realise that there are some days where we have summer-like weather, but should one don white capris and white shoes on that basis?

These last few weeks, I've been seeing a profusion of white clothing that supposedly constitute a fashion faux pas according to what I was brought up with. Have I missed something? Did some fashion guru recently pronounce white (and not winter white either, mind you) acceptable to wear during the fall months? I know it's stupid (because exactly who makes up these rules in the first place, and who cares anyway), but for whatever reason, that whole no-white-summer-clothing-until-after-Victoria Day-and-only-up-until-Labour-Day rule has stuck with me all my life.

See, now I know why during my university years I always stuck to black clothing. It's just so much easier.

Flashback

I'm having a really bad day and feeling like a five-year-old child.

It all started with this misunderstanding over something very small and insignificant that got blown way out of proportion. The inner logical rational person with the Psych. degree tells the outer hurt child in me that she should just understand that the person who freaked out and got all psychotic for something that didn't warrant a reaction anywhere close to the proportions it did, obviously had more going on that had nothing to do with me. Got it? Yes, I know ... it's very vague and convoluted, but then ... I wouldn't want to be accused of being indiscreet online and recounting the whole incident.

My point is that I am amazed that a woman in her thirties could get reduced to weeping child status over someone's displaced (and ill-placed) anger. I know that there's obviously a subtext behind what happened, as is often the case, and that said subtext may have little, if anything, to do with me. But still ... it hurts to have someone go off on me like that. It's caused me to question if I'm an insensitive, selfish and clued out person, and I hate having that doubt because of course, it just feeds into childhood fears. (My mom always accused me of being self-centred and selfish, among other things).

So now I hate the fact that I'm sitting here playing everything in my life back and wondering if it's all true. Crap, I thought I was way more mature than that!

If the Shoe Fits a.k.a. Getting in Touch with My Feminine Side

One of my best girlfriends told me that she'd recently had the talk with her nine-year-old daughter. It began something like this:

"Okay honey, I'm going to tell you this once and only once, and then we will never speak of it again".

She went on to explain that it didn't matter how good your outfit was; so long as your shoes clashed, all that would be remembered by others was how awful your footwear was.

During the conversation, I found myself actually nodding my head vigorously in agreement. "She's just so wise. Truer words were never spoken", I thought to myself.

Within the last four years, I've become quite the shoe afficionado. My motto has become: You can never be too rich, too thin or possess enough shoes. My footwear collection has increased exponentially since turning thirty.

I come from a family that is super practical. Growing up, I never had more than one pair of shoes (unless you counted running shoes for gym class) because, as my parents used to point out, it just didn't make sense to spend the money unnecessarily since my feet were not fully grown. It made sense to me, even though it didn't help me when I was longing for something a little prettier than my serviceable pair of loafers.

As I got older, I always refrained from buying shoes. I'm not sure why. I think it was because I was always on a limited budget and could only afford either the clothing or the shoes, so I always opted for the clothing (you can buy way more clothes for the price tag of a single pair of good shoes). On those rare occasions when I did go shoe shopping, I'd buy a pair of classic basic black pumps -- versatile and matches everything, right? Hence, no need to have anything else. Those pumps became the grown-up version of my childhood loafers.

Truly though, I never really understood the impact that a good pair of shoes can have. You can wear the same little black dress every day of the week and somehow make everyone forget that they've seen it already, if you just vary the spectacular shoes accompanying the dress. Well, that and a few minor accessory changes like scarves and/or jewelery. This was a complete reversal to my other way of dressing/thinking, which was to vary the outfit every day but to keep the black pumps.

Now, I don't think that I'm really a very girly girl kind of chick in many respects. I abhor shopping (except for books), I'm not so into makeup and I like playing sports. I have a plethora of platonic male friends, way more than most of my other female friends have. I think the reason for this is that guys like me because I have a lot of male attitudes, and they can talk about things with me that they can't normally speak of with other women (comes from having an older brother, I think). I also can't stand the cattiness and evasiveness of some women. I'm pretty forthright, open and to the point and I despise playing games.

But on the shoe front, I am all female. I'm somewhat embarassed to admit this. Last year, when a good male friend of mine was bemoaning the vastness (or what he considered to be vast, poor innocent man) of his fiancee's shoe collection, I was notably silent. Of course, that would have been my cue to break down and confess that I actually owned way more shoes than his lady love. Instead, I chickened out and changed topics quickly, because the possibility that my revelation might precipitate the evaporation of a long-earned respect was just too frightening. But seriously, just how stupid and obtuse was the man? He would always pay me a compliment about how good I looked whenever we met -- how the hell did he think I accomplished that feat ... smoke and mirrors??!! Duh ...

The reason for this post? I just bought another pair of shoes today quite by chance (I had just bought my eldest son some much needed fallwear and was passing by). Hey, they were on sale (couldn't even get a t-shirt for as much as these cost) and they were absolutely hot. Did I need them? Of course I did, silly!

Recently, I had lunch with a good friend whom I don't see often enough. Her restaurant suggestion was located in this absolutely swanky mall. Not being acquainted with this mall in the least (I'd passed through it once about ten years ago to see a movie), my friend suggested that we walk around after our meal. At one point, we ended up in a shoe store. She is a self-professed lover of shoes, so we ambled through the store, picking up various slides, mules, pumps and boots, and kept up a running commentary. At one point, I asked my friend how many pairs of shoes she owned, to which she replied "forty". A woman next to us snorted and laughed and made some kind of comment like "Oh my God, I wish". My friend looked up and said "What? You think that's shocking?" to which the woman replied "No, I own a hundred pairs of shoes. And yet I'm in here still looking and buying. It's an illness, God help me, but I simply love shoes".

Okay, so I'm coming out of the closet now. The truth is that I absolutely adore shoes. I own a ton of them (although nowhere near one hundred). And I'm still always on the prowl. And it's not just for myself either; when my daughter was two months old, I was at a sample sale for a clothing line made in France. I came across these two pairs of girl's shoes that were totally stunning and completely unique, so of course, I just had to buy them. The fact that she wouldn't be able to wear them until she was about nine or ten was irrelevant. I finally had a daughter and I was going to make sure she damn well had fabulous footwear. (As it turns out, she is a true fashionista well beyond her years and her peers, and she is absolutely frothing at the mouth for the day that she can wear those shoes).

Recently, I took my step-daughter out shopping. She needed some new underthings before she left for university, and she asked if I'd take her. We ended up at the Bay where, for whatever reason, the shoe department is located right next to the lingerie section. So of course, after she'd made her choices, we had to walk past the shoes to get to the escalator. This was just too much for me. They were having a blow-out sale and we just had to stop and look. I ended up buying a pair of fabulous fuschia Pucci-esque slides for a mere $20. As we stood in line to pay, my step-daughter started in on her familiar rant about the injustices of life. More specifically, the fact that my feet were a full two sizes smaller than hers thereby making any expropriation of my phenomenal footwear impossible. I stopped right then and there, and gave her my friend's version of the talk, throughout which she nodded her head vigorously. I ended with the advice that she should emulate me and buy shoes when on sale. She countered this with the feeble argument that shoes only go on sale at the end of the season, and she would therefore have to wait through three seasons before being able to wear them. I told her that shoe shopping was like buying fine wine and that good shoes were well worth the wait if you were going to get them for three-quarters of the premium cost. She politely and reluctantly agreed with me, but I think she secretly thought I was cracked. Poor soul, she has so much to learn!

Rain, Rain, Go Away

It rained almost all day long here, and when it wasn't raining, it was threatening to rain.

While I am really a sunshine-aholic, I do actually like rainy days sometimes -- certain kinds of rainy days and certain things about it. I love spring and summer showers, when the air is warm, and the rain falls softly. I love when the sky gets a certain greyness to it when it's raining; when I had my first apartment, I used to leave the front door open, so I could look at the sky and watch the rain falling through my screen door. It really does evoke such a peaceful feeling for me. I love the smell of rain (I guess, it's more the freshness of the earth that I'm smelling, right?) I love the coziness that a rainy day brings; it's great to curl up in an armchair with my cat and a cup of homemade soup in hand, reading a good book. I love summer thunderstorms when the lightening streaks across the sky, the thunder booms ominously and the rain comes down in hard lines. I love the sounds of the rain drumming rhythmically on a rooftop -- my parents used to have this corrugated plastic roof over our back porch and the sound of the rain pelting down on it was just so hypnotic, reassuring and soothing all at once. I like having sex when it rains and curling up afterwards, watching the water form rivulets down the window panes.

Almost two years ago, a friend and colleague committed suicide. The morning that the terrible news was delivered to me. was a beautiful sunny fall one; the sort when the sky is clear blue and the air feels crisp. I remember sitting on sun-warmed concrete steps outside a neighbouring office in utter shock for what seemed like an eternity.

Later that night, I went out to meet some good friends who felt that I shouldn't be alone. By that point, the perfect autumn weather had come to an end, and the skies had opened up and delivered the most massive rainfall we'd had in months. While I drove to my meeting place, I had my windshield wipers on completely, and I tried to focus on the combined sounds of the rain hitting my windows at full force and the wipers squeaking as they cleared the water, rather than on my own thoughts.

The rain continued all that night. It was as though the world was joining me in my gigantic tear fest, wailing its grief alongside mine. I was strangely grateful that Mother Nature had sent along such a big storm to drown out the sound of my crying.

The next morning which was the day of M's funeral, the sky was overcast and grey, reflecting the general sombre moods of all the funeral goers. As we drove away from the service, it began to gently rain. I couldn't help but think back to my childhood when I thought that one could request certain kinds of weather. Surely, someone had ordered this -- it was completely synchronous with my emotions. If anyone had asked me how I was feeling at the time, I would have had to simply point to the window.

It took me a little over a month to screw up the courage to return to my office after M's death, and even then, I stopped going with the same frequency as I had been up until that point. In the almost two years since his death, I've probably stepped foot in there a little over a dozen times only. I think after M died, I stopped wanting to be an agent. Not that I'd ever been wildly passionate about it, but I'd lost my taste for hunting down new business and the ensuing satisfaction of a job well done.

This morning, I woke up, took one look at the sky and felt inexplicably blue. I slept-walked through my usual morning tasks (breakfast, packing lunches, dropping off the kids, etc.) and then surveyed my very long to-do list, wondering what to tackle first. Should I get domestic stuff done (there was a ton), or work-related items? My phone rang as I was still mentally debating; it was a good friend of mine (he always seems to call me at these kind of key moments) to tell me that he had a free hour or so, and asked if I would like to meet up with him. We always have a blast together, so I gave my list a guilty look before I stuffed it under some papers on my desk.

At some point during our meeting, I burst into tears quite unexpectedly (again, not PMS induced). My friend quietly hugged me as I blubbered, sobbed and snorked on his shoulder. After the crying storm had passed, I realised M. had been on my mind these past few days. Today's weather just brought back all the memories of the one rainfall that wasn't accompanied by my usual delight.

Missing you M.

Set Theory

Remember that line from My Big Fat Greek Wedding? The father tells his daughter that there are two kinds of people in this world -- "Those that are Greek, and those that want to be Greek". I have been thinking about everybody's sorting rules. We are by nature, programmed to compartmentalise events, places, numbers, objects, etc. to help us process and comprehend the vast amounts of stimuli to which we are subjected. It seems obvious that we have extrapolated our chunking rules over into the people domain.

Think about it ... often people tend to oversimplify and divide the world up into several categories. Here are a few that I've noticed amongst some of the people in my life:

My husband -- athletically coordinated people and spastics
My parents -- professionals and bums
My brother -- people that agree with him and people who are just plain stupid
My mother-in-law -- either one of two ways: Polish and everyone else or, God fearing creatures and heathens (come to think of it, in her book I think they're one and the same thing)
My youngest son -- those who think he is cute and those who don't and are therefore crazy
My neighbours -- Jewish and anti-Semites
A male friend of mine who shall remain nameless -- those that give head and those that don't
Another male friend who is single and desperately dating -- hot, good-looking and doable vs. frumps
Me -- I tend to perform a couple of different rules simultaneously -- those with a joie de vivre and those who are uptight, bookworms and illiterates, secure and insecure

Wow, and I thought I was more complex a person than that ...

All I Need to Know, I Learned Through Blood, Sweat and Tears

Some little nuggets ...

1. When contemplating bearing a man's children, take a moment to measure the size of his head (the one between his shoulders). Also find out what his birth weight was (anything over eight pounds is cause for concern).

2. When contemplating marrying a man (or moving in with him), consider it prudent to pose the following simple questions:

Are you an orphan? (right answer: yes -- proceed to altar)

But if no, then:
Do your parents live far away? (score extra points if their hometown is 1,000 miles away or more)

If no to that, then:
Would you consider your parents to be meddling, controlling people with a keen ability to pull the manipulative guilt card? (N.B. nervous hesitation before answering in the negative should be considered a "yes")

If the above was answered in the affirmative, then:
Can we move a gazillion miles away from your parents?

If no, then "See you Charlie" is often a good line to use. Most effective when the melody Hit the Road Jack is heard in the background.

3. When faced with someone who has got their knickers in a knot over something you've supposedly done, smile serenely throughout and then hit them with "Oh, I'm sorry. My ears just unplugged. What was that you were just saying?" A great way to send them completely over the edge and also an excellent way to get your jollies on those boring rainy days. (N.B. Don't try this if you don't have fast reflexes).

4. If you want to score a seat on a crowded bus or subway, cough, sneeze and make general snuffly noises following by wiping your hand under your nose as you hover over someone. Then feign losing your balance due to jolting of bus so that germy hand comes dangerously close to seated person's jacket and face. Keep edging closer as you continue to hack and blow nose between your fingers. If you do it properly, you can often gain a couple of seats -- more room to spread out and rest your knapsack or purse comfortably.

5. If you've been unlucky enough to answer the phone and find a consumer surveyor or telemarketer on the other end, let them begin their monotonous spiel and then start counting aloud in non-sequential order throughout (five, eighteen, one thousand, two, three, one hundred and one, etc.) After each question, say "I'm sorry? I missed that ..." When they begin again, interrupt them and ask them an inane question (eg. How's the weather your way? Your health good?) It may take a little bit longer to torture them than it would to just hang up on them (which would be just so rude), or answer their questions (which would be just so boring), but it's a lot more fun. Also, I think eventually the word spreads about you because I haven't had a phone call in ages now. (Have to find another form of entertainment ...)

6. If hosting a gathering where you end up with an uninvited straggler (more than thirty minutes minutes after the last person has left is considered rude, I think), put some bad porn on the TV, undo the top button of your pants, put your feet up on the coffeetable while you announce loudly how wonderful that everyone has left because you can now relax and let go since you've had a wicked case of gas and the trots all night long. Then say "I feel so comfortable with you" while you feign preparations for a giant session of flatulence. (NB. Be a good hostess and open the front door for them as they rush out into the night. Remember good manners are so important).

7. Consider using baking soda for all your household cleaning needs. (Okay, so I felt I should put something in there that was quasi useful on a day-to-day basis).

8. Smile and have fun even if it's sometimes at others' expense (NB. I am not advocating cruelty to others -- just general shit disturbing)

Thank You Dah-ling

Today, quite by chance, I met up with someone whom I absolutely adore. He used to work at the salon-spa owned by a mutual friend until about four or five months ago. I haven't seen him since he left, and miss him desperately. He was just about the world's bitchiest and best girlfriend -- we spent hours sitting together, privately cutting the spa clientele up and giggling over our catty comments. How on earth could I fail to love this man? He would paint each of his fingernails a different colour and then wiggle them in front of me so that I could select the colour that best suited me. That and the fact that to date, he is the only person who has told me me that I simply must get myself a pair of Manolo Blahniks or Christian Louboutin (actually, I think he used the words "you absolutely need them"). Oh and he used to drool appreciatively over some of my sexier shoes. Who could ask for anything more?

Here was the one and only compliment I received today:

Fab friend: You look good. You've lost some weight, haven't you? (which made me think "Did you think I needed to?)

Seeing me shake my head as he spoke, he went on without missing a beat,

Fab Friend: Oh ... well then you must have been working out lately?

Again, more head shaking

Fab Friend: Oh ... well uh ... you're um ... very tanned, aren't you? That's it, isn't it?

It's Not Always Hormonal

One of the things most women, myself included, hate to hear is someone ask "Is it that time of the month again, dear?" or some such variation thereof, which essentially translates to "You're a psychotic bitch today, aren't you?"

A couple of people emailed me with regards to my last entry. I guess it was somewhat more bitter than my standard fare of bitchiness, but it didn't stem from a massive influx of female hormones.

I hate how people so often dismiss a woman's feelings by chalking it up to PMS. Yes, for sure, our hormones do wreak havoc with our emotions. I can definitely attest to that. During parts of my pregnancies and in the post-partum months, I was definitely a bit of a mess and somewhat irrational at times. It wasn't a pretty sight. What bugged me the most though was when I was upset and venting about something that really bothered me, certain people (my husband included) would pat my hand and say "There, there. It's just your hormones". If ever I wanted to rip someone's face off, it was then. Because I felt as though I was being told that what I was experiencing emotionally wasn't reality based. And sure, maybe I was over-reacting to something, but hormonally driven passion or not, doesn't mitigate the fact that I was obviously bothered by something. What apparently seldom, if ever, occurs to most people is that maybe we women are just masters at keeping our negative emotions in check, so that even though we may get ticked off, we are socialised to repress it rather than express it. And that maybe when we are having one of our "lady moments" (as one of those stupid men I was venting about likes to call them), we are not overreacting, but are simply low on our unnatural and usual ability to hold back.

Men with Big Heads

I clearly have a long way to go on the maturity spectrum.

Some people really get under my skin and I have to stop myself from trying to just slap them down. I'm thinking in particular, of the egotistical, self-assured males who speak in patronising and know-it-all tones. The males who are actually, not that bright, but in true ignorance-is-bliss fashion, fancy themselves as being more brilliant than a one-carat zircon Home Shopping Network ring.

Instead of just wanting to walk away with the satisfaction that I am a better person than they are (my mother's voice in my head again), I find myself tempted to linger and lure them into a conversation so I can just take them down a peg or two. Perverse and silly, no? Yes, I know.

I don't actually know why it is that men like this get my goat. And it is the men, not the women, who bug me. Some Freudian meaning there?

For the most part, in life, I'm happy to just go my own way and let others do and be whatever pleases them. In the case of these irritatingly smug and stupid men, I find myself wanting to prove to them just how dumb they really are. Of course, this will never be the case because my experience has been that truly stupid people are somehow secure in their delusions that they are the sharpest tack in the box. And why suddenly, do I have this sadistic desire to make them feel less than best about themselves?

Frosh Week Revisited

Nostalgia is in the air this week.

Last weekend, I took C., my step-daughter to university to get her settled in for her first year. As we drove into the campus, the energy there was palpable and exciting. The music was blaring, the orientation leaders were handing out t-shirts and getting everyone to cheer. It was hard not to respond to the youthful atmosphere. I couldn't help but reflect back to my own frosh orientation week so many years ago (can't believe it's been that long). What a wonderfully exciting week that had been (and alcohol filled).

Later this week, I ended up on campus at U of T (my alma mater) to take part in a study. I was in a building right across the street from my old residence. It was somewhat weird to be walking down St. George amidst all the young undergrads with my youngest child in tow. I showed my son where I used to live (pointed out my old room window from street level) and he found it fascinating that I'd had a life before him. Truly, it is hard for me to imagine as well.

It's funny when you take into account all the experiences one has had throughout one's life. Every twist and turn in the path contributes to the end result, until it becomes impossible to untangle the events and assign blame or credit to each happening. It's why I have learned to just sit back and experience it all, rather than regret some things that have happened to me in the past.

All It Takes is One Rotten Apple

I've changed my settings and made it so only bloggers can post, because I've suddenly been the victim of comment spam. There's only some many times I can read about Viagra and car advertisements before I start getting ticked off. For those of you who have posted comments anonymously, I do apologise, but then again, this is exactly how I became a blogger!

Good Girls Don't

I watched Sex: The Annabel Chong Story the other day. For those who aren't familiar with this particular documentary, Annabel Chong was the first person to participate in the world's biggest gang bang (251 men in 10 hours which although it seems like a lot has since been topped several times over; the current record is now 620 -- I'd like to know exactly which organisation keeps track of these things??).

For whatever reason, I was simultaneously fascinated and horrified by Annabel Chong's accomplishments. Fascinated, I think, because she is a surprisingly intelligent, erudite and educated woman who elected to enter into the world of pornography to challenge the boundaries of society's perceptions of female sexuality. Or so she says. The documentary does make room for the fact that she might just be a fucked up individual who was raised in a sexually conservative and constricting society (Singapore), later the victim of a gang rape at the age of 21, and at the time of her sexual conquests, simply a lost girl looking for shock value and the ensuing attention.

Being Asian, and having been raised in what can only be called a sexually repressed or stifling household, I empathised with Annabel for her position. It was heart wrenching to watch the scenes of the documentary involving her mother, who at the outset of the film had no idea as to her daughter's activites overseas, and spoke proudly of her childhood accomplishments. I kept remembering how hard it had been for my parents to have to face and accept the fact that I wasn't going to be a virgin on my wedding night. I couldn't help but think what Annabel's mom must have felt when her daughter revealed what she had been up to in the good ole U.S. of A. Because of course, Asian girls simply don't have sex with anyone before marriage, and certainly not 251 men within a ten hour span.

I thought of a discussion I had recently with an old university friend over lunch. We didn't actually arrange to meet for lunch, but then it turned into a three hour affair, so we willingly worked food (and lovely luscious desserts) into our time together.

Anyway, our conversation turned at some point to sex, chiefly because we were discussing our big brothers who screwed us up with their twisted version of Sex Ed 101 and our parents, all of whom are similarly uptight and repressed about sex and sexuality. Interestingly enough, both she and I have much the same views on different aspects of sex which leads me to believe that we are either both morally bankrupt, or completely comfortable with our own sexuality and therefore totally together people. Of course, I prefer the latter explanation.

Essentially, she and I agreed that while we might not necessarily partake in certain acts, neither did we pass judgement on those who did. We both felt that anything that happened between two (or more) consenting adults was A-okay so long as it didn't involve children or animals. Pleasure is in the eye of the beholder, and far be it for us to impose our values and views upon others.

What I admired about Annabel Chong a.k.a Grace Quek, was the fact that she claimed to have chosen porn as a profession, rather than having been forced into it for lack of alternatives. In the documentary, colleagues described her as being a chick clearly into having sex without having to go through the whole arduous dating process. The question of course, was whether in fact this was an apt portrayal. Did she really exercise freewill in becoming a porn star, or was her judgement coloured by other factors? While I can't see myself participating in a gang bang of such gargantuan proportions (in terms of numbers and 'equipment'), if that was what turned her on, then who am I to pass judgement upon her?

One thing I've never grasped is that whole double standard with regards to sex. Both my friend and I were raised by parents who advocated a strict no-sex rule with regards to their daughters. (In my case, it was even stricter as my parents didn't want to go anywhere close to the slippery slope, so no-sex extended to anything that might lead to sex -- kissing, dating, touch dancing, talking on the phone, etc.) But our parents' sons could go out and conquer to their hearts' content, and were even at some level, encouraged to do so. As my step-daughter so eloquently puts it ... WTF??! If good girls don't and only big sluts do, then who exactly are your sons sleeping with? I mean, does it bring you pride to know that your boy is screwing around with a total tart?

During the sex talk luncheon, one the things that my friend bemoaned wqs her mother's stock line: "Why buy the cow if you can have the milk for free?" It completely infuriated both of us. While my mother didn't put it in those exact terms, those were her sentiments to a T. We both took it as an implication that our intrinsic value was measured solely in terms of our physical purity and intactedness. Any action that might bring about a reduction in that state was therefore deemed inappropriate. A man couldn't possibly be interested because he was face-to-face with a fascinating, intelligent person, but because he was trying to be the first to break the barrier, so to speak. According to our mothers, the only surefire way to get a man to marry you was to hold out. Your virginity was considered to be leverage to that end.

The interesting thing I discovered later in life is that my parents must have thought about sex an awful lot while they led what appeared to be completely moral lives. However, the human psyche being what it is, repression seldom works. Think of the priests -- their monogamous relationship is with God and therefore there are no allowances made for sexual contact with others. Unfortunately if you stifle that part of yourself, it does ooze out in other ways, and probably more inappropriately so.

Whenever I think about my parents' perspective on sex and sexuality, I always think about the Victorians. I mean, there was an era filled with intensely sexually curious people, who simultaneously declared the act to be evil and sick, while longing to explore all the forbidden acts. Quite clearly, they thought of sex all the time (and reviled themselves for doing so) -- I mean, who has covers specifically designed for piano legs because they believe that a mere glance at them could cause sexual frenzy? Who looks at furniture legs and gets sexually excited? Only those that are perpetually horny and in utter denial of their state.

Unfortunately, my parents had no experience with their own sexuality and therefore, a lot of unanswered questions and a burning curiosity. (They had some interesting literature stashed away). Consequently anything that had a remote connection to sex and one's sexual organs was taboo and deemed "dirty". They came from a culture and a generation that didn't encourage any kind of openness with regards to sexuality. So to them, I guess I am somewhat of an Annabel Chong.

I remember my mom asking me with horror what I was planning to do when I finally met my future husband. Was I going to pretend I was a virgin? It would have been quite funny except for the fact that she was dead serious. In her mind, I'd ruined my chances of snagging a good husband because of my sexual misconduct. So naturally years later, when I announced that I was in love and that the man I was going to marry was older, divorced and had a child (all considered to be negative traits for my mom), it only reinforced her belief that my drastically reduced market value had left me with only the undesirables, the slim pickings. It never once occurred to her that a man might actually like a woman who was experienced and comfortable with expressing herself sexually.

I would love to one day relate to my mom a story that another friend had shared with me recently. This particular friend is in a profession somewhat related to counselling. His speciality deals with people who are in the midst of or on the verge of divorce. After having given a speech somewhere, he was approached by a woman who intimated that she might like to retain his services.

Over coffee, she confided the details of her life to him. Apparently, she'd married a man who had been throughout elementary and high school years, the nerd of all nerds. Possibly as a consequence of having spent his formative years ill-treated by others, he could only get aroused if his wife would first beat him with a leather belt. Although the wife was somewhat shocked by this requirement, she participated as the dominant sadist because she loved her husband and wanted to please him. Unfortunately, hubby had to raise the ante to achieve his Nirvana (desensitization is such a bitch) and found that he got turned on by beating wifey before the loving act. While wifey had been a reluctant participant in the former act of S and M, she was not too keen on being the recipient of the strap. At this juncture in the story, I had to interrupt my friend with a diatribe advocating pre-marital sex, if only to determine whether your drives, needs and predilections are compatible.

I hope that the attitudes I pass on to my children with regards to their bodies, sex and sexuality are healthy ones. My husband always says that I'm the liberal one in the family because I don't care if my kids are hetero, gay, trans-sexuals, transvestites or any combination thereof so long as they are capable of having healthy and loving relationships with people, and are happy with the choices they make.


As I get older, I find myself consistently amazed by the amount of time that people devote universally through the ages to sex, the pursuit of sex, or just plain thinking and talking about sex. Why is that?

Granted, sex sells. We've all had that drummed into us from time immemorial, but is it a biological drive, or is it just sensationalistic crap?
Seriously though, it is amazing how much time and energy is invested into thinking about sex. More time thinking about it than actually carrying out the deed itself. It seems that if one isn't actually doing the nasty, than they're either in pursuit of it or just plain thinking about it. My take on it is that people should just get it over with so that they can then just get on with the rest of their lives.

But then again, I am a scientist's daughter -- I believe in going to the lab and testing out one's hypotheses. Ironic that my parents instilled that belief in me. I'm sure they'd be shocked to know the ways in which I applied it!

Taking Back the House

First day of school for my kids today, first day of no domestic help for me.

I reluctantly hired a nanny about two years ago when my husband started pleading with me to get extra help. At the time I was working part-time, driving my kids to and from school and all of their extra-curricular activities, doing two loads of laundry a day every day, constantly ironing (that damn pile never shrunk), cooking all meals, keeping up with my volunteer activities at my kids' school and with a non-profit organisation that I've been involved with for years, and trying to help out my husband with all of his stuff. I also refused to let go of my social life since that is what helped keep me balanced, so somehow managed to squeeze in time with friends, book club, etc. At the end of the day, I was pretty much exhausted and bitchy. Hence the reason why my husband suggested we get some help.

For awhile, it was good having an extra pair of hands around. It meant that I could spend more time with my kids, rather than having to constantly ask them to wait while I folded laundry, or made dinner. It also meant that I didn't have to constantly rudely rouse the baby from his nap in order to go and pick up his siblings from school. Most importantly, it meant that I could sometimes have time to myself to grocery shop or just go for a walk if I wanted to.

Unfortunately, the nanny, although a very nice person, quickly got on our nerves to some extent. It wasn't deliberate, but it's something of a cultural thing. She's from the Philippines and has this whole passive-aggressive thing going on that I've seen in so many of her countrymen (I hate to stereotype ...), and this weird mistrust of anyone, despite the fact that we bent over backwards to do everything and anything for her. It started to drive me nuts that I had to give specific instructions each and every time; she wasn't able to generalise and extrapolate when necessary. After awhile, we also realised that she was singlehandedly responsible for making us even more disorganised than we'd been before she began working for us.

When I used to work for others, I always tried my hardest to never slack off. I also tried to take initiative whenever possible, and didn't assume that because I did so entitled me to special privileges. It bothers me to see people who start taking advantage of their employers' goodness. I'm not one to nickel and dime and make anyone punch in and out, so I always paid generously and erred on the nanny's side. Suddenly, she started taking liberties and would leave hours early without asking or telling me, when she thought I wouldn't be around to notice. She started using our telephone to call her family long distance without asking permission, or advising us. The thing that most bothered me about the telephone calls wasn't the money, but more the fact that I noticed that she made these phone calls when I wasn't around, and she was supposed to be looking after my kids. There were countless other things that irritated me, all of them probably fairly small things, but when taken together really did add up.

It got to the point where we started really looking forward to her last day. When she left last Friday which was officially her final day under our employ, my husband was ecstatic; when I cooked dinner that night and he was able to enjoy it (she had this annoying habit of cleaning up almost as soon as the dinner was made, which meant that he often didn't have any food waiting for him when he got home), he turned to me and said how much he had missed my cooking. This, despite the fact that I'd been cooking the entire two years of her employ!

On the weekend, I did the laundry for the first time in ages, and it felt so damn good. Don't get me wrong ... I don't really like laundry (in fact I hate it), but there was a certain happiness in reclaiming my territorym re-establishing my routine and doing things my way.

I know I'll miss certain things that she did to make our lives easier, and I'll certainly long for the on-call babysitting services that we were able to enjoy whenever we wanted to go out at night, but I feel as though there is a certain order restored to my life that has been missing these past couple of years.

Girls Night Out

My Friday night out on the town with my fellow Montrealers:

First off, a little background on one of the woman ... J and I have been friends since we were ten years old in the fifth grade. The history we share is fairly astounding in its sheer volume. We've bonded through all the rituals of growing up -- first kisses, first time getting drunk, first time puking from getting drunk, first time smoking pot together, first time going out to a nightclub together (at the tender age of fourteen), first time having sex ... the list is endless. We were co-conspirators in our lies to parents and teachers alike, we logged in many hours of being generally goofy and silly, we've gone on countless shopping expeditions and swapped clothing, we've gone to rock concerts together (after lining up for hours to buy the tickets) and screamed ourselves silly, we've passed each other endless notes during class and in the school hallway, we've spent half a dozen summers at the neighbourhood pool trying to catch glimpses of our respective crushes in their half-naked glory. We cut classes together, we helped each other put on makeup and select appropriate clothing, we've got albums full of silly pictures we've taken of each other. We've gone biking, swimming and skiing together year after year. We've taken dance and exercise classes together and joined our first gym together. We were friends for long enough to be able to communicate just by giving each other certain looks.

In keeping with our past, J. proposed that we go downtown and party like we used to when we were teenagers. (Since Montreal's age of majority is eighteen, and the general atmosphere there is far more relaxed -- i.e. no carding -- we used to go clubbing every weekend during grades 10 and 11 -- our last two years of highschool). Of course, downtown Toronto pales by and far in comparison to that of Montreal, but we knew we could have a good time anywhere.

We had dinner at a bar/restaurant which turned out to be quite the meat market. Shortly after we sat down and ordered our food, a waitress showed up bearing a chocolate martini and a man's business card, both of which she placed in front of me and proceeded to sing the praises of the "gentleman" who'd sent them over with his compliments (he was sitting somewhere out of view so we weren't able to check him out). Later, the guy came over and introduced himself. Well, actually, he was quite forward so it was hardly your conventional introduction. He was very cocksure of himself and even went so far as to suggest sex on the tabletop or bar.

Herein lies my constant dilemma. Having always struggled with self-identity, I've thought long and hard about how I should be describing myself to others. Don't forget I've grown up in the shadow of being Dr. E's daughter through many of my formative years, or D's little sister. So I've had to take a good hard look at myself and figure out who I am quite apart from these distinctions. When I used to co-lead a support group, I always found it interesting how people often described themselves in peripheral terms of age, partner, family, profession, etc. To simply tell someone your name and allow that person to draw conclusions about yourself based on what he can see and feel, apparently, is considered unconventional and perhaps unacceptable. I've never been one to say "Hi. My name is C and I'm so-and-so's friend, girlfriend, wife, etc.". Generally, I just say "Hi. I'm C". I figure that if someone wants to, they can ask questions about what is important to them. Usually, they're the conventional questions like "How old are you? What do you do for a living? Where do you live? Where are you from?" I've never been approached with "What's your favourite book? What kind of music do you like to listen to? What are your feelings on religion, politics, poverty, world peace, feminism, etc.?" But I suppose we all have our own sorting rules.

In any event, I've always wondered if when approached by a member of the opposite sex, I should immediately announce my marital status. I've always considered it rude, presumptious and conceited on my part to assume that a man was speaking to me because he was only romantically (or sexually) interested. I've been told that I am naive and stupid, or worse, a tease. But since I have a large number of long-term male friends with whom I haven't exchanged anything more than a chaste kiss on the cheek (of our faces), I can't help thinking they're wrong.

So the question is, at what point should I be telling someone I'm not on the market? In this particular case, the subject came up quick on the heels of the man's introduction/proposition (he wanted a good three hours with me, during which time he claimed he would take my breath away). However, the fact that I was married with three kids and very obviously quite a bit older than him didn't seem to be much of a deterrent. I guess nothing matters horizontally and with the lights out ...

After dinner, we proceeded to a club which had a very long line-up outside. Now, when J. and I were sixteen and at the height of our clubbing days, we actually had courtesy cards for a number of the popular nightclubs. I knew most of the code names for the doormen and bartenders at some of the hottest clubs. Therefore, we never waited in line to get into a club, because of course, only losers stand shivering out in the cold for long periods of time. So queuing up now that we were older, wiser and didn't need to stuff our bra to emulate cleavage was definitely not an option. We sent in G., our tall, slim, blonde and gorgeous friend to oil our way into the door without having to grease the palms of the bouncer (the unspoken rule being that if you have to pay to get in, then you're just as much, if not more of a loser as those in line). Two minutes later, we entered into the packed club with the music pulsing at an ear splitting level.

It was very remniscent in some ways of our younger days. We danced for hours, took turns buying rounds and just tried to keep the wolves at bay. At times I felt as though we were extras from the movie A Night at the Roxbury, because the general M.O. of the guys present, after having scoped out a girl they thought might be interesting, appeared to be to stand close by on the dance floor and basically bump and rub their body repeatedly against hers, occasionally putting their hands on her various body parts as though to steady themselves.

One guy spiced his bump and grind routine up with inane comments like "You're a really good dancer" shouted into my ear. He then pulled me aside and suggested that we go out for a drink sometime, and by the way my name is Joe Schmuck, what's yours? Does this routine ever work?

Then before I'd even had a chance to respond, he pulled out his cell phone from his pocket, flipped it open and stood there waiting for me to furnish him with my number. After several unsuccessful attempts to get rid of him (clearly, he had different criteria for dating -- the girl's disinterest not being one of them), I finally said that I didn't give out my number because I'd too many run-ins with psychopaths and while he seemed like a genuinely wonderful person, one just never knew. He assured me that he wasn't a whackjob, that he would only call once, leave a voice mail and wouldn't harass me if I chose not to call him back. Interesting logic -- the fact that I'm not interested in going out with you now isn't enough to stop you from persistently asking for my number, but after I've given you said number, I can then decline to go out with you. It seemed mighty inefficient to me personally; why wait to tell you to go screw yourself when I could do so on the spot? Apparently, he thought I was being witty and commented that I had a great sense of humour.

In the end, I got rid of him by entering his number into my cellphone. I felt mildly guilty doing this because I knew I had no intention of ever calling him and I hate being anything less than forthright and honest. But then again, he was really interfering with my enjoyment level and wouldn't take a hint, so I figured my bad behaviour was somewhat provoked. (Much later when I went to delete his number, I discovered that I must have pressed the wrong buttons or something because he never even made it into my phone book).

It's funny because the general assumption is that everyone at bars and clubs is there solely to meet someone. The concept of a group of women out just to have a few drinks and dance to some really great music in a place that had ambience and atmosphere was inconceivable. At one point, I idly scanned the room and observed all the twenty-something chicks. It was clear that their every action and article of clothing was designed to try and capture a man's attention. I vaguely remembered going out with friends many years ago with the chief goal being an opportunity to flirt with cute guys. I think I was never able to relax and enjoy myself fully because I was always aware of the image I was trying to project to the room at large (fairly unsuccessfully, too, I might add). I wouldn't give anything to go back to those times (although, having the figure and energy of my former twenty-something self might be nice).

All in all we had a blast. Even running into my niece and her friends didn't bother me. I took it as an opportunity to bond with her and bought a round of drinks. Made a mental note though to go to a different club next time so she wouldn't be able to gather any blackmail material.

Square Pegs in Round Holes?

At what point is it time to start acting one's age?

Last night I went out for dinner and drinks with a few friends from Montreal. I'll post an entry next detailing all the events of the night, but for now I just want to cut to the chase.

We ended up at a club which I've discovered is my nineteen year old niece's favourite hangout. How do I know this little fact? While dancing wildly away with my friends, I looked over at the group of girls standing next to me and realised that one of them looked all too familiar. The expression on her face when she realised the slightly inebriated lady next to her was in fact her aunt, was priceless.

I couldn't help but wonder if some of the guys that had hit on my friends and I were classmates of hers. Shades of Mrs. Robinson?

The whole thing reminded me of a comment a university friend once made about a group of alumni that frequented the student pubs. He scathingly referred to them as "losers" because they continued to hang out at their undergrad pub almost a decade post-graduation. Having dated one of them, I'll admit that although they were certainly a bright and talented group, they seemed not to have been unable to move on from their university undergrad days.

I often joke around about being in the throes of mid-life crisis, but the truth of the matter is that I don't even consider myself as being remotely middle-aged. The words "mid-life crisis" always bring to mind a forty something man with a paunch, dressed in some ill-fitting suit and white shoes (don't ask me why ... I don't know) and driving a convertible sports car. Mid-life crisis suggests to me one who is trying to get back to his or her youth after having put in years of sensible adult responsibility. I therefore assumed that I'm not really a victim of mid-life crisis because I've pretty much carried on in the same vein as I have for years now. I don't ever think of myself as behaving in a manner that befits my age. But then again, I've gotten married and had three kids. I've purchased a home, cars, pets. All the hallmarks of adulthood. And last night, found myself in the midst of a much younger crowd without any recognition that I didn't belong there. Should I be worried?

I'm Back

God, I feel loved!

I've been off blogging for awhile now mainly because I've been busy enjoying the last days of summer (donning my white pants almost daily since I have less than a week before they have to be retired until next June). Actually I'm in somewhat of denial mode that it will all come to a crashing halt soon and that I will be immersed in the never-ending frenetic routine that is imposed upon me by work, school and my kids' extra-curricular activities. Ugh.

Anyway, getting off that tangent ... I received a couple of emails, MSN messages and phone calls from friends wondering if everything was okay in my life because they've noticed that I haven't posted in awhile. Their concern for me was touching. I was also reassured by the fact that if I died unexpectedly while my husband and children were away, someone would send the police over (hopefully before the awful stench set in) just based on the inactivity level of my blog. Good to know that blogging is good for something other than just an outlet for my venting.

Thanks everyone for caring! Love you all!

Carpal Tunnel Syndrome ... Here I Come!

Way too tired to post a coherent entry today.

My step-daughter has been violently ill for a week now and I've been playing nursemaid twenty-four/seven. Last night, I massaged her head and feet for two-and-a-half hours straight, while she whimpered feverishly. Poor kid. I felt completely useless and just offered cold compresses, cold water and Tylenol periodically.

I don't know how parents of terminally ill patients cope. Seven days has been more than enough for me.

This Feel Good Moment Was Brought to You by the Makers of Absolut Vodka

I do some of my best thinking when I am driving, something about not having to focus on external stimuli other than road signs and traffic lights.

Today, while driving to and from my cottage, I was reflecting on my life in general. I realise I spend a lot of time on my blog engaging in idle complaints and amusing bitching, but the truth of the matter is that it's really all in the name of good fun; I've never been happier and more at peace than I am now.

It's funny. I'm not particularly ambitious anymore, or at least not in the way I was during my twenties when I felt I had to prove myself to the world at large. Oh sure, there are things I may want to tackle career-wise at some point in my future since I'm not passionate about the profession I'm currently in, but I'm okay to just let things cook awhile before I go full tilt towards anything.

It's been suggested by some that I am yearning for my youth. I guess, the small slice of myself that I've presented here on my blog certainly seems like evidence in favour of that opinion. The truth of the matter is that I wouldn't trade where I am right now for anything. Sure, I'm middle-aged and look it, but with that comes the security and confidence of not caring anymore. When I was younger, I spent a lot of time feeling tense about so many unresolved issues, and worse, lacking the awareness that I had any unresolved issues.

Growing up, my parents always had this thing about not being content with oneself, because in their opinion, once you were satisfied with something, you stopped trying. Therefore, there was no shortage of criticism, and an absolute drought in the way of compliments. I don't think that's necessarily true, based in part on my experiences as a parent, and largely upon my own personal life. I realise that I've travelled a fair bit on my own path to self-development, but that there is still a long way to go. Having gotten as far as I have has only whetted my appetite to keep going.

It took me so long to try and find my place in the world, and now having found it (okay, not professionally though) has brought me such peace of mind and (I hesitate to even use this word) joy.

I realised yet again today on my drive home that happiness has nothing to do with the external circumstances (unless of course, you're in life-threatening or extreme situations eg. starving to death, war, etc.). I'm not happy because I may live in a nice house or drive a big ass truck or any of those other frivolous, materialistic and completely irrelevant facts. The happiness comes from somewhere or something that has little to do with what your living situation may be and more to do with a sense of self.

Having spent more than half of my life struggling with issues of what my self was and where my place in the world was, I've had many moments of feeling deeply unhappy, despite any of the positive external factors in my life.

It's deeply liberating to me now to come to the realisation that so long as I'm alive and own little nuclear family is okay, nothing else really matters.

So just for today, I'm going to be corny and grateful to whatever powers that be that let me find my way to where I am now. Tomorrow, I'll go back to being my usual bitchy self on my blog!

Does Anyone Remember Good Old Rover?

I'd like to throw my children's Tamagotchis out the window.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with what I am talking about -- they are these little computerised toys, that first emerged on the market about ten years ago, and are now experiencing a resurgence in popularity. Essentially, it is is a virtual pet. You start off with an egg that hatches and then nurture it through three other stages of life. The goal is to keep it happy and healthy for as long as possible by feeding it, praising it, playing with it and cleaning up its poop. Through connecting wirelessly with other Tamagotchi owners, you can if you're lucky, raise a second generation Tamagotchi, which apparently is the desired goal..

In any event, my daughter was given a Tamagotchi as a birthday present by one of her friends. She was at first indifferent to it, but then met someone at day camp this summer who had one and explained the joys of owning one. Upon her return from camp that particular afternoon, she unearthed hers from the toybox where she'd carelessly discarded it and the two have been inseparable ever since.

So as a parent, I should probably be behind this kind of a toy because in a way, I guess it's like that old Home Ec assignment of carrying around an egg and treating it like a baby. Ostensibly that assignment is to teach teens how difficult and time consuming having a baby can be, hence making them more responsible sexually, and also appreciative towards their parents for all they've endured. Not sure if that experiment works, but I'm pretty sure that Tamagotchis won't accomplish that goal.

In my daughter however, it has elicited some real highs and lows. The high point was when her egg hatched to become a girl (after an endless string of boy pets). It was quite cute watching her croon with delight, then take off like a shot yelling to her brother "It's a girl! I had a girl!". I felt like I was watching some maternity ward drama.

The lowest point came when her girl died a week later. She cried inconsolably and intensely for about fifteen minutes straight. Now her other male pets had all died, without incident or emotion; she promptly reset the toy and waited for the next egg to hatch. Quite clearly, she'd projected something of herself onto this girl pet of hers and it broke her heart when it didn't make it. After holding her while she cried herself out, I then had to watch her go through the period of guilt and wondering "Did I not feed it enough? Did I feed it too much? What did I do wrong?" It was a terrible sight to behold. And the weird thing is that you actually get swept up into it all. I held her hand and told her that sometimes accidents happen and you don't always understand the logic behind it. My first instinct was to tell her that she could have another girl at a later time, but I held back because I thought how if one of my kids were to die, the last thing I'd want to hear is that I could have another. I told her just about everything under the son except that her pet had gone to a better place. And really, how bizarre and surreal a tableau is that. I mean, the thing is an image borne of a computer chip, for crying out loud!

My eldest son is now lobbying for a Tamagotchi of his own and my daughter is asking if she can have another one as well, so she can increase her chances of having a second generation pet. Moments like these make me think our society is going to hell in a handbasket. Are we really learning how to be properly attached to something if our interactions are limited in such an impersonal and electronic way?

Ambivalence

Okay, so hot on the topic of being passive versus active and agressive, comes the fact that I sometimes think I'm a wishy washy kind of person; slow to make up my own mind, and very willing to go along with others' desires. Not sure if this passivity finds its roots in my childhood (yes, I know ... here we go again, with my whole mantra of "blame the parents").

Even physically, I don't pick a side. I'm quasi-ambidextrous. Ostensibly, I write with my left-hand, but that's only really because I use it more often and am therefore faster. I write very legibly and neat with my right hand, and even do calligraphy right-handed (mainly because as a teen I would 'borrow' my dad's calligraphy set without his consent and didn't want to ruin the nib lest my thievery got discovered). I can bat both ways, catch and throw with both hands with the equal strength and accuracy, play guitar right-handed (probably left as well although I've never tried), and do other things with both hands where most people only do it with their dominant ones (before your dirty minds get carried away, I was thinking of things like wiping down counters, carrying bags, eating, drinking, using knives, etc.)

I often catch myself going along with someone else's plan rather than actively making one of my own. Sometimes, I think it's because I lack the passion and interest that others do, and people around me can sense that their desires are stronger, so they act as the guiding arm. It makes me wonder sometimes if my apparent "easy-goingness" (sic) is just really falsely labelled indecisiveness.

What Breed is Your "Dog"?

Was engaging in some banter with a quasi-friend/acquaintance today regarding some men's delusions of grandeur vis-a-vis their (ahem) equipment.

I recounted a story about how we used to have this Yorkshire terrier aptly named Peppy. Peppy weighed in at a whopping four pounds soaking wet, but suffered from canine schizophrenia or something, because she seemed to think that she was a German Shepherd or Irish Wolfhound or something. She would strut up and down the street and growl ferociously at pit bulls and threaten to take them on, seemingly ignorant of the fact that these dogs could easily make dinner (or a light snack) of her within seconds flat. Talk about having a problem with body image!

So discussions with my friend quickly turned to who might be a Yorkie and who might be a German Shepherd, and all the variations in between. And how disappointing it can be, if a man leads one to believe that he is a German Shepherd, when the real truth is that he should be so lucky as to aspire to be a Yorkie. How exactly can people get so deluded about what they look like?

(I had an unfortunate memory of a man I once knew who lay claim to being of fairly mythic proportions. And then suffered from nerves when it came time to "produce". It became immediately apparent that he was probably half the man that he'd put himself forth to be. It wouldn't have mattered so much to me, but then I couldn't help but wonder what else he'd told me that was an obvious mistruth).

I don't want to be labelled a sizist, and truly it really isn't all about size, (although I think there is a certain minimum requirement). but to start off a relationship with gross misrepresentation is never a good thing. So men please, if you're a Chihuahua or a Yorkie, own up to it.

Sisyphus Was an Idiot

I have such amazing friends. Of course I know this, but then every now and then something happens to remind me once again of how wonderfully lucky I am to be surrounded by the fabulous people that are in my life.

I had this great conversation today with a close friend whom I've known for about ten years. We see each other every couple of months for a lunch or dinner (bonding over food ... what better past-time?) and she always has something amazingly insightful to say. In this case as I was fretting that perhaps I'm a passive person and should be spending more time actively seeking out my next career rather than just sitting around waiting for someone or something to just drop it into my lap like some kind of rich plum, she interrupted me gently and tried to redirect my thinking.

It's funny ... you do get tunnel vision and tend to funnel everything through one way. I've been feeling mildly guilty for a number of reasons. Firstly, I've been enjoying motherhood so much and haven't spent any time towards thinking about me professionally in years. Secondly, now that I'm beginning to feel that there is something else for me out there other than parenting and/or my current career, I haven't spent any time trying to figure it out, let alone pursue it. In other words, I haven't set any goals for myself. And I've always been led to believe that the absence of concrete goals is a bad thing.

My dear friend suggested that being active vs. passive is not necessarily an on or off thing. She also said that I shouldn't feel guilty because I'm just giving time to just being, as opposed to doing. Now, this all sounds really basic I know, but the practice of this theory isn't so easy. I've been programmed to believe that productivity lies in the carrying out of something. My friend dared to suggest that the fact that I like to spend time doing things like crossword puzzles or reading, rather than laundry, doesn't make me lazy. Rather, it means that I'm simply taking time out for myself, and that in and of itself is really important and valuable. Of course, we all know this at some level, but we don't really necessarily see it as vital and make our quiet quality time a priority. When pressed for time, what's the first thing that doesn't make the cut? It's not laundry, or dinner, that's for sure.

What my friend said was that I need to rethink my whole view of passivity/inactivity. That in fact what I am really doing is nurturing myself and that in so doing, the whole career thing will probably fall into place at some point. She went on to suggest that the reason I haven't figured it out is that I'm not ready yet, and that I'm forcing the issue. So that by being what I term 'passive', in some ways would be productive and lead to activity.

Interesting ... and a part of me, I must admit, felt that she was just humouring me like a good friend, instead of shrieking "You're right! You're a lazy ass, so get off your butt and DO something". It made me wonder if I wasn't just seeking out a license from others, an approval or sanctioning of sorts, for me to continue in the manner that I have. See? Some reflexes never go away.

In any event, regardless of whether or not she is just being a supportive friend, rather than a disapproving critic, I am going to try to stop pushing that rock uphill, and just chill out for awhile.

My Dog Ate My Homework a.k.a A Good Workman Always Blames His Tools

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

I hate technology. It's supposedly designed to make your life easier, when it often seems to make it a living hell.

Twice, I was in the middle of composing my next post, and it was going to be mind blowing and brilliant (hey, some of us have sexual fantasies and some of us just have fantasies), when my computer crashed before I was able to either publish or save the damn thing.

But then again, what can I expect? I own what I have been told is a dinosaur, as my computer is (gasp) about seven years old. It's really kind of scary when you think how quickly one's equipment becomes obsolete.

I feel so old when I think that when I was a child, no one had a PC. When I was fourteen, I enrolled in a computer sciences class at school and to write our programs, we had to fill out those little cards with an HB pencil and then feed it into the computer to read. Then when I was fifteen, my dad brought home a PC from work. We were the big shooters on the block because it was probably about three years before they hit the market and most people started shelling out the big bucks to get them.

The funny thing was that I resisted using a computer during university, clinging doggedly to my Smith Corona typewriter. About a year or two post-graduation, I finally broke down and bought a computer and then just turned my back on my faithful typewriter. I've now gone through about six computers since then and am contemplating throwing this one in the dumpster because of its non-performance issues. The other day when I was storing some stuff in my attic, I tripped over my Smith Corona. On a lark, I brought it downstairs with me, dusted it off, removed the cover, inserted a sheet of paper into and turned it on. My baby revved into action right away. After all these years (and sadly, it has been many), the thing still works impeccably.

What ever happened to the old adage "if it ain't broke, don't fix it"?

Blogging about Jogging and Snogging

Read an article in The National Post yesterday about research into the link between jogging and sex. The actual heading of the article was "Running Can Make you a Sex God: A Study". Naturally this piqued my adolescent interest and of course, I read this before tackling the article about King Fahd's successor.

According to the article, "people can not only run their way to a better sex life, but also have sex to become better runners". Apparently, the study conducted applied to males only (of course), although it did go on to speculate that women tend to compete better after orgasm, and hence stand to gain "an athletic advantage" from having sex before jogging. Hmmm ... interesting hypothesis. So to recap: if men are allowed to run on a regular basis, they will be better in the sack, and if women want to keep up with men's jogging pace, they should have sex (or at least mind-blowing orgasms in whichever way they can achieve them). Doesn't this smack of some kind of male-perpetrated conspiracy to try and get more sex and free time to "jog"?

Hey, not that I need convincing of course since I'm part nympho. But after doing laundry, making meals, squiring the heirs to the dynasty hither and thither and then being a sex goddess by night, exactly when am I supposed to find time for jogging?

Professional Venting

So while my friends get to use the internet for exciting things like phone sex enhanced with cyber imagery, I am online completing some stupid continuing education courses to maintain my license. Basically, it's just the industry's way of soaking us for more money ... as if we don't already pay enough for the privilege of being licensed agents. My only saving grace is that thanks to technology, I now don't have to actually go into the classroom anymore to complete these bloody courses. That was a torturous experience because there was always one keener who somehow thought that it was all going to be an enriching educational experience, as opposed to the farce that it is.

I may sound cynical, but if the powers that be in our industry really cared about keeping us current, they would actually change the content of the courses if only ever so slightly. Since I do the online education for both myself and my husband, I have done all of these courses several times overs and despite their falsely advertised name of "RECO Update", they haven't altered within the last four years. This when there have been a number of changes within our industry that need to be addressed.

The thing that ticks me off is that I get to pay for the privilege of repeating a course deemed to be a "requirement". Needless to say, I blasted them on the optional survey. I mean truly, why don't we just cut out the middleman, and I'll just mail the Council my cheque without asking for them to give me a lame ass excuse for taking more of my hard-earned money.

I hate people who can't just come out and be up front. I'd have no problems if the government and regulating boards would just say "We need more money. We are bumping up your member's fee 25%", rather than saying "Oh we feel that the members need to be better educated and informed so as to protect the community at large, so you need to spend an extra $500.00 or more on courses before we reissue you your license". Yeah, right ... that's why they make it so easy to 're-educate' yourself by offering courses online that can be taken by anyone masquerading as the member.

God, I have to find a new career!

P.S. In case there's any doubt in any one's mind, I am PMSing. Make a note of the date in your calendar, make the appropriate calculations and then stay clear of me each month at the the same time.

The Inherent Problem with the Itty Bitty Bikini

Someone please explain to me the evolutionary purpose of pubic hair??!!

(Okay, I know ... this is hardly esoteric and deep material, although what the hell make anyone think they could expect that kind of stuff here??!!)

Seriously, what exactly is the point of hair in the nether regions? It's obviously not for warmth, otherwise we'd have been born with it. Is it supposed to be like raising a red flag to a bull -- a sort of come-hither-look-what-I've-got-hiding-under-here message? And if that's the case, why do we then devote so much time (and so many products) towards removing it?

And not to get too graphic or anything, but for those who have seen me naked and remember the experience (my eyes! my eyes are burning!!), being Asian (and according to Philippe Rushton therefore more highly evolved), I don't exactly have huge quantities of hair other than on my head. I don't even have hair on my legs. And yet, here I sit debating whether or not to wax before my cottage weekend during which I shall spend the majority of the time clad in my pornographic silver bikini.

The reason for my private debate? The last time I donned this bikini, it was pointed out to me quite indiscreetly that I had a few short ones popping out of the sides (I've seen eye patches bigger than this thing for crying out loud, so naturally something is going to show). Personally, I don't know what this person was doing with his face so close to my crotch that he'd notice this kind of thing but then again, maybe it is glaringly obvious to all.

But as I sit here trying to muster up the courage to wrench the little buggers out by their roots, I am perplexed as to why in the world we in even have them in the first place?

It's Not All About You

It's an interesting experience, this whole blogging thing. I now understand what Snooze was always talking about re. the worry about censoring content, etc.

My earlier post vis-a-vis old boyfriends and lovers elicited a few reactions from some, none of which were anticipated. Obviously, the intent to simply detail how I've matured within the past decade-and-a-half fell flat in the face of some of the details about my amorous affairs.

In this particular case, a number of my ex-lovers suddenly contacted me, wanting to know if in fact they were the subject matter of my blog. One in particular, was very sweet, because he was really concerned that he'd put me through terrible emotional stress, and although he didn't remember doing this (duh -- maybe because he had always been a fabulous, considerate friend and lover, albeit with a shoddy memory bank), he was worried that it had somehow stuck with me through the years, and I was still nursing my wounds. Or maybe he was worried that I was going to make him pay for his past transgressions (even, I am not that evil).

Anyway, it's reassuring to know that people actually read my blog and pay attention. Please know however, that if I have an issue with you, it would be taken up privately with said person, and not aired openly for all bloggers to read.

Flipping to the A Side

Ugh ... my mother-in-law is visiting me. For the record, we are on day 10 and counting. Her date of departure is somewhat up in the air, but she has so kindly offered to stay until sometime next week. Just how many swear words can you string together in one sentence?

I know I shouldn't complain. After all, she is a nice lady and a great grandmother to my children. She would also do anything for me, which is wonderful and heartwarming. It's not that I don't love her, but it's quite an adjustment to make whenever she comes for one of her visits.

For one thing, she's an avid soap opera fan. I thnk she watches four a day religiously. The hours between 1:00 and 5:30 p.m. are spent on perched on the edge of my family room couch, nodding her head vigorously to the asinine cliched scripts of All My Children or Days of Our Lives or whatever the hell it is that she watches (take your pick ... they all churn out the same idiotic far fetched drivel).

For another thing, she is somewhat of a negative thinker. The glass is never half full. She came back from a one week, all expense paid vacation to Vegas, courtesy of my brother-in-law and his family, in celebration of her eightieth birthday. Not once did I hear a "Gee, I'm so lucky that someone cares enough about me to take me to Vegas and make sure I have a good time". All I heard was her complaints about how my brother-in-law and his wife raised their kids, how they were made to wait for thirty minutes prior to checking into their hotel and how much of a prima donna she felt one of her grand daughters was. Yeah, okay, so she got to go see Celine Dion, Wayne Newton and gamble to her hearts' delight (she can spend hours at the one armed bandits), but someone else is a prima donna?

Anyway, I suppose I'm focussing somewhat on the negative by complaining, and God only knows, I don't think of myself as being a negative person. I should instead, try and think about all the great things she brings into my life. It's hard though because sometimes we all end up gritting our teeth when she blathers on and on about something that has bugged her (a long list). But okay, here goes:

Good Things My MIL Brings to My Life

1. She is obsessive about cleaning my kitchen, hence I can slack off whenever she is around (although when she is gone, reality sure hits hard);
2. She is always willing to help out and watch the kids -- no easy task if you've ever been subjected to the Terrible Three;
3. She never forgets a birthday or anniversary and always sends a card containing a cheque -- also no small potatoes when you consider the fact that she has nine grandkids;
4. No matter how much of a pain in the ass we have been, she has always helped us out in times of trouble, and there have been a few, and more importantly, she has never once reminded us of what she has done, nor made us feel that it was done begrudgingly. To me this is probably the most amazing thing since my parents consistently go out of their way to make me feel as though I should be indebted to them eternally for the most basic things (like feeding me);
5. She thoroughly enjoys and loves my kids unconditionally.

Well, that was a good exercise for me. Because really, it makes a visit with my MIL seem somewhat more tolerable in the face of our history together. Of course, as soon as I finish this and go downstairs and subject myself to about fifteen minutes worth of her, I may be fleeing back up here to review my list as though it were somewhat of a mantra, but the important thing is that I at least have a list, right?

Retrospect

I was cleaning out my basement the other day and came across a whole bunch of stuff from my university days.

Flipped through a number of my term papers, some of which I now realise were complete and utter horse manure. No wonder I got so many B plusses during my academic career. Well, what could one expect given that I would be frantically pounding the conclusion out on my typewriter at sunrise on the due date?

Two things I found that made me realise I've come a long way since my early twenties:

Firstly, I unearthed a file folder containing copious amounts of correspondence from an old boyfriend. We were together initially for a year, spent a year apart and then got back together briefly. He used to write me notes quite a bit, both when we were together and when we were apart. Sentimental person that I am, I kept each and every one of his letters. I flipped through and read a few of them as I stood in my dimly lit furnace room. It was hard to believe that there was once so much love professed between the two of us, and so much pain involved around the extricating of one from the other. I remember when we first broke up, I felt as though a part of me had been wrenched violently away. It took me years to get over this man.

Now, re-reading his letters, I felt strangely divorced from both him and that part of my life. It was as though I was reading something belonging to someone else. I wondered if I should dispose of the file lest one day my kids come across it and realise that there had been someone else before their dad. Would it crush them to know that their mother had once upon a time contemplated marrying another man?

As I continued to root around in the box, I also came across a couple of my journals from university. I flipped to the pages which contained my thoughts before I began first year, as well as those from the early months. It was weird because a great number of entries dealt with my feelings about this one guy that I'd had this on again, off again pseudo-relationship (polite term for random sexual encounters). I spent hours ripping my hair out trying to decipher what he was feeling and thinking when he would insist that he really cared about me, but that he wanted to remain just friends (this after we'd slept together) and didn't want to get tied down with a relationship. He kept telling me that he was seeing other girls, but would get upset when he would see me with other guys. Stupidly, I took this to be a good sign -- evidence of his feelings for me, instead of some stupid male territorial issue. The journal entries are rife with paragraphs devoted towards analysing what his fear of commitment denoted and how I should just be patient and show him how much I cared. As an older, wiser and far more experienced woman, I had to resist the urge to shriek scathing recriminations to my younger self. "Just how stupid were you to let him treat you that way?"

The crushing blow came when, without warning, he suddenly acquired a girlfriend -- nice girl with all the right credentials (i.e.very unlike me, i.e. virgin), and I was therefore forced to come to the conclusion that he didn't have strong objections to relationships in general, but that he just didn't want one with me.

It was moderately painful reading some of this stuff as it was proof positive that I'd once been either naive enough or insecure enough to allow someone to jerk me around for a prolonged period of time. I also couldn't believe that I was so stupid as to bill it as being patient and perseverant, as though what I was doing was an act of virtuosity rather than one of complete idiocy.

It's very difficult when you have to stop and consider how much crap you've taken in your life that you shouldn't have. During the course of my yearlong relationshp with my letter-writing boyfriend, I also endured certain things without complaint or comment which I now wouldn't even put up with on a single date.

So where does this propensity for being the grateful recipient of ill treatment come from?

While I don't have regrets about much in my life (even the fact that I had those two relationships), since all of what we experience is what brings us to the point where we are today, and I wouldn't want to trade on where I am today for anything, I still worry about why it is that I didn't consider my needs to be as important as those of others. Given that I have this kind of a past, how do I teach my kids? What if one day they let someone walk all over them because they don't feel secure enough or good enough to demand better treatment? How can a fish teach a fledgling to fly?

Correct Conversation 101

I've come to conclusion yet again that men are just plain dumb. Or is it just my man?

You'd think after thirteen-and-a-half years together, he'd figure it out, but apparently the learning curve for him is a long one. Or maybe it's because he's taken so many blows to the head with the frying pan.

Allow me to provide all you lost men out there with a good script.

When your wife dons an outfit, it is in bad form to say to her "Well that dress looks better on you. It makes you look thin. Not like the other one you just had on". This causes said wife to look in the mirror and wonder if she is fat. Yes, I know this sounds just so female, but you see there is a certain amount of history around this whole scenario.

The worst thing a man can do when asked by a woman how she looks, is to survey her closely up and down, make repeated requests for her to turn every which way, open his mouth to say something, interrupt himself by looking down at his watch and then say quickly "You look fine. We'd better go now or we're going to be late". The translation of this is "You actually don't look so hot, but if I say that, I know you'll start going through your entire wardrobe and we don't have time for that now".

The other day I got dressed and came downstairs to begin my day. My husband was unusually silent after giving me the once over during breakfast. I have to state firstly that I was wearing the dress that apparently didn't look as good on me as the skinny one. After I backed the car out of the driveway and was on my way to my kids' camp, my phone rang. It was hubby with some work-related question, after which I commented to him that I have never felt comfortable wearing this particular dress after he'd insinuated that I looked fat in it, and that I now worried that I looked frumpy and fat to the rest of the world at large.

Here is where all you men should be taking notes. When a woman says this, the correct answer is "Really sweetie? I don't know why. You look completely hot, sexy and irresistible in that dress. How could you be anything otherwise?", not "Why do you wear it then?"

In similar fashion, the following are not considered to be a good compliments:

"You look good for someone who has had three kids"
"That's a flattering outfit. It hides your tummy"
"I like your haircut this time better than I did the last one" (particularly if you say this every haircut)
"You're not fat. Just look at so-and-so" (so-and-so has about fifty pounds on me)
"Don't worry about what you look like. Most people aren't very good looking anyways".

Okay, so it may sound as though I'm completely and utterly vain and shallow since all of these comments have to do with my appearance. The reason for this is that I don't doubt that I'm reasonably intelligent. Hell, my parents essentially told me throughout my childhood to give up on what I look like and concentrate on my wonderful brain instead. That's got to count for something since my parents never gave out compliments.

Will I sound terribly anti-feminist if I say that lots of women don't just want to be thought of as smart, capable people, but also as beautiful, sexy and desirable people?

A Pound of Flesh

Had a day containing events only slightly more preferable to the Chinese Water Torture.

I had promised my step-daughter that I would take her shopping for bathing suits as she desperately needed a few for her job as camp counselor. If ever our kids reflect back upon the past with lingering doubts as to whether or not they were unconditionally loved, I hope that they recall moments such as these.

In the first place, shopping is my least favourite activity (unless it's for books). In the second place, I haven't purchased a bathing suit for myself in years, much less a bikini. Seriously, for awhile I was wearing my maternity bathing suit (mind you, it's from Paris and is totally gorgeous, but it's still maternity wear for God's sakes). For those who are not acquainted with my step-daughter, or haven't seen her in awhile, allow me to paint you a little picture. She stands about five feet nine inches tall (all legs), weighs in at 115 pounds, and is drop dead gorgeous. It is hard to sit there and watch her pop out of the dressing room in barely there swimwear, only to have her ask if the pink bikini makes her look fatter than the black one.

Since, as I mentioned before, I lack any appropriate swimwear, I was coaxed into trying on a few numbers myself. Picture me in a claustrophobic, terribly lit dressing room struggling into what my step-daughter described as being a skanky bikini (she meant it in a good way, apparently). Then while surveying myself in the mirror (not a skinny one either) and wondering if I could pull it off, I would hear her calling me, asking me to come out of the dressing room so I could see her in whatever suit she'd tried on. So yeah, I had the added stress of having to dash out in an itty bitty two-piece so I could log in my opinion. Fortunately, I only tried on a couple of suits to her dozen (in sizes about five times bigger than hers, too, I might add), so the humiliation factor was somewhat contained. The highlight was when I came out shyly in this pornographic white bikini and she nodded her head approvingly with the statement "I'm into it". To my question "But isn't it a little too hello-these-are-my-breasts?", she gently replied "That's the whole idea", completely oblivious to my fear of unmentionable body parts making themself known to the general public at any given point in time.

It was either an example of unconditional trust or sheer insanity on my part, but I elected to purchase the bikini that she'd deemed to be acceptable. I kept reiterating though that if I found myself poolside and people were pointing and snickering, I would come after her ass with a vengeance. She shrugged her shoulders and just proceeded to the cash register without comment, leaving me with the lingering question as to what that meant.

I kept flashing back to my university days when my mom used to take me clothes shopping. My mother and I are built quite differently. She has a very petite feminine frame to my Amazonian one (the latter is my dad's description, not my own). At the age of twelve, I was already starting to outgrow her sweaters and shirts.

Now I could be paranoid, but I swear that my mom used to delight in taking me shopping in the days when I was a little more well-endowed and couldn't fit into most dresses, jackets and tops comfortably. We used to get adjacent dressing rooms and she would pick out identical dresses for us to try on. Mine was always about four sizes larger than hers, of course. When we would emerge from our rooms, she would look fabulous, and I would either be wearing my own clothes because I couldn't squeeze into the dress, or I would come out looking completely ridiculous. Since I'm not exactly well proportioned, the dress would be straining in the bust and shoulder areas. It really was a crushing experience for a twenty-something-year-old to have her middle-aged mom look better in an outfit. From the look of glee on my mom's face, I think it was a completely pleasurable one for her though. Actually, she used to entertain herself during my visits by showing me her latest purchase and then suggesting that I try it on, despite my protests that it would never fit, after which she would laugh at the sight of me.

(Thankfully, things evened out for me a bit after having had my kids. While I still have somewhat of a problem finding dresses because I lack that perfectly proportioned feminine figure that designers based their prototype upon, I don't look so ridiculous anymore. Time and menopause has also altered my mom's figure so that she is now more bottom heavy than she used to be, and therefore can't fit into any of my stuff. For some reason though, she is still under the delusion that I am five sizes bigger than her and continues to purchase me clothes that essentially fit me like burlap sacks).

With all of this in mind, I followed my step-daughter to the checkout counter with my bikini clutched tightly in hand, all the while wondering if she just didn't care what I bought for myself, and was simply humouring me, since after all, I was footing the bill for the whole shopping expedition.

I love my step-daughter to death, but should one of my breasts make an unexpected appearance, I'm going to kill her.

Maternal Reflex

Whew ... I survived the last week of school and my daughter's birthday party. No small feat, the latter, because I had twenty-three very wired kids in attendance.

It really is interesting watching some of the kids ... you really can tell who has been raised in a barn, and who has had a proper upbringing. I know that sounds terribly snobby and echoes our moms and grandmothers, but it's true. I guess I can't exorcise my mother's voice from my head (very Norman Bates-like, I know).

Every time I host an event in which there are lots of children in attendance outside of my kids' circle of close friends, I find myself having to hold back from quizzing my kids closely afterwards th ensure that my kids don't do any of the rude things at others' homes and parties that I witnessed in my own. Quite frankly, I'm always appalled by some of the things I see.

Don't get me wrong ... I don't expect kids to be miniature adults and just sit quietly. My children are certainly active and boisterous as a barrel of monkeys, and I love the element of chaos that they bring into the household. What I don't expect though are children who have this sense of entitlement and who are just plain cheeky and rude. Children who will do things like open your fridge and just help themselves to things without being invited to do so. Children who will decide they like something they see (non-edible) and pocket it without asking. Children, who when you tell them a rule (like, we don't use the word "fuck" in our household), argue with you. I guess, I must be old because I just kept thinking to myself how disrespectful some of these kids were.

Of course, some of the mystery was cleared up when I met the parents. One woman showed up half an hour late (this after she had repeatedly asked me at the drop-off what time the party ended, thereby proving that hearing and listening are two distinct and separate experiences), and completely without explanation or apology. During the torturously long half an hour before she deigned to appear, I had to constantly ask her son to refrain from behaving in a certain rude and decidedly wild manner. I also had to resist from ripping out of his hands some of the things he'd decided should go home with him. I was in no mood to linger and chat with the mom when she finally did show up. Was also mildly appalled that neither parent nor child thanked me or my daughter before they left. This is a woman who is quite well educated and wealthy, and is a respected professional, so stupidly I assumed that she would have some amount of etiquette, but there I go, snobbishly stereotyping again.

The delayed reaction I get to being exposed to kids like that is wanting to pack up and move to a rural neighbourhood where I can raise my children in a natural, simple and unspoiled environment. I just can't bear the thought of my kids turning into rude and obnoxious people.

The Green Eyed Monster

I read an interesting article in the Star yesterday. It told the tale of Matt, a seventeen year old boy who attends a large well-known public high school in Toronto. A quiet,intelligent boy who ran for school council president and won narrowly.

This past winter, Matt came out to his entire school as Jade. Apparently, Matt had always felt that he wasn't really male, and after much discussion with his parents, he elected to present himself as a female to the world this past December. In a gutsy move, six foot four Matt came to school dressed in woman's apparel and a wig.

What I found wonderful, reassuring and surprisingly refreshing was how much support Matt/Jade received on all fronts. First off, his parents, who are divorced, were amazing. I'm trying to imagine anyone from my generation telling their parents that he/she wants to change sexes, even if only clothing and namewise. My favourite quote was about how when his mom phoned his jock dad to tell him about Matt's decision, his dad rushed right over. Not because he was horrified, but because he didn't want Matt to think that he had hesitated for a moment, and not been supportive, loving and accepting. He later took Matt shopping and helped him pick out clothing. underclothing with built-in implants and a wig that would make Jade look pretty. I thought that was pretty impressive, because it must have been a bit weird for a parent to watch his kid transform himself before his very eyes.

Jade also received a great deal of support from the principal of his school, who when informed of his decision, sent out a letter to all staff members explaining what was about to happen and asking them to be respectful and supportive. Jade was then assigned a teacher escort for the first couple of days who helped to field any questions or concerns from others and also acted as a buffer in case of any intolerant individuals.

Lastly, Jade was accepted by her peers. I found that mildly surprising because for some reason, I have this idea in my mind that kids are naturally cruel and intolerant of anything "different". But then again, maybe that was just our generation. Because now that I come to think of it, my step-daughter has a friend the same age as her who is gay and who came out a couple of years ago at the age of about fourteen or fifteen.

I think it's really great that adolescents can come to grips with their sexual preferences at an early age and announce it to the world. In high school, I had a good friend of mine who was a lesbian, but who didn't come out for years. Poor girl went through hell trying to fit in because she thought something was wrong with her. It was all very painful to watch from the sidelines. Now of course, she's happily married to a lovely woman and they have a beautiful four-month-old daughter. She recently commented to me that she felt our present day society is far more accepting and tolerant, at least on the surface, than it was "back in our day". Her partner is about eight years younger than us -- not a huge difference, but enough that she found more acceptance amongst her peers at an earlier age (she went to her highschool prom with a female date).

It's funny, I try to teach my kids to be tolerant, respectful and supportive people, and there are many times where I get blown away because they say and do things that I would never have done in my youth. Even now, I think I'm still way harder, meaner and more suspicious than they will ever be as adults. Should I have been at all surprised by the fact that Matt/Jade isn't being taunted at school? Should I have simply taken it in stride, and not thought otherwise? Granted, I would never have openly made fun of a peer under any circumstances, but would I have been openly supportive either? Without trying to be too Seinfeldesque, not that there's anything wrong with it, but I'm not sure what I would have thought if one of my classmates decided to present himself or herself as a member of the opposite sex. I'm not homophobic and I'm quite sure if one of my kids announced he or she was gay, I would be ultra supportive because all that matters to me is that my kids are happy and secure with themselves.

I have to wonder if maybe I'm envious that today's youth seems to possess a certain self-confidence and self-assurance that I never felt, especially as an adolescent. I think it's amazing and wonderful and it obviously shows that as parents, we are on the right track if we are endowing our kids with this kind of feeling of self-empowerment. To echo my profile, I guess I really am somewhat developmentally retarded because I am only just now discovering this kind of secureness to pursue my own path without worrying and fearing others' recriminations.

All Fired Up

Okay, so I'm on day three of steroid therapy, and it's got me really manic and way bitchier than usual (yes, I know you're all thinking "who would have thought that possible?")

Anyway, so I have to wonder: is it just me/the 'roids or are people really cheeky? Feel free to cast your vote.

To illustrate:

I am currently in the midst of planning my daughter's seventh birthday party. Disorganised person that I am, I always leave this until the last minute and then get in a panic when I suddenly realise that I have to throw the party before school is over as people leave for their summer vacation or kids get tied up with summer camp. (Apparently, it's chic to ship your kids off at the age of seven to overnight camp for a month or more). Anyway, so as I'm alternately chastising myself for being a bad mother and for my poor conception planning skills (why, oh why didn't I have a spring baby?), I finally manage to throw together what might actually turn out to be a terrific party. And just in the nick of time, too as school will be finished next week.

We elected to invite my daughter's entire class to the party as she was friendly with about three-quarters of the boys and girls. The only problem with this plan of action is that I don't actually know all the kids, and more importantly, their parents. There are just some parents whom you NEVER see at any classroom events, field trips or even during the pick-up/drop-off times.

The next day after the invites were passed out, I received a phone call. Bear in mind that I had just spent the previous twenty-four hours in hospital, am now on steroid therapy and am extremely exhausted. The person on the other end identifies herself as being the aunt of one my daughter's classmates, and then proceeds to say that he has a brother at the school in Grade 6 and "it's okay for him to come as well, right?"

I very gently but firmly explained that in fact, the invitation was extended to only one person, and that while I understood their predicament (I really didn't, actually), the party was intended to be for my daughter and her friends only. Also, since others invited had brothers and sisters in the school, I would have to extend this courtesy to others, and we were already beyond the recommended capacity for this particular venue. So sorry, no siblings allowed.

The woman clearly didn't expect to be turned down, so after a long pause said "Okay, so just K. will come then ... one person". As though she were doing me a favour by complying with the invitation request. (See, I told you I was reaching new heights of bitchiness). I replied very cheerfully "Great, we'll look forward to seeing him then".

There must have been a special on imposing yourself upon others that day (two rude requests for the price of one), because the woman then says "So you'll be bringing him to the party and then you'll drop him back off at school". Whoa ... has this kid never been to a party before? Does she not know the drill? I resisted the urge to ask her if I should be purchasing a gift and wrapping it on their behalf, took a deep breath and reminded myself that I was probably reacting in an unduly irrational manner. I proceeded to inform the woman that in fact, I had three kids of my own, was hosting a party and that I therefore couldn't be responsible for her nephew. I told her that each parent was expected to either bring their child themselves or in the alternative, make their own drop-off and pick-up arrangements.

Her response was "Yeah but his mom only wants to pick up her kids once". My initial reaction was one of horror because it dawned on me that the older sibling would probably have to hang out at school for a couple of hours while his brother partied just so that mommy dearest wouldn't have to make a couple of trips. Following that, I became mildly pissed off because she was essentially saying "If you don't do this, then K. won't come", which was just fine with me because K. actually never even made it on the A list to begin with. Of course, I didn't say this. Instead, I simply said "Well it sounds as though it may not work out for your this time around. But let me know if you make other arrangements and K. can make it because we'd love to have him if he can". (His aunt frostily informed me the following day that K. would not be attending the party after all, and implied that his mom was somewhat insulted by my inhospitable manner and failure to accomodate her son).

So I have to question if it's me/the 'roids or if this woman was just pushing the envelope on bad guest etiquette. I did wonder briefly what kind of a caregiver would entrust their child to a virtual stranger. I mean, for all she knew I could have been some irresponsible, alcoholic child beater. Actually, that might not be as bad as the reality -- an irrational steroid charged bitch on wheels.

Life, the Universe and Everything

Okay so there are some things I just don't get.

I guess you could call me somewhat of a ponderer. Well, at least I used to be one. I spent my adolescence mulling over agonising questions that seemingly had no answers. Like the meaning of life, or the reason behind racism. I think it's not an inaccurate statement to say that most young adults/teenagers struggle with these kinds of issues and questions. Youth has the time and energy to be passionate about societal injustices and metaphysical questions.

My parents would, in their own words, essentially tell me to get over myself. What exactly is the point of wondering whether or not people are islands unto themselves? Who cares? What difference could it possibly make to your existence to figure out why people are anti-Semitic or prejudiced against blacks? I remember thinking "how can they not get it? How can they not understand how important an issue this is to resolve?"

Of course, now here I stand, mother to a child who asks endless questions that have no apparent answers. A child, who I think, may one day agonise over what he perceives to be life's injustices. Already, he wonders how it is that we can live in a country where we have so much, when on the other side of the world, people are dying daily from starvation. And while I have the utmost sympathy for my child questioning the morality of eating cows, or the existence of any concrete proof of God, I honestly don't always have the time and the patience to humour him in the way that he deserves. It must be a symptom of old age that we become so burnt out, beaten down and jaded so as to believe that one person's passion isn't enough to change a universal problem. When did we stop believing in David and Goliath?

These days, I find myself pondering less weighty issues, like why it is that no one can refill the toilet paper holder when it is empty. The toilet paper is right there, but they will use it without exchanging the empty roll for a new one. Or why is it that a former jock star basketball player consistently seems to miss the laundry basket when pitching his socks onto the floor. Or what the logic is behind a teenager announcing that she is going out clothes shopping with some friends, but "can you please go to Shoppers and pick up some shampoo because later on when I come home from shopping, I'm going to want to shower and wash my hair and there isn't the kind of shampoo that I like".

To be honest, sometimes I think I stand more of a chance of beating racism and third world countries' poverty, than I do of getting someone to empty the damn dishwasher. Obviously, my passion is misdirected.

Ahhhh youth ...

I feel pathetic. And old.

I went down to Queen Street the other day with my step-daughter. The purpose of our excursion was two-fold. First, we were going to New Tribe (a tattoo and piercing parlour) and then we were going to a particular store to shop. The reason for the pit stop at the tattoo parlour, you ask? Here's where the pathetically old comes in: during a conversation with Celine, I mentioned that I wanted to get both of my ears pierced a second time, and the left one a third time. This is something I'd wanted to do since I was fourteen, but never dared to (could barely face the wrath of my mother when I was thirteen and went off and pierced the first holes). Of course, she egged me on and then offered to come and hold my hand during the deed.

Then she mentioned once again, how she's been thinking of getting a tattoo. I wanted to be supportive, but just couldn't egg her on with the same enthusiasm as she had me. Instead, I remained fairly non-committal and expressed the cons of doing so. Granted, she only wanted a very small tattoo, in a very discreet location. In fact, she was thinking of only doing the outline and not filling it in. It didn't sound so bad, but I knew that both of her parents would freak if they knew, so I couldn't exactly start chanting "Do it! Do it! Do it!" So, I said that if she really was going to go ahead and get a tattoo, that I wanted to be the one to go with her and check out the place to make sure it was kosher. I figured that I couldn't stop her from doing what she wanted to do, unless I pulled out the authoritarian parent card (which would seem weird since I've never done that), but that I could at least exercise some control if I was present.

As it turned out, she didn't end up getting a tattoo. Five minutes en route to Queen Street, when I asked her if she was really and truly sure that she wanted to get a tattoo, she exclaimed "Oh no! I forgot the picture!" She'd left the photo of what she wanted at home (Perfect Circle's symbol). I offered to turn around