Halfway to Happy

In Memoriam

2008-02-11T10:02:00.005-05:00

I think I would have made a great obituary writer. There’s something sort of maudlin about the job, yes, but it’s also such an honour. You’re really saying people’s last goodbyes for them, aren’t you? You’re saying goodbye to all of the people the family may not have remembered to notify - an old bowling partner, the guy who sold you your fruit, your childhood sweetheart, the one you haven’t seen in 50 years. All of these people who made up your thoughts and pulled all of the little threads of your day into a tight, warm tapestry. They may mean nothing to your great aunt Myrtle who you haven’t seen in 27 years but they meant something to you.
The anniversary of my Grandfather’s death was yesterday. I have thought of him every single day, probably a little more than I should. Especially at this time of year not only because it is the anniversary of his death but it was also his favourite season - Remembrance Day. I will forever be grateful that he had a chance to pin one last poppy to his jacket lapel before he died, to recite ‘In Flander’s Fields’ with his hat over his heart. He was the first, best man that I ever knew. Solid and good, quiet and patient. With a slightly inappropriate sense of humour and a relationship with Jersey Milk chocolate bars I never fully understood.. A lot was going on in my life when he died, a lot of selfish small stuff that I can’t even really remember anymore. But I remember his obituary. It was fair, a good representation of his ’stats’ just like it should be. I wish I had written it. So I hope you will forgive me, readers, for this small indulgence. This is what I would have written, could have written, wish I’d written.
Joe McGuire - from the old Irish Block and more importantly from the Monday night Bridge Club where he always managed to win more than he lost- has died. He died exactly as he would have wanted - really quickly and near the toilet. His best friend, his dog Benji, watched over him all afternoon and remains faithfully his alone. He had eight crazy, wonderful children (6 daughters - names here 2 sons - names here) that loved him. Some more than others it might be said, but Joe knew he was loved enough. Joe was a good friend, a hard worker, a seriously tough debater. He really should have been dead 10 years ago, but there’s nothing like a good Merlot to keep you around a little longer. He was a good son to parents that loved him. His childhood was spent on the farm working and praying. Joe didn’t grow to believe in God but was raised to believe in good.
Joe was in the military for most of his life. He travelled with his family all over the world, saw things we will none of us ever see, lived a bigger life than most of us have ever imagined, but still preferred Sunday night roast beef dinner and watching the hockey game with all of his people to anything else. He was a good Grandfather - the kind that never cooks for you or helps you wash up or teaches you manners but lets you jump in the big piles of leaves he just raked, reads you stories long after you’re old enough to read for yourself and teaches you to play the harmonica. His catalogue of dirty limericks and songs were legendary. As was his ability to see into the heart of a thing, his quiet way of knowing how to love a girl best.
Mostly though Joe was husband to Gerry. Gerry drove him crazy. She had her hair and nails done every third day or so. She never kept her receipts even though Joe was an accountant and dreamt in receipts. She gossiped too much for him (even though he always secretly listened) cried over everything from a cracked teapot to a newly budded tree in spring. She fought crazed nonsensical wars with his daughters, nagged his sons and fussed over his grandchildren. But she smelled sweeter than any other woman he ever knew, carried his Juicy Fruit gum for him in her purse when he was trying to quit smoking and best of all…gave him permission to want something else from life. Gave him his family, and his friends and his fun. Their love may not always have been right, but it was the only love he ever wanted. Dearest Grandpa, you are missed and remembered.

Facebook

2008-02-11T10:02:00.004-05:00

Matthew is…tired of playing these head games. Moving out as of tomorrow morning.
Allison is…missing her Dad today - R.I.P. July 14th, 1997.
Jackie is…looking forward to getting rid of all the emotional baggage - so long Daniel!
James is…on his way home from Qatar with very little money and too many memories.
Facebook. I don’t know how many of you have signed up for this little social experiment but let me tell you, it can be incredibly addictive. This is what happens, essentially - you get your own profile, you find some old friends that haven’t seen you or heard from you in 1000 years, then find more friends…and they tell two friends, and so on, and so on…It’s a great idea, really. I’ve bumped into (or hunted down) a whole slew of people I hadn’t heard from in years. People who knew me way back when - when I was in grade eight and looked like a middle aged Laura Bush, when I was in high school and wore tie-dyed shirts and fought for Amnesty International, when I was in Switzerland and behaved like an incredible drunken fool. And I get to see who they’ve turned themselves into - the amazing part being how few people really change, the core of who they are is still so integrally them. Mostly.
It is nice to see them all, read about their kids, their spouses, their home improvement projects. Plus, everyone seems to have these handy little photo albums to browse through -very voyeuristic but I’m kind of like that so it suits me well.
So yes, it’s a wonderful little system and all of that, reconnecting us to people from across the globe as we never could really have been reconnected before. But there’s a downside. A surreal, slightly off-putting downside to tell you the truth. You see, there’s just no filter on Facebook. People forget they don’t actually know you anymore, don’t know things like what you take in your coffee or how you spend your Thanksgiving. Yet here they are, spilling all of their emotional beans all over the Internet. Inviting you into their dramas - and in a way, all of their friends’ dramas - without knowing much at all about you other than you used to both really enjoy the Footloose soundtrack.
But there’s just no way around getting involved in their emotional beans - especially when they drop intriguing little one liners like “Victoria is…finally ready to just do it already!! I’m not afraid anymore!!” Well now I just need to find out more, don’t I? What was Victoria afraid of, and how is she getting past it? Naturally one becomes quite the Internet detective - once offered the first little tidbit I must then delve deeper into the ‘Profile’ for any sort of helpful clues, look at pictures for hints to solve the mystery, read Wall postings (which are little notes sent back and forth on people’s profiles available for public consumption) and generally stick my nose in where it doesn’t belong. But it’s just so darn tempting!
And everyone seems to want you to know as much as they can tell you about their lives, good, bad or ridiculous. Something along the lines of a twenty-four hour commercial starring you as the main product. Not my strong suit - I generally get a lot of emails from people who knew me way-back-when querying; “Holy Heck, are all of those kids YOURS??” and then one or two from some old acquaintances who knew me as a Nanny in Switzerland; “I can’t believe you had kids!! I’m so scared for them - you were AWFUL with children!!”. (I’m better now, I swear!) So pretty much no showing off for me.
The verdict is still out for Facebook in my opinion. It’s really fantastic in a way to find all of these people you remember from when you were five or fifteen or twenty-five. To know who really DID become a doctor like he’d always dreamed, who is living in Amsterdam with her husband and who is divorcing her childhood sweetheart. But in a way, I miss the people I thought they would turn out to be. Better, worse or indifferent. And do I really want my MAJOR crush of grades nine through twelve to see a picture of me washing dishes with a towel on my head at eight months pregnant? You decide…

Cyber Dating Tips for Men

2008-02-11T10:02:00.003-05:00

First off, let me remind everyone that I am no dater. Even when I was considered slightly more dateable I still wasn’t really a dater. But that isn’t to say I’m not aware of certain dating practices, certain customs that need to be adhered to. Certain products that generally need to be purchased and/or applied before the thing itself can be embarked upon. Like aftershave and body sprays. Perhaps a stick of gum to help one’s garlic breath in a pinch.
So there it is - I’m fairly in tune with what need and needn’t be considered on a date. Plus I’ve half-heartedly thrown my hat into the ring at least a dozen times or so in x-amount of years so I’m up to snuff on all of the latest and greatest in the art of seduction (or at least the art of the second call). I may not be considered an expert, but let’s just say I could well be considered an expert observer. And lately I’ve been expertly observing…cyber-dating.
I’ve come to discover it’s not really for me honestly. Not that I’ve ever really tried it, of course (I’m a liar) but I have this friend of mine (no I don’t) and she told me all about it so that’s how I know (I know because I went on two horrendous dates and worse, received more than enough horrendous emails and searched through some rather sketchy profiles, more than enough to last me a lifetime). Not enough to have me ironing any of the better blouses, in the end.
I do think one of the greatest benefits of cyber-dating is the chance it affords all of the best people. You know who I mean - the fellas out there who are shy, or quiet or don’t really know how to carry a tune and therefore feel a little out of sorts in social situations. To me, I feel like these men could really shine on the internet. If they could just figure out the age-old Freudian question of what women want... Or even figure out how to fit the best bits of modest, sweet, kind them within the 200 word paramenter set forth by the Cyber-dating Gods. Cause I’m telling you, fellas - from what I’ve seen, you could use a little help. I was looking through some profiles the other night for ‘research’ (and also on the off chance that Russell Crowe is single and living within 50 miles of the Owen Sound area) and they all started to blend together. A lot of the same catch phrases were being regurgitated - “No head games”, “Loves to travel”, “Long walks on the beach”, “Looking for Cameron Diaz look-alike”. Couple that with the slightly menacing mug shot of you staring unsmilingly into the camera, frequently wearing an ill chosen top (or even worse, no top at all…even if you are Gerard Butler, you still need to wear a top otherwise you seem like a bit of a braggart)…it’s not enough to make a woman - a quality woman - want to send out a smile or nudge or pinch or whatever.
So here you go fellas. A little advice to take or leave from a professional observer. This ones for you - a few tips on what to write, what not to mention, and why a picture of you alone with a great big smile is best (preferably outside and during the day - although I don’t know why).
First off, never -I mean NEVER - mention any sort of ex-girlfriend, good bad or indifferent. Here’s a little secret about us women - we all appreciate a certain skill, or prowess if you will - in the, umm…boudoir. But we’d prefer to think you were born with that skill than imagine your having perfected it with scads of practice.
Be specific about the things you love to do - biking, movies or otherwise - and for God’s sake don’t brag about all of the travelling you’ve done! It’s like one of those people who brags about having a small nose. If you’re secretly hoping for a Cameron Diaz look-alike, don’t ask for one. You’ll put off all the best gals. Even the non-Cameron Diaz ones.
Don’t dumb yourself down or try to sound any smarter than you really are. If you’re terrible at programming the dvd player, admit it - nothing is more attractive than a man who can laugh at himself. If you have kids…this could be split decision but in my opinion don’t bring them up. If you’re a great dad, that’s great - but shouldn’t really be used as a selling point.
Most importantly, though, just keep it light. I would imagine that treating your little advertisement as a first date would be a great jumping point. So remember - you don’t walk into a restaurant on your first date and blurt out “I’m still trying to get over my last relationship, I’m looking for something long-term with an active, thin woman who loves deep sea fishing and I’ve been through years of therapy due to some unresolved issues with my absentee dad.”, do you?

My Dog Lily

2008-02-11T10:02:00.002-05:00

I have a dog named Lily. She is named Lily because I failed to produce a daughter, and my sons thought a dog named Lily was really the next best thing. Lily is one of those dogs that cost around $35 at the Humane Society rather than $1000 from a dog breeder. I hadn’t really been looking forward to a dog - especially considering I had already managed to kill off a few beta fish and a turtle (which are notoriously difficult to kill, by the way) - but the boys had begged so there I was. Stuck. When we got to the Humane Society there were about a dozen huge, snarling barking dogs who were making it perfectly clear they weren’t fond of this pretend doggy jail. I had a feeling one or two in particular had been in real doggy jail, by the looks of their scarred snouts and world-weary eyes. The nice thing to do would have been to adopt one of those dogs. But…there lay Lily. Silent in her little cage, staring up at us with those big sad eyes - eyes which I now know she uses to manipulate me at will. We were all goners.
Lily will be turning 4 tomorrow when Ben turns 12 (we consider her to be born on the day we found her - don’t try to wrap your heads around the mechanics of that one). Which means that she is 28. My problem is that I think she might be looking to start dating. Twenty-eight may seem a little old to just be getting started, but that’s our Lily. She’s very chaste, I must admit. A careful girl. Plus, she’s had a volatile 2 year relationship with Mattie (our cat) that can be quite violent and emotionally draining at times, so you can see why it’s taken her awhile. I don’t want to come right out and say Mattie is physically abusive, but…I don’t think he’s quite right in the head, if you know what I mean. I myself live in almost constant fear that he will suffocate me in my sleep.
I’ve started to notice that Lily gets quite a few looks from the other dogs when we’re out on our morning walks, from both the males and the females. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I can’t blame them really - Lily is quite good-looking. And I think she knows it. She’s slender with curvy legs, a fabulous black and tan coat and a great looking tail. She’s a half breed, our Lily, at the very least. I would say she’s got around six breeds going on there. I tried to explain to her that being a mixed-breed is cool and exotic, like Cher, but then people ask me what breed of dog she is (right in front of her!) - and there she goes, sleeping on my bed in the middle of the afternoon. Which can only mean depression. She seems to have gotten over it, though, and I think it’s because of all the canine attention she’s been getting on the street. She’s very unique looking - sort of like the Catherine Zeta Jones of dogs amongst a bunch of Britney Spears. A head-turner. The other dog-walkers are having difficulty getting their dogs to ‘heel’ properly - Lily is just too much of a temptation.
I’d like to see her go on a few doggy dates at the park or something. Get out there a bit and have a little fun. Maybe it would help her with her unnatural fixation on not just one, but all four of my boys. I personally think it’s the ‘forbidden fruit’ complex. She knows they’re from a different species but - well, they’re just so darn cute! I wonder if she makes up little revenge scenarios in her head like “Oh, you just wait and see! One of these days I will have grown up past your knee and then it will just be too darn late! I will have found myself a Great Dane - PURE BRED, mind you - and I won’t have any time for you anymore!”
So I think my plan of action will be to get her out for a walk early mornings, around 6:30 which seems to be the ‘happy hour’ of dogs. Certainly the quality seems to improve greatly at that hour for whatever reason. Yes, despite my earlier reservations, I think Lily dating is a fine idea, really fine. After all, one of the women of the house should be going on dates - better her than me!

Jack

2008-02-11T10:02:00.001-05:00

My son Jack is eight years old now. He is the tallest boy in his class. He is the only one of my sons who manages to be serious and funny at the same time almost all of the time. Jack is a thinker and a watcher. If he doesn’t like you after the first five minutes of knowing you - well then, I’m sorry my friend but he’s never going to like you. Luckily for Jack he is also a surprisingly good judge of character.
There are a million and a half wonderful things I can see in Jack’s future. Things like being loved, being successful, owning a house filled with seventeen cats, twelve dogs and three turtles. Plus the odd bird thrown in here and there because he can never have a pet bird when he’s living in my house - they are wholly unsettling creatures, I must tell you. Menacing. Predatory. It’s the price Jack must pay for having me as a Mom. And not the only price, I’m sure.
So Jack‘s page is very much a blank page of uncomplicated promise in my eyes. But it‘s not the way he looks to me that worries me these days. It‘s the way he looks at himself. Already. You see, Jack is an average-sized boy, which means he is not skinny. He doesn’t have a ’weight issue’ at all. He’s not obese, not hefty, not out of shape. He’s pretty much just not skinny. Normally I wouldn’t think anything of this - after all, four boys mean four very different little builds and anyways, boys don’t care about that stuff at all, do they? Oh, they sure as heck fire do. Now Jack is an exhaustingly active boy, he loves life and is exuberant and good-natured - really I can say without a word of conceit that he is one of the easiest children in the entire world to love. But he can’t seem to get past this idea, this little seed being re-planted daily in his mind that there is something changing about him and not in a good way. A seed I can never seem to dig up or kill or bury someplace else. “Wow, Jack has gotten really BIG.”, one of our family friends will comment. “He’s going to be a really BIG guy, isn’t he?” “He’s not built like the other boys at all.”
I’ll generally try to shrug these comments off on his behalf, say something like “Yeah, he’s a pretty tall kid, I don’t know where he got that from because his father and I are both such shorties.”, but usually people will persist. “No - I don’t mean tall...”, they’ll sometimes elaborate - and I don’t hear much past that point because I’m busy visualizing myself stabbing them in the eye with my nail clippers (the only weapon I ever seem to have at the ready). It seems to come at him from all ends these days - he came home from his Dad’s house one weekend, embarrassed and sullen and refused to tell me why. He turned down his ice cream sundae for dessert - a precedent of earth-shattering proportions for anyone in our house - and went out to the front yard after dinner to run some laps around the driveway. These crazy, driven, silent, angry laps that scared me with their red-faced intensity. Finally he confessed (not to me but to his brothers who, I might add with no small amount of pride, were just as concerned). His new nickname at his Dad’s house was ‘chubs’ and he thought he should ‘stop eating ice cream and try to exercise more because I think my belly is too wide’. If only his Dad had been there…I had my nail clippers poised and at the ready for a fight.
For the most part, I must admit Jack’s mind is elsewhere. There are still matters far more pressing than this for him, thank goodness. Who’s turn on the wii being at the forefront, naturally. And there are big things to be done every day, firecrackers to be let off in the living room (another story for another day) and snowballs to save in the freezer. Especially on the weekend when it’s just us and we lull ourselves into a false sense of complacency and he wanders the house comfortable in his own skin.
But then he’s back at school. And it’s Wednesday and he’s grown out of an old pair of jeans. And then there it is again - that look. Of humiliation, of panic. Of anger. I’ve given him too much oatmeal for breakfast, he says, why did I do that? So we lose that morning, I suppose. A bit of the battle gone. Lost. But I promise you…we are going to win that war.

At the Movies

2007-09-03T12:16:00.004-05:00

Do people really like to be known as avid ‘film-goers’? Well, maybe ‘film-goers’ are alright because films sound so fancy - not like ‘movies’ at all really. And I think ‘films’ are considered to be on a different level, aren’t they? Sort of in the same way being an ‘adult’ (pronounced ah-DULT, of course) is not really the same thing as being a ‘grown-up’. Ah-DULT’s enjoy films as a brief respite from reading thick dusty novels, drinking brandy from warm snifters or smoking a pipe while playing the cello. It’s not really their main scene, as such, but if there’s something good on at the ‘cinema’ (read, Cineplex), something with subtitles and obscure symbolism then…Well, alright, old boy. Just this once, tut, tut!
I’m all for the high end movies as well - in fact here in Owen Sound we’re lucky enough to have a gallery that brings us to the cinema for some really thought-provoking films. They always seem to be available on a rainy Sunday afternoon, too, which sets the scene nicely. Through them I’ve seen some of my favourite movies - Hotel Rwanda, The Painted Veil, Dear Frankie (you really need to see this one, I promise you) - all alone in the dark and munching on chocolate almonds. Pure bliss. My only complaint is that the other ah-DULTs never seem to get snacks - who watches movies without snacks, I ask you?
So yes, I do enjoy ‘films’. But I really, really enjoy ‘movies’ too. Just as much as I enjoy books and music and warm brandy. Actually, I detest warm brandy, but you get my drift. There’s a certain artistic snobbery attached to film these days. It’s still not quite as bad as television, I hear, but it’s getting worse. Nobody wants to admit that their children watch television - which is what mine are doing right now, by the way - and if they do watch television it’s only PBS. Or the Discovery channel. Never more than 20 minutes a day at most. And never the Simpson’s. EVER!! I myself took the kids to see the Simpson’s movie. Read from that what you will.
A lot of people associate certain smells with their past, or certain music. I do that as well (oranges and sweet almonds make me think of my room in Switzerland; Danny Boy brings me back to my Grandpa’s funeral) - but there are also certain movies that evoke instant memories for me. Like ’Bridget Jones’ Diary’. It may sound cliché, but the first weekend my husband had taken the kids and I was completely alone for the first time in about 7 years, Bridget helped me. I watched it over and over again, (I think I even perfected her ‘All By Myself’ solo from the opening credits) not feeling any better or worse about my situation, just focused on where I was. Sitting on a couch that was now mine and mine alone, huddled under a quilt my Nana had bought me for my birthday. And watching Bridget finally find her Mr. Darcy at 33 or whatever. It made me feel - safe. And sort of strong.
Back further, when Callum was 2 and Ben was a newborn. Every morning at around 5 o’clock Callum would wake me up to go downstairs and watch 101 Dalmations. It was winter, the floors were cold and Callum was wearing his Winnie the Pooh slippers. Little Ben was curled up asleep, fleecy warm under our mutual blanket asleep. A light snow was falling and I was so tired I didn’t think I could carry on. But then I would hear Callum warble “Cruella Da Bil! Cruella Da Bil!” with his little lisp. And I could indeed carry on.
So many memories of mine come with a movie soundtrack - such as all of the women in my family sobbing wildly during “Steel Magnolias” (there’s that inexplicable sense of comraderie that comes from twenty women with snotty noses), or watching “Hallowe’en” with my boyfriend at 18 in the dark in my parent’s rec room (for obvious reasons) and the first time I watched “Stepmom” after my kids had a Stepmom. To see all of my un-named, slightly selfish fears acted out by Miss Susan Sarandon was…maybe not fun but noteworthy. The movies didn’t change anything for me, but they seemed to help me earmark moments I wanted for later. Moments like being a 15 year old girl who’s fighting with her step father. For the 10 000th time and she’s tired and misunderstood and a little lonely. But later, when she’s watching Out of Africa alone, her stepfather finds her. She knows he hates this movie, but he stays for the whole four hours. Just with her. To get to know what she likes, to let her know all that she is becoming to him without saying a word. That, right there, is show biz, folks.

Homecoming

2007-09-03T12:16:00.003-05:00

When I was a little girl, we lived with my Nana and Grandpa. We’re good old Irish stock (read, incredibly prolific) who liked to host as many people as possible as often as possible. Nana was a baker, and she generally started on the pies, cakes, cookies and biscuits around Monday night. Apparently, the idea was that people always feel welcome if you‘ve baked them a pie - makes good sense to me. I loved that buzzing sensation running through the house before ‘the visitors’ descended. The excitement, the sense of ceremony attached to even the most mundane, the attention to detail. Changing of sheets, washing of floors, folding of laundry, mowing of lawn. We wanted to put our best foot forward for the visitors, only give them a glimpse of the shiniest part of our lives so that we could go back to eating off of t.v. trays in front of the television on Monday.
That’s the feeling our entire town has been experiencing for the last few weeks - longer if you’re a decent citizen. Which I’m not really. The gussying up of our entire town. I think we look quite pretty, don’t you? Our flowers are in full bloom, our lawns are mowed, our streets are clean. I didn’t get a chance to head down to the Farmer’s Market on Saturday, but I was half-expecting, half-hoping the vendors would all be wearing pink and blue bowties. In fact, I have half a mind to start baking a few pies for our visitors - it seems only cordial, don’t you think? Because we want to give these visitors - or ‘ the leavers’ as I like to call them - a great impression of our fair city. Or town, whatever we are. Rather like a jilted lover whose ex-boyfriend has come to town - you better get out the big guns, right? You’d better look your best, paste on a smile that says; “Really, we’re all doing just fine without you!” or “Go ahead - move to the big city! See if you like it any better there!” By the way, these were my suggestions for slogans rather than “The Sound is Calling You Home.” Not bad, eh? Apparently not the red carpet treatment we want to convey, though.
It’s funny, having all of these people coming home has made me think about my homecoming five years ago. How scared I was, how alone I felt, the strange sense of déjà vu that comes from things changing only slightly from your girlhood. But - it felt right. And warm. It’s been a while now, and the city (Seriously, is it a city? I can never remember.) and I have grown into a comfortable sort of marriage. The honeymoon period is over -the first rotten winter ended that phase - but I’m past the ‘seven year itch’ point. I no longer consider up and leaving at every bad turn, because this is where I’m supposed to be. Despite the rotten winters, the feeling of isolation that comes with every January 1st, the crippling absence of either a Gap or an Ikea…
Okay, before I scare ‘the leavers’ away again, I have a few ideas about some activities that have helped me settle in here. The may not be on the official itinerary, but they’ve certainly made me fall into a pretty deep and lasting love with the area - which for me is nothing short of a miracle (I’m not much of a settler). Here goes -
Head down to the River Café and sit in the window, drink a Chai latte and eat a toblerone shortbread cookie. Or any of our other fine cafes, actually; I just really like those cookies. Go for a walk early in the morning through the Mill Dam and past the Jubilee Bridge - be sure to go early enough that the dew is still fresh on the grass. I don’t know why it makes a difference but it does. Visit my curtains at Homeology - you see, I’ve been waiting for these particular curtains to go on sale for awhile now (front window, great floral pattern on a sort of creamy background) and I like to visit them. This is also a warning to let people know those particular curtains are spoken for! If you have children take them to the old-wishing-well-that’s-not-a-well at Harrison Park. Tell them that a troll lives at the bottom, and when they approach it to check (because they will) make distinct growling noises behind them. My Grandpa told me that thirty years ago and I believed him for twenty.
Mostly though, the one thing ‘the leavers’ should do is remember. Remember what it was like to live here, remember what you loved about it and why you still come home. And then you can head back to your big fancy city because we’re fine, just fine!!

Grown-up Fears?

2007-09-03T12:16:00.002-05:00

Since I’ve started spending more and more time alone, I’ve noticed a few things. First of all, the Simpson’s are always on some channel somewhere. And second of all - the mind came play some pretty convincing tricks on you. Sure there are little mind games you play with yourself in a room full of people (“Did that man in house wares just wink at me?” “Did that woman over there just sneer at me?”) and so on and so forth. But when you’re alone in a dark room at 2:15 am - the mind chicanery is simply off the charts.
We all dealt with the monster-under-my-bed mindset when we were small children, I’m sure. I know for a fact that there was something…sinister going on under my bed other than broken toys and forgotten socks. When my girlfriends and I had sleepovers together, our ‘monsters’ were our main source of entertainment (that and the tracks 6 through 9 of the ‘Grease’ soundtrack). We would gratefully confess to our deepest, darkest secrets and eat dill pickle chips in the dark. Some of these stories stay with me still. One friend in particular - we’ll call her Shannon because that was her name - told me she was sure that there was a man with a machete living in her basement. He would wait until the whole family was asleep and trace his machete around the edges of their beds, lopping off any limbs that may hang over the edge of the mattress. To this day I still sleep in a neatly tucked ball, making sure not to drape over the sides in any way - after all, one can never be too sure, right?
My ‘monster’ was not quite as blood-thirsty, thank goodness. But he was stealthy, I’ll tell you. The rule was (and how I ever came up with this ‘rule’ is beyond me) that I had exactly half an hour to fall asleep. He couldn’t touch me in dream world, you see. Naturally. If I hadn’t fallen asleep, he would reach up slowly with his purple furry arm - yes, I was the only child on record to have ‘Grimace’ the McDonald’s character trapped under her bed - and drag me under into his world. Sure I protected myself by placing my stuffed animals in a strategic perimeter around me but still I only slept about 75 hours total for three years. And finally grew out of Grimace by process of elimination - I checked under my bed and in my closet ritualistically every single night. I’ve only just stopped now because the mess under there scares me more than the monsters.
What about as an adult? We should all have grown out of the mind tricks, right? But sometimes it’s just not our fault. Like when you fall asleep with your bedside lamp on and when you wake up it’s off. Off! You’re alone in the house, you know for SURE you didn’t wake up once. How did it turn itself off? Is it a ghost? Well, if it is a ghost at least it’s energy conscious. And then there are the late night, creaking footsteps, the tapping at your window that sounds nothing like a tree regardless of what everyone tells you or a sudden inexplicable drop in temperature (did you see the Sixth Sense?). I swear, the only reason I got a dog was to cover up all of these late night fears. “It was the dog” - is a resounding refrain in our house.
The thing about my dog is, she plays mental tricks on me herself. I don’t thinks she means to but…Sometimes? When I’m getting changed in my room and she’s lying on the bed watching me with her big unblinking brown eyes - there‘s something that‘s just not right. Especially when I’ve been alone in the house for some time and I’ve started to talk to her just to hear the sound of my own voice - “What are we doing today, Lily?” “Should we go for a walk or do you just want to hang out here?” - she starts to seem; human. Not in a good way. Like one of those Shaggy D.A. dog/human combos. Somewhere inside her doggy body may lurk Tim Allen in a three piece suit. And they’re both judging me I climb out of my pyjamas at 2 o’clock in the afternoon on a sunny Saturday. She watches me so intently that I can’t help saying “What?” self-consciously before covering up. And sending her out to the backyard. Where I can only assume she transforms back into just being a dog.
The only plus side to all of this? When one of the boys comes down in the night and is SURE there is a vampire watching him from a tree across the street - I believe him.

My Birthday

2007-09-03T12:16:00.001-05:00

This coming Saturday I will turn thirty-five. Which anyone whose anyone knows means you are no longer in your early thirties. Now I realize in the grand scheme of things, thirty-five is young-ish. Not a huge deal. Or as one of my very best friends would say ‘that ain’t nothing but a chicken wing’. So it shouldn’t be bothering me - especially since I’ve looked thirty-five since I was about eighteen. But it is. It really, really is.
Thirty-five feels as though I should ’be’ somewhere. Maybe solid or something. Dependable. With back-ups of linens and good cutlery. And a library - yes, someone who is thirty-five should definitely have a library in their home as opposed to piles of paperbacks under their bed. Possibly even a fireplace too. I think if I were being graded on life - and I really wish there was a grading system to follow to give one an idea about successes, failures, choices and such - I would be pulling about a C-. Or a C plus. Depending on how much emphasis is put on a self-deprecating sense of humour. And I would definitely get points for my sunny sensibility.
But do you know what I want for my birthday (other than a Vespa, of course)? I want to drop my ‘game face’ for one day. Let go of the sunny sensibility. For just one darn day. I want to take every dark, depressing crappy thought that I keep hidden in the tiniest pocket of my mind out for a good polish. Just ruminate in self-pity. Feel completely and luxuriously just plain sorry for myself. So happy birthday to me then - and to all of you, sort of. You now get to share in my great big old rainy day of melancholy.
Let’s get started, shall we? First of all, I really hate these stupid ‘milestone’ birthdays. They just never work out for me in any way, shape or form. I always end up feeling like the only girl in my group not invited to prom. Wait - except for my nineteenth birthday. That one (from what I’ve heard) was legendary. Sort of a pity I can only remember about seventeen minutes of it. All of the other ones, though…not so much.
For instance there was my sweet sixteen. I had spent months - years even - memorizing ‘Sixteen Going On Seventeen’ from the Sound of Music. ‘Sixteen Candles’ was my favourite movie. I had circled a few used cars in my dad’s Auto Trader just in case. Not that I expected a car or anything but it’s always nice to be well-informed, right? Do you want to know what we did? We went camping. Just me, my brothers and my parents (who incidentally got to sleep in the camper while I slept in a tent beside my explosively gassy brothers). My birthday dinner was some KFC and a candle melting in a fly ridden banana cream pie. With a can of warm diet coke. No dancing in the gazebo with Rolph before he became a Nazi. No pretty pink dress. Just mosquito bites and a wet tent. Sweet.
Then there was my twenty-first. All I can say about that one is this - my friends all had a drunken, raucous good time. I sipped iced tea in the corner, rubbing my pregnant belly. Not fun.
Which brings us to my thirtieth. Which was the weekend after I left my husband. It almost completely passed me by as I packed and cried and bought myself a present that I pretended was from him. My mother took me out for crab cakes and chardonnay the next day, a tense afternoon while we both tried to avoid discussing the huge elephant in the room. Of course I didn’t hear from a single friend because, at that point, I didn’t have a single friends. Saying ‘divorce’ was sort of like yelling ‘stampede!’. I didn’t feel thirty - I felt sixty.
Okay, that’s it. Enough. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t really feel like feeling sorry for myself any more. After all, there’s pretty much no way this birthday can be worse than any of those, right? So what if I have to bake my own cake, make my own dinner, buy my own presents (don’t ask)? This is the first year the boys will all be home, thank goodness. I’m sure I can bully them into being thoughtful. Plus, I can spend the day counting my blessings. Hilarious, cool kids, a few choice loyal friends, a snug little house that I love, shiny hair and all of my teeth. And a job that pays me to complain about my life every week! Life is pretty darn good, I’d say. Or at least, good enough.

Weighty Issues

2007-09-03T12:16:00.000-05:00

The other day I was on the phone with a girlfriend who is considering giving up on men. Apparently she’s had it - had it with the primping, had it with the settling for whatever comes her way, had it with the mind games and the disappointed expectations. “That’s it”, she declared. “I’m going to spend the winter letting myself get all fat and stop caring about how I look.”
Now I don’t think she meant anything by that. I really don’t. The sheer audacity of it, though! This is someone who has spent her entire life as a thin pretty woman. Someone who has never struggled with obesity, the freshman fifteen or even the premenstrual five. So to her, I suppose, it would seem as though just letting yourself get fat is the easiest thing in the world to do. As though it’s a choice a good 55% of us women have made.
I am someone the population at large would consider overweight. And no, I don’t mean that I’m a size 8 who wants to lose 10 pounds. I’m not one of those women who has always been overweight - which I think can be a little tougher in it’s own way. No, unfortunately for me, I was ‘considered a handsome woman in my day‘. I was never a thin girl, but I was thinner. And yes, the four kids haven’t helped my weight, the divorce, the stress of being a single mom, blah, blah, blah. But I’m guessing all of that wonderful chocolate and second - or third - cupcake after the kids have gone to bed probably didn’t help either. And the almost crippling inability to stick to one exercise program at a time - will it be yoga this week? Or belly dancing? Or how about just early morning walks? Or maybe I should just lay on the couch and watch Dawson’s Creek.
You might think I feel rotten about this ‘failure’, this letting down of my self. Not really. It’s like anything else, I suppose, something I need to figure out on my own. If only I could get strep throat again! That had to be the best diet I was ever on! I still like to look nice - sometimes. But even when I was thinner I only ever cared about looking nice some of the time. I tend to be more of a non-conformist about aesthetics - that is until I want to look really pretty and shiny for a party. Then it’s bring on the bronzer! A few months back, I was heading out to this really swanky party with some friends - all of us plus size gals. We were getting ready at my house, blaring some reggae and drinking wine, doing each other’s hair. I felt fabulous. I was wearing a great dress, had bought a perfect hand painted silk scarf to tie around my throat, was wearing these great strappy sandals. Everything around me seemed to buzz with possibility. Inside my little safe place, I was happy. Once outside though…there was a sort of slipping down when we arrived that had nothing to do with the way I looked and everything to do with the looks I felt I was getting (they weren‘t exactly cat-calling for me), a feeling for a moment like maybe we weren’t all that and a bag of chips. Like maybe I looked a little ridiculous. But, wine helped. Five bottles of wine helped more. I danced the night away, laughed, ate and had a wonderful time.
What did this tell me? That maybe it isn’t the extra weight that embarrasses me. Like maybe it’s other people’s embarrassment for me that does me in. Sends me back to the track suits. Do I want to lose weight? Of course I do - sometimes. But the reasons that I want to lose weight are a little goofy - things like “I want to be able to cross my legs and look dainty” or “I want to be able to wear knee high boots and not look like I’ve been sausaged into them”. And I do miss the male attention aspect - but not as much as I miss my size 10 pencil skirts. Which is sort of funny because I think the weight gain had everything to do with men - it is a very comfortable cocoon for me, a nice warm shelter which always manages to be stocked with the best treats. Besides, there’s something welcoming about carrying a little - or a lot - of extra weight. Nurturing. It seems to naturally suit one side of my lifestyle - the homebody, the baker of pies and cooker of dinners, the Mom in me. And the other side of me - the one that gets a little good behaviour time on Saturdays to cut loose and have a few drinks - isn’t ready for a full revolt just yet. But I have a sneaking suspicion it’s coming - I bet she’s waiting in the wings with some new Nike cross trainers and top of the line workout gear ready to pounce. Oh well - perhaps it’s finally time. Or not.

Goodbye Again

2007-07-22T17:48:00.001-05:00

I remember perfectly the day I left home. I was nineteen, and I was heading to Switzerland to be an au pair for a year. My parents, grandparents and my aunt and uncle all took me to the airport for the big send off, waving goodbye to their intrepid voyager. My grandparents cried, my aunt and uncle both hugged me tight (and both slipped a $20 in my pocket, woo hoo!), my step dad went quiet and a little abrupt - a telltale sign for him that things were getting mushy. And my Mom - well, she was heartbroken. I can still see her tear-stained yet somehow streak free face like it was yesterday. For my part, I cried hysterically throughout the entire seven hour flight to Zurich (other than during meal time - Swiss Air really does a lovely on-flight meal). Yes I was frightened and alone, but at the same time part of me felt strangely liberated. This was going to be my year. I was going to see things none of us had seen. Sure I didn’t speak the language, knew exactly one person in the entire country and was about to live with some strange foreign family for a year. But it felt incredibly brave to me, and I had always wanted so badly to be brave.
Now I’m back, obviously, and settled so deep into my small town that I will probably never leave. And this time it’s my Mother who will be waving goodbye. My parents are moving to California, about two hours outside San Francisco. They have lived within two hours of me my entire adult life - not to mention all of the times I’ve moved back home for a brief respite. I like to refer to that as my ‘homing pigeon’ phase. As everyone knows, having parents who live close by can sometimes feel like a mixed blessing. They’re always within shouting distance if there’s a problem which can often mean that it’s difficult to stand on your own two feet. Plus, they don’t really have to give you enough notice to clean your house before their visit, which means that they see where you live in all manners of ill-repair. And when you mess things up royally and you’d rather they didn’t know - they know. Believe me, they ALWAYS know.
But, on the whole, we’ve grown into a pretty familiar existence my parents and I. One that I’m just now realizing is going to end. Every Christmas is spent together, in their house or mine (and that’s always a tricky decision because their house is much bigger but I bring a bit of a population increase, what with the kids and the pets). Every year my Mom and I shop for back-to-school things for my sons, which invariably means that they are outfitted much better than I could ever do on my own. As my Mom says - Old Navy is where the parents have to shop, Gap is where the grandparents get to shop. She’s great for all the extras, my mom. She gets them the cool backpacks, the nicer running shoes, good jewelry (she really wants the boys to have a bit of bling, which means they all have necklaces). And I get to buy the school supplies and lunchables. Because that’s the stuff I can afford.
It’s more than the financial stuff though. My parents are often my company. When winter hits along with a major case of the doldrums, I always head to my parents house and hang out with my step dad. The great thing about him is that he allows me to be as sloth-like as I choose. We watch HGTV almost 24-7, and when we tire of that we watch romantic comedies. His favorite is the Wedding Date - pretty funny considering he’s a big macho electrician who also loves ‘the Nascar’. We eat lots of chocolate and just hang in our sweats letting the full depression of February wash over us. It may not sound fun, but it is fun. As for my Mom - she’s always with me. And she’s the only other person out there who gets jazzed to hear every single waking detail of my kid’s lives. Believe me, no one else is that interested. She likes to be here for everything - Hallowe’en, first day of school, last day of school, Christmas concerts, everything. And I am just now realizing that, as of three weeks, I’ll be doing these completely solo.
There is a plus side to their move. The kids and I are heading down there for a much-needed vacation in October, which will be wonderful. And my parents will get to explore a different part of the world, check out wine country and all of that. I suppose I’m heading into the unknown as well, a world I’ve thought I’ve been part of for a long time but am just now fully entering. The world of really doing it on my own. And I feel - brave again.
I’d love to hear from you! Email me at jrmmcguire@yahoo.ca or visit my website at jrmmcguire.blogspot.com. Cheers - and good luck Mom and Dad!

2007-07-05T10:55:00.001-05:00

I’m bored. What are we doing today? There’s nothing to do. Barbequed burgers AGAIN? Ah, the sounds of summer. If you have a preteen, these sounds of sulky boredom are about as familiar to summer as the sounds of lawnmowers or grasshoppers. I now have two ‘preteen‘ sons - actually, one is now a real teen but I‘ve decided not to accept this, so there you go - and my goodness, life is boring, isn‘t it? Hiking is boring, their brothers are boring, I believe I may even secretly be boring. In the beginning, it seems like a clean slate. The first few days of summer are pretty giddy for them, they stay up late doing nothing, wake up late, eat and then skateboard around looking depressed. I mean, really, what could be more fun than that? But shockingly, the sweet taste of freedom turns sour. For all of us. I want them to be ‘stand-up’ citizens and do some volunteering of their time, maybe pushing the elderly infirm around in wheelchairs or playing checkers with some old men in hats, that sort of thing. They want to hang out in their room and ‘jam’ with their guitar and drums. The same song over, and over, and over again. But it’s a really good song, guys, don’t get me wrong! Or hang out with their friends so that they can all look incredibly sophisticated and bored together (while drinking juice boxes, mind you).
The thing is, they don’t know what’s coming, the poor souls. They don’t know that in the next few years their lives are going to change, their friends will change, we will change. There are going to be a lot of decisions to be made for them in coming years about futures, girls, drinking, drugs. Right now is that magical time between. When they’re still just boys with little or no facial hair and voices that crackle a bit when they’re excited (sorry guys, it’s true). So my mission this summer, besides finding one of those really cool looking retro bikes with a basket on the front (let me know if you see one!), is to make it count. I’m going to force these boys to enjoy every last ounce of their childhood if it kills me! So I’ve come up with a sort of list to give me a hand - nothing fancy, nothing expensive, nothing difficult (except for #2 which might require a working knowledge of drills and such). So if you’re feeling a little stuck, go right ahead and rip off some of these ideas. And great good luck to us all!
1. Head to the beach just after dinner on a windy night. Let yourselves fall backwards into gigantic waves. Don’t care how you look while doing this one, and for Pete’s sake, don’t let anyone take a picture!
2. Build Your Own Go-Kart. Or at least hire someone to build it according to your specs. Or even better, let them do it with their friends while you bring them lemonade and cookies. Yes, I’ve always wanted to be a little like June Cleaver.
3. Sleep under the stars with astrology charts, flash lights and mounds of junk food. Bring bug spray and earplugs (so you don’t hear all of the little animals scurrying up to you in the night)
4. Go for a midnight hike. Actually try to stay quiet and listen to the sounds of nature at your feet, even if you’re really scared of owls (not that I am, naturally.)
5. Head to the library, each of you pick out your favourite book - or one you think the other person would love - and swap. Don’t complain if you have to read Captain Underpants - don’t punish him with a Danielle Steel.
6. Stay in bed on a rainy day with popcorn, movies, a journal and some drawing paper. Hang out in your jammies with no expectations, nowhere else to be, and no one else you’d rather be with. Just be.
7. Each of you choose a favourite hobby - gardening for you? Skateboarding for him? - and try your level best to learn as much as you can. Because all you’re really trying to do is ‘know’ each other beyond, Mom-cries-at-movies and Son-hates-to-bathe. You may be surprised.
8. Pick somewhere on the map you’ve never been within an hour’s drive and explore, explore, explore. Take your own food, your own water etc. and be a backpacker for the day.
9. Make a movie. Write your own script, make costumes, make backdrops completely commit yourself to the project. Accept that your part in the movie will be small, and that you may be killed off quite gruesomely by Act 2.
10. Lay in the grass, looking up at the sky, and remember what those last few breaths of childhood felt like. Make him remember too.

2007-07-05T10:55:00.000-05:00

The other day I began a pros and cons list to help me decide if I do, indeed, like summer. I feel like I like summer. Every year I get pretty excited about the arrival of summer, I become full of plans and paint my toenails and such. Outings to the beach - heavenly! Picnics by the river - glorious! Warm pies cooling on the windowsill while the children paint out of doors - oh wondrous joy! And, on the pros side, I really enjoy the eating habits of summer. The little bits of this and that and everything - like potato salad, corn bread, barbeque chicken, peach pie - instead of a structured meal. Because I have recently discovered that I cannot commit to anything, even the idea of one particular meal. Plus, people tend to be drinking outside a little more, and I’m always a fan of that.
But the cons side, if I’m to be honest, is beginning to snowball on me. For instance - I am just not a gardener. Heck, I’m not even a mower of lawns. And somewhere inside me is this intrepid spirit of a gardener begging to be let loose, putting on her big floppy hat and sliding into her crocs with hedge trimmers at the ready. This gardener inside me is a bit of a nag. And has a British accent for whatever reason. She wants me to get up earlier in the morning, trim things and turn dirt and wave at the early morning joggers, sharing a smug little satisfied smile at our industrious natures. How hard could it be, she’ll ask me. Maybe it’s sort of like breastfeeding - people talk about it like it’s brain surgery, it scares you off, then you do it and it’s the most natural thing in the world. Give it a try… Unfortunately, she’s just never going to win out against the other me, the one snoring in bed and hitting the snooze button until the last possible minute. That would also be the ‘me’ who tells herself that those white lacy weeds running amok all over her yard are Mother Nature’s masterpiece. Who are we to call them weeds?
Another con - every year around this time I start to remember the promises I made to myself last year around this time, start remembering the fantasies I had about the woman I would be. In my white sundress or cute capris and t-shirt, with thinner legs, longer hair and fewer lines. And every year I realize that isn’t going to happen. I’m still the same woman who drives as far as possible down the beach so no unsuspecting onlooker will be subjected to visions of me frog jumping through the waves in my ill-fitting black maillot. Because I’m not giving up the jumping in the waves with the boys bit- that definitely goes on the pro side.
So far the heat is a pro not a con, but who knows how long that will hold out? I don’t have air conditioning but I do have nature’s A.C. - lots of trees. They still do the trick pretty nicely. But soon the trees are going to give out on me, their branches are going to start drooping and pouting in the heat. They’re going to go on strike, and that’s when the fans will come out. You start hearing about it everywhere you go - everyone is talking about opening windows in the morning, closing them mid afternoon, opening again in the evening at the right time, fans in the windows, fans on the floors, fans in the bedrooms…It’s like Morse code for the sweaty.
When it comes right down to it, my problems with summer have nothing to do with summer and everything to do with becoming aware of my shortcomings. Sticky countertops that will never get smooth, approximately 8 more fruit flies buzzing about the kitchen than are socially acceptable, not enough lessons for the kids and too much ice cream for me. Then there’s all the shaving of parts, sunburns in incredibly awkward places, messier hair than usual. People on dates who look so happy that you can’t even silently heckle them - at least in the winter they’re holed up at home by the fire, most likely snuggling in private. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
But as many cons as there are, I have a good feeling they’ll never turn me completely. Especially since next year I plan to look incredible, I’m going to have lost some weight, grown my hair, I’ll have a fantastic tan….

Break Up

2007-06-12T09:53:00.000-05:00

I consider myself to have had ample experience with ‘break-ups’. There was my husband, after all, the Moby Dick of break-ups, the kind of thing you think is never going to be over or better, but then one day it just…is. You wake up one morning after a good night’s sleep - maybe the first good night’s sleep you’ve had in years - and you realize that you don’t miss him. And it no longer bothers you that he DEFINITELY doesn’t miss you. So the next time he comes to pick up the kids you can chat or possibly even have coffee because now you’re going to be friends. The other ‘stuff’ is over. Hallelujah!!
So what does one do when the break-up is with a friend? You see, this is my problem - I almost hate to admit it, but the man break-up thing doesn’t really ever affect me anymore. Because we can compartmentalize dates and boyfriends and relationships all the way into marriage - and then sometimes even after that. Your girlfriends, though…They know you. They are the ones who normally stand the test of time, who pick up your kids from school if you’re running late or bake you cookies if you’re sad. They’re the cream in your coffee. They’re everywhere, in every pocket of your life.
But as with everything else, sometimes it just…ends. And I really hate that. Especially when there’s just the tiniest little possibility that it was my fault. I definitely hate to be at fault (which is a little disconcerting considering how frequently I AM at fault). Sometimes you are at different times in your life, sometimes you have just run out of new stories to tell each other or sometimes there’s just too much - crap. Am I allowed to say crap? Because that’s the only name for it. Crap. So you break-up.
Not that you call it a break-up - no, only romantic relationships get titles. Or actual official endings. The phone calls trickle away, a week or so goes by when you both think about calling and mutter under your breath “Wait a minute; I’m always the one that calls!! It’s her turn now!” and then you pretend to not care. And mention not caring to your husbands 30 or 40 times over the next few days. The week ebbs away, another comes and goes, then a month, and with the start of the new month you’ve broken up. It’s official - I believe one month to be the official best friend break-up time period.
When you go through your break-up with a friend, there is no social consideration, I must tell you. Hallmark has yet to come out with a card that says - “Hey, it’s too bad you and your best friend just broke up, go eat some chocolate.”. Not that I really need Hallmark to remind me to eat chocolate, but you get my drift. People in general don’t really acknowledge this ending of all endings. Because it really ends, doesn’t it? Sometimes with your ex-boyfriend or husband you can say, “Look, I know we aren’t in love any more but we’re still friends, so let’s go for a drink.” You can’t call your ex-best friend and say “Look, I know we’re not friends any more - but can we still hang out sometime?”. Not that I haven’t considered calling, but I think it might seem a little…
At some point or another, you are both probably going to get a new best friend, or at least good friend. She will probably have one before you, prepare yourself. And that is just the worst. Not that you don’t want your ex-friend to be happy - or at least you should, somewhere deep, deep down within your heart - you just can’t quite stomach seeing them wander around town with their jaunty matching purses, the purse YOU had been about to buy. Especially since you need to accept that the first time you run into each other, you are going to be alone and looking lonely and exhausted - it’s just the way the world works, don’t fight it.
The truth is, we are all going to lose friends along the way. Whether it’s their fault, your fault or someone else’s fault (my personal preference - I really don’t like to take the blame), it happens. The important thing is to let yourself accept this loss the same way you accept everything else. With a lot of whining, crying, wine and fattening foods. It’s really the only way.

Blame It On Harlequin!!

2007-06-10T12:56:00.001-05:00

I started reading Harlequin Romances when I was about 12 or 13. I had been reading the Sweet Valley High series before then (remember the Wakefield twins, Jessica and Elizabeth?) but found I was ready to move on. You see, while I did enjoy reading about Elizabeth and her steady, sweetheart of a boyfriend Todd, they didn’t seem in any hurry to ‘close the deal’. And my curiosity was killing me (although not really bringing me any closer to actual flesh and bone boys). I was ready for some bodice-ripping good clean fun. Enter Harlequin.
I will admit I took a lot of comfort in the standard romance novel formula. Possibly far more than I should. I sort of liked the idea that there were really only six or seven regurgitated stories, basically half a dozen ways of falling in love. And that they generally took place somewhere a little cooler than where I lived (sorry, Owen Sounders). As most of us know the stories all go something like this;
-Pretty Girl owns cute shop, Swarthy Man comes along and buys up half the town. They hate each other, he kisses her roughly and she simpers. All ends well.
-Beautiful Girl and Handsome Man were in love once and ended it badly over a misunderstanding. He comes back, rich, to punish her. Meets his son who looks just like him (gasp!). He’s a little bossy but they fall back in love. But not until after he kisses her roughly.
-Simple Girl has amnesia. I actually always hated this story line so I will spare you the details. Needless to say at some point, despite her obvious mental incapacitation, he kisses her roughly.
- The Sheik kidnaps Haughty Girl and holds her for ransom. They fall in love after he kisses her roughly a whole lot more than the Western guys are allowed.
-My all-time favourite. The ‘Jenny Craig’ story line. When Chubby-with-Potential Girl is about eighteen and she meets Him. The thirty-six year old (he’s ALWAYS thirty-six) who’s business partners with her father. He hurts her in some brutal yet somehow forgivable way and leaves. She is devastated and goes on a two year ‘frump’ diet of limp hair and no food. She comes out the other end as a butterfly, with a killer figure, a great boyfriend (who is always blond and named either Even or Stephen - if you’re a blond guy in the books, you’re never getting the girl) a cool job and nice apartment. The Man comes back, puts on a tux and kisses her roughly. Bye bye Evan and cool apartment.
There are other elements, of course. Our heroine is beautiful but never trendy, her hair is always timeless. She would never sport a shag or a mullet or a Rachel. She is never seeking love, she is always sought out. And although she may not have any money, when the Greek tycoon comes along and forces her to accompany him to his villa in Crete (else he turn in her 2-bit loveable crook of a brother), she manages to have an amazing wardrobe.
Which is why we love her.
As for our hero - well, he’s always kind of a jerk, isn’t he? Sure, he has great abs and wide hair-free shoulders. But he’s also bossy and mean and arrogant. With a soft, warm centre.
So right there. That is why I’m single. And contemplating a major class action suit against Harlequin (as well as a really harsh letter to the Sweet Valley High series). How dare they give me - give US, sisters! - the impression that this is what we should expect? That every angry, bossy handsome dark haired man out there is really only waiting for us to put on a cocktail dress and give him some love? That if we could only stop looking for love, the Greek tycoon would end up on our doorstep (on the dead end street, mind you) to sweep us off our feet? That we should all hold out for a wealthy, arrogant, dark, autocratic man and keep all those perfectly nice balding, funny next-door neighbour fellas as our buddies? Who the heck do they end up with, I ask you?
Okay, here it is, girls. Time for some hard truths. Bossy is just bossy. Even if it’s attached to a really nice frame. If some guy keeps kissing you roughly do me a favour, and call the cops. It’s actually against the law. Give Evan or Stephen a chance, it’s not his fault if he’s blond. Or even bald!
It’s nice to know that, in real life, there are millions of ways to fall in love. That’s not to say that Harlequin doesn’t still owe us. I think a year’s worth of free books could be a start.

A tribute to my Uncle Dexter, passed away June 5, 2007

2007-06-10T12:56:00.000-05:00

You know, you can tell so much about a person by their laugh. Some people have a sort of little twitter, some people hide their laughter behind their hand, some never even laugh at all.
Our Dexter had a HUGE laugh. The kind that stopped people in their tracks, mid-sentence when they heard it. It was infectious, and singular and full of happiness. We all heard it often, for different reasons. Whether he was laughing at a slightly off-colour joke, a story amongst the many stories of us, or laughing at himself it was always there. His trademark.
Dexter was passionate about so many things, but mostly he was passionate about - all of us. The people who drove him crazy, who made him laugh, who made him proud. The people who sent him on errands to the airport for midnight pick-ups or to the corner store for chocolate and diet pop.
So much of our time in this great big whirling dervish of a family is spent fighting. Or crying. Dexter was the one who made us all laugh at ourselves through our anger or tears with his outrageousness. For a man who looked so serious, so studious, he was the best fun around. Especially if you were a teenager - he understood your angst, real or imagined. How many of us here were introduced to rock music - and in particular the rock ballads - by Dexter? How many of us were horrified/impressed by his very…original dancing at the family weddings? Or forced to get up and get dancing regardless of how cranky or teenager-y we were trying to be? The only way for him to have fun was to force YOU to have fun. And eventually, no matter how you might resist, it was always fun.
As much as he loved to dance, loved to fish, loved to read, REALLY loved Bette Midler, there was one he loved above all else. Rose. The one he lost before he knew, I think, it was quite possible to lose her. Before any of us really knew it was possible to lose her. She was who he was, in most ways. They were the same person - so much so that the younger kids thought they shared one name, Rosandex. They knew how to make the most of the ridiculously short time they were allowed. Together they travelled, ate, swam, read, lived and loved. And most of all, gave us two of the kindest, best people I know. They left us with Michael and Katie. And millions of memories small, huge difficult and cherished. Memories filled with music, laughter, heartache and even more irreverent laughter.
As well as Dexter’s incredibly good fried chicken - that tasted just as good cold as it did hot, incidentally.
I don’t know if you were ready to go, Dexter, because I am not you. I don’t know if you’d said all of your goodbyes or put all of your demons to rest. But I do know there is someone who waits for you, someone wonderful and kind and yours. And there are so many of us here who you loved for who we were and who you knew we would one day be. So for all of us,
Thank you, we love you and goodbye.

Ben

2007-05-30T20:19:00.000-05:00

At some point or another I’ve started noticing little bits of me filtering into each of my kids. For instance Callum has my sense of humour (lucky, lucky boy), Jack has inherited my particular talent of tripping over nothing and breaking limbs (not so lucky boy) and Nathan - well, neither Nathan nor I seem to have a real sense of social boundaries. Things like close talking, or leaving enough ‘dance space’. Or just plain old too much talking. And Ben? Ben…has inherited my nose. Which is not a bad thing.
Ben is my second oldest boy, neither youngest nor oldest nor even officially middle. He is kind and handsome and thoughtful. And he is the one son of mine of whom I have felt the least sure. It isn’t that we aren’t close to each other - or at least, I hope it isn’t about that. I love Ben as much as the other boys with the same sort of singular list I carry in my heart for each of them, a list that will always be theirs and theirs alone. The problem isn’t loving him enough; no, my problem lies in getting him enough. In becoming more sure than I am now.
I am not a brilliant woman (I can actually feel you all nodding in agreement and I will try not to hold it against you). I am smart enough, funny enough and (sometimes) kind enough. Ben is a brilliant boy. He is single minded in his pursuits, of which there are many. Whereas I have a few pursuits which I forget about once there’s a good show or book in front of me. Ben is one of those people that can quote parts of the dictionary to you, can bend over a creek and watch the same fish go by for hours until his slender little back is burnt in the sun, who bounces a basketball a thousand times in a row until it bounces the way he wants it to. He would eat the same meal for dinner (meatballs in sauce, mashed potatoes and carrots) every single night and wear the same Led Zeppelin t-shirt, shorts and shoes every day. I can barely make it through one meal without wanting something different.
Our one saving grace seems to be his quirkiness - thank God because that’s all I’ve got. Quirks. When he was a little boy he was deathly - DEATHLY - afraid of flies. If one landed near him he was inconsolable for hours. He is almost irrationally emotional, and I too have had a moment or two of overwhelming emotion. A day. When we bake together he ties his apron - yes, he will wear an apron for me and how great is that? - tightly and trimly around his middle. He also likes to wear robes and slippers. I don’t, but I really love that he does - and I especially love that he walks around in said robe and slippers and hums to himself just like my Grandpa used to. It’s different and precious.
I must admit that there have been times when I have felt judged by Ben. He is very - moral. And I don’t mean to make that seem like a bad thing. I’m glad he has a fine sense of morals. I just wish he wouldn’t use them against me. Like the time I got a speeding ticket (or would have if I hadn’t cried my eyes out until the policeman, terrified, told me to ‘just go’.) and Ben looked at me with censure in his eyes, muttering “You’re a really bad driver, Mom.” I’m really not. Or every once in a while he will catch my mother and I gossiping in the kitchen with a glass of wine - not that we do that very often. He will look at us with this sort of world-weary impatience and ask “Who are you two talking about THIS time?”. We usually stop then. Or go red, or both. Because we don’t want to look bad in his eyes. Especially since he is almost always such an incredibly ‘good’ boy. Such a good boy, in fact, that when he feels like being a ‘bad’ boy he feels a sort of justification. “I deserve this”, his eyes will say to me as he slowly beats his younger brother to a pulp. “I am really good a lot of the time and you need to give me this moment to act out.” Which I never do.
Here’s the thing - a lot of the time it’s true, I don’t really get Ben. I don’t share a lot of his interests or many of his passions. I don’t see a lot of myself in him. But at the end of the day I think it’s really okay. I think the wanting to get him is as important as actually getting him. Being proud of who he is, letting him become even more of who he’ll be every time I encourage him or just allow him to be. Especially when who he’ll be, I’m certain, is better than me.

Back waxing????

2007-05-23T18:48:00.000-05:00

Summer is coming, and pretty soon we’ll all be seeing a lot more of each other. In more ways than one. As all of my magazines keep reminding me, we won’t be able to hide behind long dark yards of clothes any more. Which really has me thinking about only two things. I need to start back into my half-hearted yoga regimen pretty soon. And, perhaps even more importantly, all of the men out there need to start waxing their backs. Seriously.
I don’t think it should be a legislative issue at this point, although any candidate who might want to add this matter to their platform would certainly have my support. It’s just that - I think male back-waxing should be a sort of assumption at this stage of the game. Like anti-perspirant or after shave. Hey, if about 95% of women are willing to shave their legs every second day BARE MINIMUM, there should be nary a man out there who still makes us suffer through the hair patches, hair vest, hair shirt, hair coat or the Wookie. It’s really just a question of common courtesy. And in my opinion back-waxing is the very least you can do (I’d also like to eradicate the speedo and the sandals with socks, but those are other columns for other days).
Here’s the thing; every woman out there -and I really mean pretty much EVERY woman - is primping in some way or another. Even if it’s just moisturizing or blow-drying your hair it’s primping. Most of us, of course, have signed up for the more intense primping programs. Like pedicures, manicures, highlights, lowlights, makeovers, make-unders, self tanners, eyelash curlers…and the list goes on. A lot of these things are wonderfully soothing but some are…well. I don’t want to scare any of the men off with wax horror stories. Talk about cutting your nose off to spite your face.
Even someone like me, someone who is seen out in public in flavoured chapstick and a pony tail most days. It may seem like a bit of a blank page at first glance. But really, if you only knew the upkeep that needs to go on behind the scenes. It’s not a blank page, it’s more like a plain dust jacket for a really long novel. Because looking basically decent is a far cry from basic.
In the last few years I think most of us have become familiar with a new phenomenon called the ‘metro-sexual’. For those of you who don’t know, it’s basically men who primp. A lot of regular Joes out there tend to disparage this lot as effeminate or ridiculous or foolish. The truth is, I think the metro-sexual makes the regular Joe a little nervous. I think there are a few men who don’t want this particular cat let out of it’s huge bag. Because we women are a pretty accepting group for the most part (now, now, fellas, don’t snicker). So it takes you about two hours to get ready for a party and it takes him three minutes to put on that outfit you laid out for him, so what? So what if he never shaves on the weekends, wears the same dirty baseball cap to dinner that he wore to mow the lawn, that his favourite outfit is worn boxer shorts and a dirty t-shirt? Scruff is adorable, right? Well, maybe not. Maybe these other men, the ones who smell unbelievably wonderful, who’s outfits are probably even better than anything you would have chosen, maybe they’re on to something. Scruff is fine and dandy, but what if? With a little work and a little consideration, what if you could make your fella look better, and cleaner, and even smell prettier? So far the men have had it pretty darn easy. But I sense there may be a change a-comin’.
Here it is, fellas. I’m really doing you a favour in the long run. Think about the few seconds of minute - well, considerable; okay, excruciating pain balanced against the reward. Think about how great you’ll look at the beach this summer. Or how appreciative the lady in your life will be if you comply…nudge, nudge, wink, wink. And hey, nobody’s asking you to give up being manly. Especially not me. Body hair is great on a man, neigh on indispensable. There’s nothing like a little five o’clock shadow, some hairy forearms or slightly furry legs. We want you to be men, after all. Just men with nice, smooth backs. And possibly moisturized feet. Who smell great. And have neatly trimmed nails…

Mother's Day

2007-05-08T12:04:00.000-05:00

This Sunday is Mother’s Day. Now did everyone read that perfectly clearly? This Sunday is MOTHER’S DAY! It’s a day for us, the moms. Not that we care, naturally. No, seriously, it’s fine if you just call. Or drop in if you have a minute. It’s not as though we should figure into your plans, what with having given birth to you and raised you and all. A card would be nice, but only if you really want to give us a card. You don’t have to, though. Do whatever is in your heart. The heart we gave you.
I’ve been a Mom for - what? - about thirteen Mother’s Days. I remember my first one like it was yesterday. Callum was about four months old and his Dad and I were out at the mall shopping. Normally I’m not really a ‘gift hoarder’ if you will, but I figured I was in for a pretty good haul this year. Between the breast-feeding and diaper changing and the loss of my misspent youth, I calculated that I would be in for a whole outfit - shoes included - at least, maybe even a dinner out at a restaurant besides Wendy’s. My fella went for a ‘wander’ around the mall (in the general vicinity of the Gap! Yeah!) and called out for me to pick up a card for his Mom while I was getting a card for my Mom.
That’s right. I hadn’t really figured on this Mother’s Day (which is this Sunday) being his first as well. He got his Mother a card, a few flowers and a plate of Weiner Schnitzel at the local German eatery. I got a takeout container. We broke up a few years later. I still swear that had nothing to do with it.
As the years have passed the boys have grown and each year they find a new way to surprise me. Not always pleasantly - like the year after my divorce when Mother’s Day sort of snuck up on us and we sat around, startled, for the entire day not knowing what to do, or the infamous year when one of them (and I won‘t say who) asked why I got 2 special days in a year. Uh-huh. - but usually they can be counted on for some enforced thoughtfulness. They try to fight a little less, stay a bit cleaner, recognize my ‘beauty’ as best they can without gagging. I love every saccharine sweet second of it. I love Nathan’s bouquets of dandelions wilting in a mug of warm water on my kitchen sink, the soggy overflowing bowl of Cap’n Crunch Jack serves me in bed, Ben’s Popsicle stick framed class photo, with his usual sweet poem, the delicate stained glass butterfly Callum made for my bedroom. I love every unselfish moment of Mother’s Day. Which is this Sunday.
Now here is the question of the day - how do you go about being a pampered Mom on Mother’s Day and still manage to be a good daughter? You see, this is a tough one in my case because I have two brothers who just sort of…suck at Mother’s Day. And birthdays. And Christmas. And Groundhog Day. So it falls to me to make a decent go of it for Mother’s Day (which is this Sunday). I don’t mind, really. Actually, I don’t mind at all. She certainly deserves it. It’s just that…sometimes, when I’m in her kitchen and my sons are in the backyard playing while her sons are on their you-know-whats watching football or whatever, waiting for their dinner to be prepared and served to them on a silver platter, I can’t help but think;
“Why am I the one in the kitchen sautéing the bleep-bleep mushrooms for the steaks? I’m a mother too, darn it! I want to be pampered! Wahh, wahh!”
But you know what? My mother does a million tiny and huge things that help me be the wonderful mother I undoubtedly am (right?). Like cutting up watermelon for those darn litter-less lunches, buying me that blouse she knows I can’t afford, taking me for pedicures, doing the dishes while she forces me to have a bubble bath, telling me I ‘deserve better’ (this applies to soo many situations, believe you me). And what am I doing for her? Well, I did bring her a really nice bottle of wine…okay fine. I’ll keep the petulant whining down to a minimum this year. Because she’s a great Mom, who doesn’t always know that she’s a great Mom and who helps me to be a sort-of great Mom. But next year, I think we should go sans-men to some sort of fantastic spa for Mother’s Day.
Which is this Sunday. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

Sun Times Column May 1st

2007-05-04T20:39:00.001-05:00

There are a few things I’m good at, and quite a few at which I’m not so great. I make a fantastic pumpkin loaf, have excellent taste in scented candles and possess a natural instinct for when a show will be cancelled. Survivor is my next bet. The list of things at which I am not so accomplished - well, this isn’t the day for that particular list. But if there is one accomplishment I have mastered it is this - I am an excellent third wheel. Impressive, no?
You may ask, who in their right mind would want to master such a lost art? Well, I’ll tell you. Some of us who have remained single for an almost obscene amount of time need to integrate. Girls nights are fun, and giggly and full of wine and cheese and all of that, but they’re limited. Eventually, especially if you move in tiny social circles as I do myself, you must learn to ingratiate yourself with the male of the species. In my experience, some beer and any foods with melted cheeses should have you well on your way. But to be a welcome addition to a couple - it requires finesse, my friend.
You can’t seem too clingy to either male or female. Or dominate the conversation - or seem like a victim. We‘ve gotten a bad rap over the years, we third wheels- there is an instant resentment that you must beat down with wit and charm. But there’s value in what we do, really. A good third wheel will always be on her (or his) best behaviour, always pick up the slack in a dull conversation, always encourage you to get along. As with everything else there are rules that should be adhered to if done right. You must choose your ‘dates’ carefully. No Friday nights, because that’s real date night. No New Year’s Eve, because that’s just terribly sad (believe me, I know.). Obviously no Valentine’s Day, but I tend to be busy eating a lot of fine chocolate and drinking a lot of cheap wine that night. I recently had to attend a family wedding with a couple - not because there wasn’t a date of my own to be had, but because I would not subject a virtual stranger to such a McGuire-dense event. It would scare away the normals. The three of us ended up sharing a hotel room - not in a dirty way - so that meant that my friend and I were able to get ready together, laughing and primping like we did when we were girls and needed much less primping. And her adorable husband lay on his bed smiling, enjoying this rare glimpse into the secret life of girl-talk.
What on earth is the appeal for the man in all of this? Well, said husband told me that night, actually, that it was an ego boost. He said that he gets to take two beautiful women to the wedding (aw, shucks) and that we are both in such good moods that we’re more fun to be around. Personally, I suspect it also has something to do with the attention. Whenever I’m out with a girlfriend and her husband, every little kindness is amplified and praised. Like a precious only chid of two doting parents. When he holds the door for us, fetches a glass of wine, gallantly offers to pay for dinner, we both smile and say thank you, and isn’t it nice that chivalry, in fact, is not dead? He’s such a good boy! Also, our conversations are different from the ones he probably has with his friends. With us, he can talk about his emotionally unavailable father, or his upcoming knee surgery or his overstuffed Christmas list. Or the time he cried for hours when his dog died. Or how much he secretly hates hockey (you’d be surprised, my friend, how many times I’ve heard that). He gets to be ‘one of the girls’ for the night.
As for me? You’re probably thinking ‘Why bother?’. Well, I’m not much of a dater, and in a way this is sort of like fake dating. It’s a way of staying connected but still separate. A glimpse into the men my boys could very well grow into - what are they like? What do they worry about? What makes them happy? How much do they love their moms? Seriously, what the heck is with the fascination with video games? I get answers to questions I can’t ask the boys (When did you start to like girls? When is it normal to need more alone time? Why must they wrestle to convey every emotion?), and I get to keep great friends close and make a few great new friends in the process. Ain’t life grand?

Sun Times Column April 24

2007-05-04T20:39:00.000-05:00

You know, as you can well imagine, there are very few things about boys that surprise me any longer. Their fascination with all bodily functions, their need to change the lyrics of every song into something slightly dirty, their knowledge of all things superhero. I really had the market cornered, in my mind. Even with my oldest son Callum nearing his teen years. I knew things were going to change just slightly, I knew he was going to get a little crankier, a little taller, a lot more interested in girls. But for the most part, things would probably remain the same, right? In fact we had a conversation about this at the end of last summer. We were driving back from the beach with the windows down and listening to the Beatles, and his man-boy feet (which remind me of a puppy, always two sizes bigger than where he is) were bare, propped up on the dashboard.
“You know, hon, in about a year, you’re going to start to think you hate me. And I just want you to know that it’s alright to feel like that for a while - we’ll get over it.”
“As if, Mom. I would never hate you.” We smiled at each other, supremely smug in our closeness.
And he doesn’t hate me. Not really. It’s just that - well, you know when your kids are small, and the worst thing in their world is when you’re angry at them? All you have to say is their name like a question and they almost instantly flush and say ‘sorry, Mom’. Now when I say ‘Cal-lum?’ in my best reproving voice he shrugs and says ‘What?’ He has even told me he’s angry with me sometimes. Like when I act goofy or silly or normal or breathe a little loud. I didn’t know he would ever really be angry with me.
There is this incredible remoteness with him sometimes, too. He’ll be leaning against the kitchen counter drinking his pulp-free orange juice and he is just so - gone from me. I can picture his future suddenly as clear as a bell, I see him as that handsome man in a crowded room, leaning against a bar with his open-necked shirt and his fancy watch (I always picture him as a fancy watch kind of guy), not talking to anyone. And some poor frazzled woman will keep walking by him thinking ‘Has he noticed me? Does he like my hair? I wonder if I should put on more perfume?’. I bet he’ll even have a lot of blond arm hair, which disturbs me even more for some reason. As for me - I am mostly in his peripheral vision these days, a sort of colourless shapeless entity who cooks his meals and gives him curfews and censors ‘Borat’. Sometimes I feel like I should put on a little makeup or fluff my hair a bit for him - what is it about a teenage son that makes you eminently conscious of your old sweats? Maybe even a little judged. Although if I tried to look nice, he would be furious with me for that as well.
He isn’t always so remote, though. He may be a teenager but he’s still - Cal. He is still wise beyond his years in a lot of ways, still makes me laugh until my sides hurt, will still cuddle in with me to watch a movie I’ve chosen as long as I’ve billed it a ‘romantic comedy’ (okay, so ‘The Notebook’ wasn’t really a romantic comedy, but he really liked it anyways.). And there’s a new facet to our relationship that is oddly satisfying. When your kids are younger it’s ALL about the shielding and monitoring. Sometimes it still is, and then it isn’t. Every once in a while I’ll make some sort of PG-13 little aside and he’ll put his arm around my shoulders and laugh. We talk about the future, have the whole ‘what do you want to do when you grow up?’ conversation with notes and facts, discussing universities and R.E.S.P’s. Although I do miss the days when his answer was ‘I want to be Spiderman’. We talk about girls - actually I talk about girls and he listens silently. But he does listen.
He makes me think of my favourite bridge, the one I cross on my walks almost every day. I’ve always looked out over my left shoulder at the great view, the willow trees and sunlight and groups of plump ducks drying on the shore. I love that view. But just the other day I crossed the street to check out the other side. It was a little bit the same, but a little bit different. I liked the old view a lot, but I could learn to like this one, I suppose. Maybe this view will turn into something even lovelier than before

For the Girls

2007-04-17T22:17:00.000-05:00

About two years ago my Mom bought me this really fantastic bra. We had been out shopping - she is the last victim standing who will still shop for bras with me, I think she may suffer from Stockholm Syndrome - and we found this black silk bra. Full support (a girl always needs all the support she can get), wide straps and, best of all, a hot pink embroidered butterfly right smack dab in the middle. Oh it was a glorious thing to behold - I took it in to the change room, tried it on for all of thirty seconds to make sure the girls would stay put and maybe even danced around for a little in it. Or maybe not, I’ll never say.
I got it home - and that butterfly really let me down in the thick of things, I must tell you. It kept waffling under the pressure, caving in on itself, letting the girls - well, letting the girls down, really. I’ve worn this bra once or twice, sacrificing any sort of comfort or modesty as I realign and re-adjust the gals every 20 minutes or so just to feel that butterfly flutter near my heart. Mostly now though it lays in the bottom drawer, or my ‘pretty bra graveyard’ as I’ve started calling it. It’s folded neatly, kept company by the pink lace demi bra, the lavender ‘extreme’ push-up bra that had me looking like the masthead of a ship, the black t-shirt bra with extra padding - tell me, why exactly do they pad bras that size? I’m fairly certain I have enough natural padding of my own.
Bra shopping, right? There is NOTHING worse, not root canals, not blind dates, not severe nail breakage. I’ve been tempted over the years to get properly fitted for a bra - after all, Oprah has done at least two specials on proper bra fit (did you know 85% of us are wearing the wrong size?) and she is Oprah. She knows things. But I’m a little afraid - Oprah was a size G, which means that the alphabet could quite possibly run out before they find my size. And I’ve looked through the stores - even on the bottom shelves in the bigger department stores (which is where they always keep the bigger sizes; it’s not humiliating enough to rifle through all of the boxed bras, they need to make you crawl in the dark for them as well), the biggest size they have is, like a D. Which just won’t do. Although, even if you find your size, chances are you won’t be that size in the next store or even necessarily if you try again tomorrow after you’ve downed an iced cappucino on the way to the mall.
Another thing - if you do ever manage to figure out what size bra you wear, if you get taped and measured and wrestled in to the right bra with the right straps which conceal the right amount of back fat, why do they only come in two colours? And why are the colours either white or the colour of nothingness? Forget about matching underwear - just go get yourself a pair of granny panties, I suppose. Then you’ve got your poor fella sitting next to you at the movies, watching some hot young starlet in her black lace panty set and he’s probably thinking “Oh yeah, I get to go home with Ms. Granny Panties/Burlap Bra”.
Of course, let’s not forget the terminology - I swear you need a degree in bra-translation to figure out what you need. A minimizer, a maximizer (because if the girls are small, they need to look bigger and if the girls are big, you’ve gotta make them look smaller), balconette, demi-cup, underwire, sport, full-coverage, push-up, extreme push-up, plunge, wire-free, padded. And one of these is the type of bra that will flatter you the most, will have you standing a little taller and feeling a litter curvier, thinner, whatever you like. But no one is telling you which one - you must guess.
It doesn’t really help that we are all so - aware - of our breasts either. Whether they are too small, too large, a strange shape, lopsided, two different sizes, so much of our feminine strength and power is wrapped up in them. So maybe that’s why we willingly shell out hundreds (that’s right husbands, we all lied. That bra didn’t cost 9.99. It was 84.99 on sale) to see them treated right. That’s also why we wash them like we wash our newborn babies, by hand and with love - the wedding dress would go in the dryer before the ‘smalls’.
There is always hope, though. The secret is - not to keep it a secret. If you find a great bra tell everyone. Tell them where you bought it. Tell them why you love it. Maybe even tell them your size - it would be very cleansing, trust me. The perfect bra is the Holy Grail. So let’s all soldier on, girls. For the girls.

Column April 10th

2007-04-11T09:38:00.000-05:00

What Would YOU Ask….?
I’m an inquisitive sort of gal most days. Always was. Now as a girl the big problem was never getting any proper answers. These days though, as my stack of women’s magazines and self-help books can attest to, the problem is too many answers. All day, every day, I’m getting answers to questions I had this morning, had last week, questions I haven’t actually asked yet but someone has anticipated my question so…
Answers are fine, really just fine. Lately though, I’ve had at least five answers to every question I’ve asked. Which of course has me asking more questions. So what I’m looking for, what I crave, what I’d really, really appreciate is a DEFINITIVE answer. Some fantastic omnipotent being that knows, and everyone knows it knows so that’s the end of it, already! Someone who can say beyond a shadow of a doubt - “No, take my word for it, red is just not your colour no matter what the shade.”
So what would I ask this useful gal or fella? Oh, millions of things. Sure, I would ask the ‘Big’ questions about our existence and stuff, but first I would want answers to the really important questions:
Should I be counting calories or fat grams? What the heck is trans fat? Can I eat as many chips as I want, as long as they don’t have trans fat? Did I look better when my hair was longer (even the boys are split on this one, and yes, I’ve asked them)? How many swear words do you have to put in a movie to change it from PG13 to 14A? Am I being too permissive if I let Callum go to a 14A even though he is 13? Is switching to 1% milk enough to help you lose weight? How often should you wash your hair?
Is it better to marry for love or companionship? Are they eventually the same thing, does it happen one cold morning when he helps you into your winter coat without your having to ask? What age should you REALLY start having kids - this ship has sailed for me, of course, but I would ask this for all of the up-and-comers. Because it seems to me there are a few regrets attached to whichever age you choose, so someone needs to tell us.
Do you really need an oil change every 3000 km? Seriously? What will happen if I use Oil of Olay products with Almay products - will my skin peel off? If I don’t have time for my stretches after my work out, will I still build muscle or will they just atrophy? Should I have left my husband? Am I really happier now, or do I just tell myself I’m happier?
Equally as important - if I switch to light peanut butter, will I get slimmer but then die from the toxins in the mystery ingredients? How much television is too much? How do you know for sure? Will I make the kids stupid if they watch too much? Is that why some days I’m a little stupid? How long should I spend on the phone - and is it going to damage the kids when I tell them to leave me be for one darn minute so I can talk to my friends? Is Disney World really worth it? How much should I spend on Christmas? Do I have fine lines around my eyes, because sometimes it looks like it but other times it doesn’t?
Am I wasting my life? How do you know when you’re not wasting your life? How do you know when you are? How does everyone else find proper fitting jeans? What length of skirt is the most flattering? Am I a ‘summer’ or an ‘autumn’? Should I carry a big purse or a small one? I think I have a good relationship with my sons - do they think they have a good relationship with me? Why do people like crocs? Are they going to look back 10 years from now and think “What the heck was I thinking?”, sort of like leggings - although I’ve noticed a disturbing return to this trend. And all I can say to that one is “NO!”.
If I only eat 5 serving of fruit and vegetables a day, and they’re mostly fruit, is that what is recommended? Because they tell you 5-10 servings, so I’m within the parameters. Does fruit cocktail with the little cherries in it count? Oh well, I guess it’s all sort of like the way I diet - I just pick through all of the information until it resembles something that makes a little sense to me (right now, I’m loving that whole wine, cheese and chocolate idea). I guess that’s what we all do - although it would be nice to know your REAL bra size, wouldn’t it?

Reduce or Reuse?

2007-04-03T18:39:00.002-05:00

So I’d been considering having my breasts done. Not augmented, but done. Kaput. Finito. Considerably smaller and noticeably perkier. I’d been thinking about it for a long time. Twenty years to be precise. Ever since I was thirteen and bloomed into a full grown 1950’s movie starlet overnight. Ever since I was a bridesmaid at my mother’s wedding and had to be virtually taped into my rose silk gown. Ever since I received that same year, as a gag gift in my Christmas stocking, a book entitled ‘Big Boobs is….’ ( one example; big boobs is…never needing a table for your tea cup. Ha-ha-ha). And was forced to read aloud from it’s pages for my slightly over-the-top parents. And grandparents. And cousins.
The funny thing about developing is that the right girls never get the breasts. I remember a whole gaggle of my girlfriends oohing and aahing over my new appendages, quietly despairing that they would never achieve the same cup size as myself. Considering I was already a 36C (and climbing higher) they were probably quite right to despair. I, on the other hand, loudly despaired that I would never be able to play team sports, run down the street, go braless (it took a long time for my horrified mother to convince me of that one) or wear a bikini like they could. If only I had known then that these would be the least of my problems.
The high school years were tough. I started to walk a little hunched over and wore baggy sweats (the age old trick all voluptuous girls know and love) but I wasn’t fooling anyone. Crude - and rather unimaginative - nicknames surfaced, and I was either being ridiculed for my curves or sought after. I’m not quite sure which was more humiliating. I once had a man tell me scornfully that he didn’t like ‘girls with big boobs’. As though that was all I was allowed. The only person I could possibly be. Naturally I came back with a clever rejoinder (“Well that’s a shame because I grew them just for you.”) but it was demeaning. And dehumanizing.
And then there were the other men. The ones who watched my breasts as though they may start doing tricks or pull themselves free of my body somehow. A certain level of intentional sexuality is apparently attached to being well-endowed, and not just by men. Women feel the need on a daily basis to inform me of my large breasts as though it were something I hadn’t noticed, like mustard on my upper lip. These are often the same women who inch closer to their husbands in my presence in fear I may use my powers for evil instead of good.
Well finally this year, weary and frustrated, off I headed to the plastic surgeon. As I sat waiting for him in his office, topless and exposed on the cool sterilized plastic, I wondered what exactly I was expecting. After all, once I had perfect breasts wouldn’t it follow that I would need the perfect body to go with them? I pictured these lovely breasts atop my soft, pillowy body. How would that work? The surgeon came in and began to manoeuvre my breasts to and fro without so much as a ‘how do you do?’. He nodded to himself a few times, saying ‘yes’ and ‘I see’ to my nipples. Then he proceeded to tell me that, in essence, I was malformed enough to have my breast reduction covered by my health plan. We talked for awhile about the surgery, about the scars that would sear across my flesh for eternity and about the month long recovery. He never once asked me if I was sure that I wanted this done. We didn’t bother getting into the psychology of it all. I thanked him politely, left the office with my mountain of paper work and never returned.
It’s strange, but the finality of it all made me see clearly. They were wrong. All of them. I wasn’t malformed, I was me. I’m not defined by my breasts, nor am I encumbered by them. The plain, solid truth was that I was giving up. Worn down by the prejudice and unwanted attention. Sure, they may be larger than what is normal, but since when had I cared about normal? I had nursed my babies with these breasts and for all their saggy, stretch-marked imperfection they were mine. Perfectly. And I’m not changing them for anybody. So there.

Just Be

2007-04-03T18:39:00.001-05:00

It’s a Friday night, mid-September. The leaves are mostly changed, with a few stubborn trees hanging on to their brilliant green. It’s been raining grey and cool all day. And I’m at the grocery store, alone and in sweats, buying the fixings for home-made nachos, some bubble-bath, wine and cat food. You’re probably picturing a sort-of Diane Lane scene from Must Have Dog or Under The Tuscan Sun. Where she looks perfectly dishevelled and her big liquid brown eyes and perfect body quietly ask, why me? I’m lovely and brilliantly acerbic, intelligent. And notice how great my ass looks in these tight sweats.
So, yeah, that’s so not me. I’m the one you see in the grocery store while you shop with your husband and kids. You might notice me more as an anthropological example than anything, but it’s more likely you don’t notice me. My ponytail is not artfully messy, just messy. My sweats don’t have j-lo written on the tag and they certainly don’t fit me like a glove. Good Lord what a thought! My clothes are shapeless and colourless. Every so often I get that little sad smile that’s not a smile from a fellow shopper. The one when your lips turn neither up nor down but thin into a non-commital line that says ‘How sad! (cluck!)’. You know what’s so great about this, though? It’s not bothering me. Not the twenty-something checkout girl who tells me briskly to return my basket to the front when I have finished packing my groceries. I assume she had her own reasons for being a bit of a bitch. Not the young guys in line behind me who whisper to each other and let out squeaky barks of laughter. Not even the bitter rain on my slicker as I trudge out to the car.
The thing is this - I have discovered one fundamental truth that keeps me going. Going through awkward public outings (did I mention that earlier I was at the bookstore alone, buying a cheap copy of Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility and an expensive copy of Glamour? Glamour costs more. It makes you think, doesn’t it?) Going through more difficult, permanent things. Like my ex-husband, the one I still love even though he is the worst person in the world for me, bringing in his new baby for me to hold and cuddle. The baby he had with the girl he left me for. Sort of. The baby who looks like him - our sons, god love ‘em, are both the image of me - and giggles when I tickle his belly.
Sometimes your terror of a thing, your avoidance, is far worse than the thing itself. We’ve all heard this often enough but it doesn’t just relate to sharks and spiders and - in my case - birds. It’s moments like that. When David has walked in to my tidy little house to find the two boys and I cuddled on the couch, half asleep in front of ‘Teen Titans’. When he is carrying the baby I have avoided looking at or thinking about for over a year. And that baby instinctively stretches his chubby arms out for me and I have to take him. I have no choice. My stomach clenches in protest, my mind screams ‘no! you promised! There’s no going back now.’ And it’s done. This simple, stupid little moment is over. And I have not crumbled into dust. Hurrah!
So what is my fundamental truth? It’s alright to be just alright. Not fantastic, not stupendous, not joyous. Just alright. And it’s also okay to stay in a holding pattern of alright for as many years as you like. Once you let yourself go, let you dreams get smaller and more finite, your pleasure come from things like brie on a fresh baguette or wildflowers in a nice vase on your windowsill, it just comes. Stop striving. Stop trying. Stop changing. Just be.

Someday Our Prince Will Come...

2007-04-03T18:39:00.000-05:00

It all started the first time I saw Cinderella. Sitting in the dark, vast theatre, downing my huge tub of popcorn so fast butter trickled down my chin, I suddenly knew. As her ridiculous stepsisters tried to squeeze their toes into her tiny little glass slipper, as I secretly hated them for being so unattractive (and would learn to hate myself a little bit later for the same reason), I got it. It is oh-so-much better to be tiny. If you’re tiny, you’re nice. Life may not be perfect for you now, but trust me. If the movies have anything to say about it, it will be. If you’re too tall, you could very well be a yeller. Or - gasp! - taller than a man. If you’re chubby - you may well be nice enough, but who can trust you with the food? But if you’re tiny…okay, maybe you’ll have to do all of the chores while the ugly girls get to lie around, but the birds will sing with you because you’re beautiful, and someone will supply you with a pretty blue headband. Then you’ll get an awesome dress made by clever handy rodents - and a new, even better one when that gets ruined. Plus you’ll get great footwear, a ride in a scooped out Pumpkin with great back lighting - and you’ll feel a little safe in the knowledge that some day your Prince WILL come. Because beauty = happy. And just a smidge more entitled. So it’s all good.
I remember taking careful stock of my ten year old little body at the time. My feet were long and slightly dirty from playing in the mud, as were my fingernails. My thighs and calves plump. I was even well on my way to the ‘breeders’ hips my Nana had warned me about. No doubt about it - I was going to be a big, sturdy girl. This just would not do. I so badly wanted to be delicate and treasured. I wanted to need to wear big sweaters because there wasn’t enough flesh on my body to keep me warm. I wanted what Cinderella had - except for the singing with the birds part. I am (somewhat famously) terrified of birds - although the deer and other livestock had seemed pretty fond of her too. That would be cool.
The thing of it was, inside I felt like a Cinderella type. I was forever singing away, always really nice - or at least 50% of the time. My mother could be a slave driver just like the infamous Lady Tremaine - is it sad that I remember her name? - she was forever asking me to clean my room and make my bed. But it wasn’t going to matter, not in the long run. When I was alone I felt lit up with the same happiness that had made Cinderella so lovely, but then I would be around people who told me “You would be so pretty if you would just…” or “Why not try the new yogurt diet? You could look nice by summer!”. I wasn’t delicate, I was sporty.
Then sporty turned into pleasantly plump, pleasantly plump into voluptuous. Voluptuous into “Whatever, I give up. Pass the cheesecake and elastic waist pants”. No one is frantically chasing me down with a glass slipper. Please, I can barely even get service when I’m clothes shopping (other than when someone nastily hisses “I don’t think we carry your size here.”). And I’m telling you, if Prince Charming even accidentally darkened my doorstep I would be just like the Stepsisters Tremaine, trying to squeeze my size 9 (fine - 10!) foot into her size whatever slipper. Could you blame me? He’s Prince Freaking Charming! And could you blame them? I mean, I know they should know better than to expect the love of a good man what with their bad hair and poor fashion choices. But maybe they just wanted to be treasured, by both men and tame wildlife. Maybe I still do too. I’m getting there - I think my dog really loves me.

Column for the Sun Times Mar. 27

2007-03-27T10:25:00.000-05:00

My youngest son Nathan has a Cabbage Patch Kid. He has lots of Star Wars figures and vicious swords as well. But he really loves his baby girl. I had one when I was little, a girl with green eyes and brown hair like me and her name was Sarafina Jane. Nathan has decided that a fake baby girl will have to do since I refuse to have a real one for him.
His ‘daughter’ is named Carly Morgan but he insists on calling her Alyssa. Now, I don’t really like this because it’s breaking the Cabbage Patch Kid rule. How will this baby of his receive her birthday card from the Cabbage Patch Adoption Agency? But he won’t hear anything different, and when I try to change his mind he glowers at me while he changes her poopy diaper for the 5th time. I should maybe be grateful, because his original idea was for me to have a baby girl and officially name her ‘Pretty Lovely McGuire’.
“And we can buy her a white dress and a golden crown and on her birthday we will make everyone call her Princess.” Isn’t it a shame that I didn’t have a girl? It sounds as though she would have been a joy to be around, what with her crown and obnoxious demanding birthdays.
He is taking his child rearing very seriously, though, and his brothers have been just fabulous. Callum, who is 13, babysits for Nathan while he’s using the bathroom and Jack (7), or Uncle Jay, as Alyssa likes to call him, is responsible for nap time. He prepares her travel bed, checks her diaper, and takes off her little tap shoes. Ben likes to feed her her bottle, which is shocking and wonderful for an 11year old boy. Her blond hair is normally in a high ponytail but Nathan likes to pull it out all the time, and just this afternoon we were fighting about whether or not she looks better with her hair up or down. It takes so little for me to be sucked in.
Like yesterday, the 4 boys and I were all huddled in the doll aisle of Wal-Mart - normally a foreign land to this family - looking for baby outfits for Alyssa. We saw a great little Pucci patterned rain coat with an umbrella, a purple dress with matching tights and a holiday dress that I loved but Nathan thought would make her look fat. He’s judging her already.
Here’s where I need some advice. Am I making them weird? Not that I’m terribly concerned with convention, but I feel there may be cause for concern when Nathan comes grumbling down the stairs from his imaginary laundry room and says - “The damn washer is broken again. Now how do I wash her clothes?” Or when he tells me he’s exhausted from all of Alyssa’s rolling around in the night - when are we getting her that crib I promised?
You would think that, with 3 older brothers, he would get teased terribly. No, I must say the older boys are brilliant with him. They let him bring his baby to watch them play hockey at the rink and she takes ‘a turn’ on their video games. The other night Callum had a few buddies over and when they saw the doll - that’s what they dared to call Alyssa - one of them picked her up and pretended to rip off her head . Nathan fell to his knees and let out a wail, covering his face in terror like the perfect Italian Mama. Callum yanked her away, hugging her and giving her a kiss before handing her over to her father. I don’t know if that will earn him any friends, but he certainly earned something else from his brother.
I do feel rotten for Jack sometimes, though. Nathan can be so over-the-top with his antics (like when he asked me for a perm so he could have curly hair like Anakin Skywalker). Maybe Jack feels pushed aside? That must be why he whispered to Nathan - “Your baby isn’t real, you know” and proceeded to bash her head into the wall. Nathan grabbed Alyssa from Jack, checking in vain for a pulse. He checked for sounds of breathing, too. I thought we were going to lose him until Callum explained that babies don’t breathe or have a pulse when they sleep. All was right with the world again. At least our perverse little world, anyways.

The Man

2007-03-27T09:33:00.000-05:00

Spring had finally sprung in the valley. Two nights earlier, he had decided to throw his mother’s annual party celebrating the rediscovered sunlight. When he had been a younger man, he had always enjoyed these parties. They were held in the conservatory mostly, to take advantage of the brighter skies above and the wet earth below. The lights of the valley spread out like tentacles below the privileged party. Soft music - always so soft it was like a faint whisper in your ear; his mother had abhorred shouting and revelry - wafted in from the sound system in the den at the other end of the house. There were lovely canapés and thick moist breads and fragrant trifles all made at the family grocery stores. Very few cocktails, naturally. After all, this village had once practiced strict temperance - in fact, it had been dry for years - and they had not moved far beyond their puritanical ways. At least his mother and her friends hadn’t.
But now she was dead. And it was his turn to throw the party. He had a caterer for the food, a gardener for the gardens, a party planner for the guest list and decorations. The list had really been the same for years, though. The wealthy, the local celebrities, the dying matriarchs and patriarchs. And a few of the younger eligible elite to set the tone for the next generation. He had met more than one of his old conquests at these parties. Women with bare shoulders and red lips who smelled like so many different flowers. They were drawn to him because he was handsome, and quiet and filled out his white dinner jacket better than the other foppish young men who had been invited. His mother had made sure of that. But they really loved the power they saw he would some day have. Not that he minded. He thought he would love the power he would some day have as well.
But now the day had arrived. The house bore not a single mark of the party from two nights earlier and neither did he. In fact, it was like it had never even happened. The same people had come and eaten the same food and remarked on the same flowers. But it was not the same. He was not his mother - and people were slowly starting to realize that. She had been boisterous and outspoken and charming. It turned out he was really none of those things. After a few awkward hours of small talk, he had retreated quietly to the den to sort through some c.d.’s and drink a little brandy. No one had taken notice other than Carolina Bennett, who had waited until everyone left, followed him down to the den and let her black strapless number fall to the floor while she watched him wordlessly. She was beautiful, different. Exotic but familiar. Thin but curvy, and brazen. Any man would want her. He had been slightly embarrassed for her.
He was to meet her for lunch today. Because he felt terrible for sending her away and because she was the woman he should probably think about marrying. His few friends were excited for him - she was the catch of the county, just like him. And she really seemed to care about him. So it was going to be terrific, he was certain.
Sometimes he wished he could be like the boy out his window, slowly picking his way up the hill and stopping just at the edge of his property. What freedom that must be. He had seen him a few times from his porch, wandering through the forest for hours on end. In fact, there had even been a few times when he had tried to encourage the boy to climb a little higher.
“Don’t worry about it boy.” He had called out just the other evening while enjoying a cigar from his mother’s seat on the porch. “No one will stop you if you’d like to climb a little higher.”
He had smiled and waved slightly, but had never progressed any further. What in the world was stopping him, he wondered? The man was not his mother. He was happy to see children using his forest. Perhaps she had given the boy a good talking to, and now he was nervous of coming too close to the house. Well, it needn’t be like that.
“Boy! There are some nests here for you to see. Come have a look.” He hadn’t meant his voice to sound so gruff. The boy just smiled and said nothing.
“Boy! I noticed some rabbits just over to the west the other day - go and see if they’re still there.”
Nothing.
He had tried again and again. As he and Carolina had begun their mating rites. As they had begun to look at wallpapers for the forgotten bedrooms in the east wing and copper fixtures for his ensuite bathroom. He watched the wet earth turn to dry cakey dust. The air had stilled around them, the whir of central air conditioning giving him chronic migraines as it had always done. But people like him didn’t open their windows for fresh air. Fresh air was for the poor. Carolina had teased him softly about his fascination with the boy.
“Leave him be, for pity’s sake. You’ve probably scared him away.”
But there’s no reason to fear me, he had reminded her. I am not my mother. I’m not like her.
Again, as the gloaming came to the valley and pink moonlight made everything fresh and foreign to him, his eyes fell on the little cottage.
I’m not like her.

Feet

2007-03-22T09:17:00.000-05:00

If The Shoe Fits…
I hate my feet. Actually, I hate feet in general, but mine especially. The juxtaposition of it all being that I really love sandals - and they sort of showcase my feet in a way. Now I realize that, in the grand scheme of things with war and famine and no good movies at the box office this is a terribly small thing. But, like any woman with a major flaw on the canvas of her body, it can be almost debilitating.
When you hate your feet (as I do, we’ve now established), summer can be rough. I’m stubborn enough to still wear the sandals, but if someone comments on my shoes my toes retract self-consciously like tiny turtles retreating to their warm shells. What if they notice my cuticles? I fret. Or my disgustingly cracked and hardened heels? No to mention the sheer acreage of foot, naturally. At 5’6 I wear a woman’s size 10 shoe - I’m not sure why my feet are so large, possibly because they need to balance out the rest of me, who knows. So summer comes along, I manage to find three or four pairs of lovely sandals that fit and I spend all of my time trying to camouflage the feet inside. I wear my pants longer at the back to cover my heels. I paint my toenails in a neutral shade so as not to call attention to the feet. But every once in a while, someone will catch a glimpse of them…and we can never be friends again.
My mother, wise woman that she is, has declared she’s ‘had enough of it‘. She has lovely feet, by the way. She goes for pedicures once a month - and just this week, as a thoughtful little ‘surprise’ to me, forced me to go with her. And boy, do I mean forced. I made up excuses not to go, I said I’d have a manicure instead, I couldn’t leave the kids, anything I could to stop this invasive intimacy I was having thrust upon me. Because feet are very intimate, aren’t they? Letting a stranger that close to your feet is like letting the Postal carrier snoop through your underwear drawer - it’s just wrong on a lot of levels. And I have long since given up on being a girly-girl even if my mother refuses to give up for me.
But…well, she was giving up her lucrative gift certificate for me. I decided it wasn’t very sporting of me to refuse. I just prayed to God I would get someone who couldn’t speak English working on my feet so I wouldn’t understand her when she started weeping to the heavens at the sight of my heels. Not so. We arrived at this tiny little spa with soft music, a nice big fireplace in the entry way, and beautiful smiling women in impeccable black pants and t-shirts who all spoke perfect English. I confessed the moment I met the discreet young lady who would be working on my feet that she was in for a bumpy ride. And then told her again. And again. And then made an ill-timed joke about her needing a chainsaw for my feet. I hoped to scare her off her job, you see. But she was a tough cookie, just smiled breezily and told me not to worry, she could guarantee there had been worse cases than mine. I doubted it, but I’m nothing if not a trooper. I doffed my clunky hiking boots and socks in favor of soft white slippers and allowed myself to be drawn to the back room. Which was like an apothecary for women only. Every surface was covered with special lotions and foreign tools of beauty. On the ground lay two bubbling, scented foot baths for my Mother and I to start off with. Like an appetizer. Oh…oh,.. my. Why had I waited so long, I ask you, why?? The sheer decadent glory of it! My mother and I rolled up our jeans, ordered coffees from the still smiling aestheticians (and they were even genuine smiles!) and soaked for 20 minutes. Then there came the foot massage, the perfectly done nails, the scented creams…if only they served liquor I would never have to leave!
Well, I won’t divulge any more of the trade secrets after that, but suffice it to say I’m hooked. I don’t know how I will hold back until my next visit - my feet, for the first time in my life, look beautiful. Really beautiful. And they feel soft as a baby’s bottom. When we got home I forced each of the boy’s to check out my new feet. They pretended not to care, of course, but I could tell that they were really impressed. Sandal season, here I come!

Column for Sun Times, Tues. Mar 13

2007-03-13T09:28:00.000-05:00

Am I Too Old For Pyjama Parties??
There are days when I worry I’ve made the wrong choice. Days when I’ve spent the morning on the phone with my friend in the city, and she is about to spend the evening at a cocktail party promoting some artist or another. She asks me - with a smirk in her voice - about the ‘small town’ thing, asks me about the snow and the shovelling and terrible white cocoon that has overtaken my little home (and proceeds to tell me that she has been wandering the streets in ballet flats for a month). Asks me when I’m going to get over it and come back already. Because she can’t quite believe that I’m willing to live this tiny boring life when she knows something better for me is probably just around the corner.
This is my problem, I think. I’m always waiting for something fantastic to happen to me around the corner. Always looking so far ahead to where I maybe should be and not seeing where I really am. I wonder if it’s like this for a lot of people who have moved back home to a small town. There’s always so much going on in the city, so many blinking lights and 50% off sales. I missed it yesterday. If I were back, I thought wistfully, I would head to the huge book store. I could spend an entire afternoon in a hidden corner with books I hadn’t bought and a cappucino that cost me $4 - and no one would see me. I missed not being seen.
Which is why living in a small town sometimes feels wrong to me. People see me all the time, and I must tell you that I put as little effort as possible into my appearance at the best of times. One of these days, I should really try to slap on some lipstick before I hit the grocery store, so that I’m not taken by surprise by the 15 people I see while picking through the banana pile in dirty sweats. It’s noticed when I drop the boys off at school in my pyjamas (and it’s really noticed when I’m screaming ‘don’t forget your snow pants, Nathan!’ after my son), it’s noticed when I forget to mow my lawn or get my van stuck in a snow bank for the millionth time. People see my small, sometimes crazy life for all it is, laid mostly bare, and there are days when I am made so vulnerable by this that I am ready to pack it up and go back to being no one.
But last night there was a pyjama party at Dufferin School. We were celebrating Literacy Week (which my sons were shockingly excited about) and their fantastic Principal, Dan Russell, was heading up a party to celebrate the bedtime story between 7 and 8. Everyone wore their pyjamas, even the parents (except for a few party poopers - they know who they are). The Principal even wore these terrible one-piece baby blue footed pyjamas with his tie - and a straight face, if you can believe it. He’s just fabulous. The gymnasium floor was covered in mats for parents to cozy up to their children, with bins full of books to read. There wasn’t a whole lot of fanfare, just some good old-fashioned reading, some milk and cookies and singing along to Robert Munsch. Would we have done this in the city? I can’t help but wonder. There was always something going on at their old school too, but there would be such a crush of bodies clamouring for space with heated cheeks and migraines that I avoided after school activities unless absolutely necessary .
Here, though, at this little school with real trees and long lawns and teachers who love their jobs, it’s all about small joys. The joy of having your sons and their friends cuddle up on the mat beside you while the Principal reads to them from his rocking chair. The joy of having this special little party just because it’s a Wednesday, really. Parents volunteer out of desire instead of choice. Families stand in the school yard, long after the last bell has rung, and talk about their day, their kids, their lives. Because as much as my life is laid bare before them, they are willing to lay their lives bare for you. Sure, they know that you struggle and complain and nag your kids, but at the end of the day, it feels like this little school is gunning for you. Gunning for your kids. Gunning for each other. Because we’re all we’ve got. They remind me of why I came back, why I am staying, and why I still really love being a Mom. Keep it up.

The Woman

2007-03-08T13:12:00.000-05:00

This was to be the day for the last snow. She could tell it was the end of the dark, long months, because the shape of the snow outside her window had changed. Now came slushy wet drops that were half rain, half snow from the sunny skies. The air smelled blue again after days of grey. The woman felt at once exhilerated and full of dread. With the great thaw came, of course, an expectation of activity she was never prepared to meet. Soon she would have to shovel herself out of her thin driveway, she would need to rake up the rest of the soft wet leaves she had left over winter. There would be a fresh crop of goings-on along her path, with people picking their way through the old snow and new mud.
She wondered, quietly to herself and out loud to her dog, how many repeat customers they would have this year. With any luck, she wouldn't see any of the neighbours' grandchildren, at least not the ones who saw this vast forest as their own playground. They were a young boy and girl, aged about 7 and 9, and they were monsters. The best clothes outfitted their backs, naturally. There was always attached to the plaquet of their brightly coloured coats an expensive looking moniker, and with it a satisfied little sneer. Her dog refused to go outside when they were hovering too closely to the yard, and the woman didn't blame her. Their little bodies always seemed tense with an unnamed anger, as though they were simply biding their time until someone came along for them to spit upon. But there was a boy, a little older than they and always by himself, who the woman found herself watching for almost daily.
She decided his name must be Sam - he seemed like a Sam. He was the first boy in shorts, worn khaki coloured shorts that had stopped fitting him last year. This little Sam was quiet, always. And careful. And happy. He wandered through the forest in his shorts and black rubber boots for hours once the thaw had given way to a blanket of warm moss and cool mud. Often he carried things for exploring, like a small inexpensive shovel, or an empty margarine container or binoculars with the strap broken. Sam always seemed to touch everything he passed. The white, peeling bark of a dying tree, the sap pooling in the armpit of a low branch, moss covered black stones imbedded in the earth. He would keep his fingertips splayed at either side of his little hips so as to experience the textures of the earth. The woman had wondered once whether or not Sam was, perhaps, blind. His tactile nature and careful steps speaking of a different sort of sight. But one rainy afternoon long past the snow, when the earth had turned hot and a little dusty, drinking in the rain with long grateful pulls, he had stopped just at the edge of her yard.
This was something new, she realized. In the long months of spring and short days of summer, when she had changed from her shawl that first day, into a light cardigan and now into an old, faded pink cotton dress, when she had gone through 2 novels and 4 journals, many bottles of wine and pitchers of minted iced tea, he had never come near the border of her yard. This day was a busy one along the path, and Sam had retreated further into the woods - looking to the woman as though he may be on an expedition to catch some grasshoppers. She supposed that he listened with a heightened sense for their gentle leaps and soft legs. He had been at it for hours in the rain - so long, in fact, that she had forgotten he was deep in the forest. Mostly that afternoon, she was writing unkind, funny little notes about the couple who had been fondling each other under the oak just outside her window.
They were astonishingly unattractive, and made more so by the wet slurping and groping in plain view. But, she supposed that it was rather lovely that they had found a mate who accepted their lack of physicality so - ardently. And desperately - she was just hoping that they stayed clothed - for the first time she wasn't even concerned if they saw her, so long as they stopped. When their strange passion finally ebbed under the tall oak, the drank from their bottles of Diet Sprite, finished the last of the Rice Krispie Squares the man had hidden in his jacket pocket, littered the garbage about them and left. The woman felt a stab of irritation, directed as much at their arrogance as their wet, dirty bottoms swinging away in perfect unison. Once the rain has stopped, she decided, I'll tidy it.
Her little Sam came back then, happily skidding down the forest wall to where the couple had been. He scooped up the trash from under the brush, tidied the twigs they had scattered about in their strange lovemaking, lifted his head to her window and waved. With a wide smile splitting his crooked mouth. He sees, she thought, tears unaccountably welling in her eyes as she watched him bound off to his unknown home. He sees me - he sees everything.
She thought alot about Sam before retiring that evening. She thought about his little shovel, and his margarine tub and his binoculars. She thought about his once white face growing steadily rosier with each sunburn, she thought about his bare head. She wondered what his small scalp would feel like if she were to pat his head. She wondered if he would like to play with her dog. Mostly, she wondered if he would return tomorrow.
And when he did, he found under the same tree, in the early morning silent sunshine, a box marked 'Sam, with thanks'. In it were brand new binoculars, a bucket hat with little pockets for his tools, some sunscreen and a heavy duty shovel.
John thought to himself; 'Whoever Sam is, he's one lucky buggar.'

Thank God I Bought The Queen Sized Bed...

2007-03-06T09:09:00.000-05:00

When I went to bed last night, I’m fairly certain I started off alone. Yes, that’s right, now I remember. It was around 11 o’clock and I had read for a bit, turned off my bedside lamp and moved to the middle of the bed. So how did I end up here, at 4 o’clock in the morning, with someone’s knees drawn up into my spine and another someone curled tightly around my legs?
I don’t know why I’m surprised. None of my sons have ever been big fans of sleeping in their own warm, comfortable clean beds. With bedding that they specifically picked out for themselves and nightlights shaped like torches and stars. No, I can see how this is much more comfortable for them - no matter that I am now paralysed from the waist down. My only comfort being that Jack doesn’t have his toes curling into my spine at 3 second intervals throughout the night. He’s just drooling all over my clean pillow and grinding his teeth.
Nathan, at 6, doesn‘t require as much room, and seems to content himself with any part of my body to which he can attach himself . Thank God that, at 13 and 11 respectively, Callum and Ben have finally grown out of sleeping in my room - the Queen sized bed was starting to feel a little snug. You know, when I first started having children I was determined to do it my way. I didn’t want advice from anyone - I would instinctively know what was best for them. So when everyone in my family told me not to let my babies sleep with me, I scoffed. They didn’t know what they were talking about, I would sniff. Besides, as any nursing Mom knows if you can figure out how to nurse on your side it’s like an all-you-can-eat buffet for the night. And you don’t need to get out of bed. But then you have another baby who needs to be nursed, and the first baby is still a baby so you can’t kick him out of bed. A few years go by, neither one of them seem ready to budge and you’ve had ANOTHER baby. Then another. And you can’t seem to break the chain.
It was a little easier when we still lived with my husband. He liked structure, enough so that he would get out of bed 5, 10, 15 times in a night and march the older boys straight back to their beds while they stared at me over their shoulders with censure in their eyes. Ben was particularly stealthy - he learned how to get in bed beside me without even wrinkling the sheets - he would lay his head on my arm, then slowly lift his upper body onto the bed, then his lower, then squirm as close to me as possible without a sound. So that I would wake up with him tucked into my arms and have no clue how he got there (my husband stayed awake one night to catch him in the act).
But then we moved out on our own, and their sleeping bodies littered about my room was - healing, in a way. It was important for all of us. When to stop, though? Perhaps when, in a conciliatory gesture to Ben when he was having some problems dealing with the divorce, I forced his brothers to sleep in their own room and told him he could curl up beside me. It wasn’t until later, after we had both finished the books we were reading in bed, he had closed his with a sigh, leaned in and kissed me on the cheek and said;
“Don’t forget to turn out the light before you fall asleep, now.” That I realized I may be grooming little mini mates for myself. Ewww. After that I tried to make the younger boys sleep in their rooms. For awhile I let them fall asleep in my bed and then carried them each upstairs. And was rewarded by a sharp poke in the ribs in the middle of the night and an indignant hiss - “Why exactly was I in my own bed?”
I bribed them with extra books before bed. I laid beside them and rubbed their backs. I waited to try to put their laundry away until they were in bed so they could be comforted by my silent presence in their room. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes, like when Nathan wakes me up by touching my face and telling me he loves me, I’m not in much of a rush to change.

Fabulous

2007-02-28T16:53:00.000-05:00

I like to bandy about with the word ‘fabulous’ a lot. This chicken is fabulous, those shoes are fabulous, fabulous knee socks, whatever. But the truth is, I have only really known 2 women who embody all that is strange and good and original. And well - just fabulous. One of them was my grandmother.
She thrived on mispronunciation. She was taciturn and stubborn. She called ‘Highland’ dancing ‘Hee-land’ and, when she sensed someone found this offensive, she said it as often as possible. With a stubborn little pout to her lips. ‘Nana’, as everyone called her, was the last of the Grand Dames. She wore Chanel No. 5, huge sunglasses and long ropey pearls almost every day. Her fur coats were worn into the ground all the way into late April. But she had the fashion sense and the attitude to pull it off. Although that’s not necessarily to say she didn’t try to tiptoe into the twentieth century. Once, when I was about 20 years old, she called me early in the morning in a feverish dither.
“Jennifer, you must come over quickly. I bought some new denim trousers yesterday and you have to come and see them.”
Denim trousers meant jeans, by the way. They had an elastic waistband and were at least 50% polyester, but she displayed them like the Shroud of Turan. Naturally she wore her denim trousers with a crisp blouse, long mink coat and pearls. How else? Her hair was dyed fire-engine red since before I was born, the colour I believe to this day having seeped into her brain and therefore giving her that passionate personality. She WAS every room she was in, larger-than-life and voraciously hungry for happiness.
I was the heir to the throne of Grand Dameness. I remember when she would introduce me to her friends, purse dangling from her upturned wrist and sunglasses on her head, it was with an air of expectation. Isn’t she gorgeous?, she would tell them. She’s just like her Nana, you wait and see. And then the friends would cast a questioning glance at my running shoes and old jeans. Doubtful. She unfortunately took her mighty throne to the grave - although I do remain a fan of the big sunglasses.
And then there‘s my Mom - who I think could also be considered my husband in some cultures. She’s a wonderful husband, too. She never forgets my birthday, always notices when I’ve had a haircut (then again, she’d be crazy not to, it only happens once every quarter). She likes to give me cards with money in them so I can ‘treat myself’. My mom is often not the star of her own movie, more of a supporting cast. Now, she would definitely get the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress. She’s as fiery and stubborn as my Nana was. And they each have that same sense of self that draws followers like moths to a flame. I think my mother wanted me to be the heir to something as well, although I doubt very much that she’s even sure what that is. It’s not what I am, necessarily. But she tries not to let me know. For instance, when I fail to change the light bulbs in my bathroom (in my defence, they are very, very high) she tries to bathe in the dark. Or she very discreetly sneaks my bedside lamp in to light her way. Now my Mother lives in a magnificently clean, new home. She vacuums neat little lines on her carpet, scrubs the floorboards and windows and corners. Sometimes she tries to commiserate with me, saying things like;
“Don’t you hate it when you’ve just washed all the walls and you find a fingerprint?” I probably would hate that - better to just leave all the fingerprints where they are then.
She’s game, my mom. Her house may sparkle from basement to attic, but she tries not to expect that from me. We have had our years of dissention, of little wars over nothing and words left unuttered. But, when all is said and done, I think she gets me, or at least really wants to get me. She remains my greatest champion, even when I make mind-blowing colossal mistakes. And that’s just fabulous.

Sex and the Single Mom

2007-02-24T23:21:00.000-05:00

Well, I’ve done it. Thrown my towel into the online dating world. Even as I admit this, a sick worm of humiliation wriggles through my stomach. This goes against every grain of my being, of my new self-awareness and confidence. After all, I am an independent woman. I have my own lovely home. I am a good mother and a side-splittingly funny friend. When my husband and I separated almost four years ago, I left with the idea that I had to be alright living on my own. I didn’t want to leave thinking - well alright, don’t cry, George Clooney is just around the corner wanting to make it all better for you. I left with the knowledge that I could very well be choosing a life lived alone rather than a life with David. I had to be sure that was what I wanted. And it most definitely was.
But the thing of it is, when you have chosen a life on your own, doing what you please and raising your children how you see fit, there isn’t a whole lot of sex involved. And I rather like sex. If I am remembering it correctly, that is. As we women know once you hit a certain age and a certain way of life it is nearly impossible to meet a nice man. Especially since everyone tells you that the only way to meet a man is to not look for him. What kind of horse-manure is that anyways? My mother constantly tells me that you meet men when you least expect it. But every woman I know is ALWAYS expecting it. Otherwise, why do they go to the grocery store in a tight black turtleneck and low slung jeans? If they weren’t looking for a man they would be wearing sweats and a ponytail. Like me. And if you only met men when you weren’t ready I would have been up to my neck in men for the last four years. Because I really wasn’t ready. Not to make time for dating. Not to attempt to put on lipstick and pointy shoes in the hopes that either one of these things might catch the eye of a fella.
No, what I’ve had time for over the last four years are my kids and my friends. But lately things have been shifting into a new, frightening direction. My kids are growing up, making friends and leading lives a little separately from mine. They still need me, of course, but not with the same I-need-you-to-be-in-the-room-or-I’ll-start-screaming way. Now it’s more of a good-you’re-here-make-us-some-food sentiment. My friends are married and make time for girl’s nights only when their husbands are either busy or cranky. And that leaves me - where? Lying in bed on a Saturday afternoon watching reruns of the Gilmore Girls and eating Barbeque chips. Listening to the furnace shut itself on and off as the weather fluctuates, puncturing the yawning, humming silence of my home. Don’t get me wrong. There is absolute value in remaining single. It’s just that I’ve remained single for four years - not a typo FOUR YEARS!! Which is 3 years longer than even the most pathetic character in movies and /or books has ever remained single. Believe me, I’ve researched this. So here I go.
Once I’ve set up a quasi-flattering picture of myself (but not too flattering - I don’t want there to be unrealistic expectations) and writing a witty, charming and somewhat sterile 120-word autobiography, I’m ready for my close-up. Things get going pretty quickly. My first e-mail (or smile or flirt, whatever!) is from a man in his late fifties who eagerly claims again and again to ‘look much younger than his years’. Why does he need to keep telling me this? I can see his picture - he’s wrong, by the by - so why does he need to justify himself right off the bat? Then I scroll down to his ‘list of requirements’. I am, at 33, at the high end of his age limit. He’s looking for someone in her early twenties preferably, with blond hair and an athletic build. Get in line, honey. Bachelor number one gets deleted.
I wake up the next morning to 12 new messages. Twelve! I don’t think I’ve had twelve men even look my way in the last year. Did they not see my only semi-flattering picture? One man even referred to me as ’sexy lady’, good Lord, is he serious? This is a little too much. I need to call in reinforcements. Luring the girls over with coffee, sweets and entertainment I get a wide variety of second opinions. All of them bad. The thing I’m discovering about girlfriends is they want the best for you, which is great. But they don’t want to let you settle just a little, which can be bad. The shrieking laughter and dialogue around my computer sounds something like this;
“Oh my God! Get a load of this guy. He’s using a picture with him and his dog.”
“Are you kidding me? Let me see…”
“O.K. let’s make some ground rules. No props.”
“Props?”
“Dogs, babies, houses, cars - no props!”
“That’s fair - wait a minute - this guy’s cute.”
“Hold on, enlarge his picture. Is that a girl’s arm he’s cut out? No way, too tacky.”
And that was before the cocktails made an appearance. Eventually every man online was discounted for being too short, too tall, too good-looking (o.k. that one was me. But seriously there is just something a little off about really beautiful men.) or too wrong for me. After they had reassured me that I was much too good for online dating they all breezed out the door back to their perfectly imperfect husbands and lovers. Leaving me alone and deflated, with nowhere to go.
The thing I’m finding the most difficult about online dating is giving up the romantic ideal of being pursued. Not in the ‘this much older man saw my picture and has now e-mailed me five times’ pursued. Being sought after because of who you are, how you light up a room, for being charming or having the unsaid qualities that a mate will see in you and find irresistible. I think that’s what makes so many people balk at the idea of meeting someone online. The naked honesty of saying, ‘Here I am, read over my stats and decide whether or not you want me. That’s my only reason for being here.’ It negates all of the little games we like to play, all of the sly catch-and-release looks across a crowded room.
After much mulling and soul-searching, I finally decide to answer two e-mails which have caught my eye. One is from a pleasant looking single father who lives close to me, has a good job and plays lots of golf. A good-on-paper guy. The other is from a very intense, slightly angry younger man who spends all of his money travelling the globe and seems fairly bitter about his ex. The first guy, we’ll call him Jake, makes piles of spelling mistakes (rather a deal breaker with me) and openly discusses his recent dates with other women. But he asks lots of questions about my life, comments on my great smile and is fairly understanding about my nervousness and tendency to write long paragraphs about nothing. Bachelor number two, who we’ll call Eric, gets me. That’s all I need from him. And for some reason, just the decision to decide sets me into a neurotic tailspin.
Who do I date? Which one should I choose? Am I being too accepting of the western philosophy that tells us we need to be validated by a man? Already I can feel myself being swept away by change. I don’t want my life to become about tanning lotions, teeth whiteners and toenail polish. These are things I take interest in for myself, of course, but suddenly it feels like a job to me. Like these are the things I need to do in order for a man to like me. Because I suddenly realize I like my life, I love the freedom the kids and I enjoy. I love that my days are swept away by soccer practice and walking the dog and setting the table. Why do I need to change things? Will dating change things, or will I be able to keep it separate from my real life?
It turns out, I didn’t really need the answer to all of these questions. I went out for coffee with Jake, had a great time (even though my trademark quirkiness intimidated him somewhat), and decided - despite his flattering persistence - to take my time. Eric and I got together for a hike, hung out and had plain old fun. The girls all relished every detail, of course, and I’m beginning to think that my need for dating has more to do with feeling accepted than the actual men, but that’s okay. That’s it, just take time. Enjoy the courting process as it presents itself in this, the twenty-first century. Because finally, at the end of the day, after my fear and insecurity and nerves loosened their grip on me just slightly, I needed only one truth for myself. I deserve life to go at the pace I’ve chosen, as opposed to a pace someone has set for me. And it’s the best gift I’ve given myself in many years.

The Man

2007-02-24T22:09:00.000-05:00

He lives in one of the finest houses on top of the finest hills in this fine little town. His mother had owned every grocery store between here and the middle of nowhere. She had been an innovative woman in her time, turning her father's little corner store that sold penny candies and fine cigars behind a plate glass counter into a one-stop shopping center. And then another. And another. Her bakery fresh breads were regionally famous and she had insisted on training the bakers at each store personally how to knead the dough. He could picture her now in her long white apron with flour on her grizzled old cheeks, punching huge holes into the thick dough then pulling it apart, folding it over and massaging it into perfection. Everyone had known his mother. When she had died there had been white lilies on her coffin that strangers had put there because they had known they were her favourites. He had always thought she would prefer roses.
His house is the white one that looks down on the town from it's wide empty porch, which is just as it should be. The original architect had wanted the back of the house to face the escarpment and the front porch to face the street. This would naturally afford his family the best sunlight and lend itself to a generally friendly demeanor. His mother had - rather famously - asked the architect;
"And how am I to look down on my town with those measly little windows?"
The architect had done as he was told because he was being paid better than top dollar to do as he was told. The man - who was then still a boy - had asked whether or not he could have the bedroom over the porch, the green one with the window seat and it's own cubby underneath the third floor stairs where he could make himself a tent. She had said no, so the boy had done what he was told and took the bedroom in the attic with the floor that creaked and the faint sound of scratching in the night that he knew meant mice or worse. He had done what he was told even though he was not paid top dollar - but even then he had known that someday he would be. His bedroom had been wallpapered in a cowboy theme, and his quilt had cowboys on them and his lampbase was a cowboy rearing back on his horse, gun waving madly about. This was not the man's bedroom anymore.
When his mother had died he took her room from her, although he didn't think it had ever really been her room. He painted it back to it's original green, put wooden shutters on the window and a leather chair by the fire. He even felt as though he should perhaps smoke a pipe for this auspicious occasion. He walked about his big, echoing house in the dark, pipe in hand that first night with his real room, and saw all of the grand parties that would soon be. He saw a pool table in the lounge, a dance floor in the long dark dining hall - there was even a place for a band to set up by the hearth! He saw a pool in the acres and acres of green that stretched before him and beside him. Mostly, though, he felt happy just knowing his mother's great terrible shadow had passed. He felt drawn to her rocking chair on her porch, which was angled perfectly to catch small children who might be trying to play in the woods she called her own down the hill. As he rocked, the lights twinkled obediantly before him in the fading sun. The town was settling in and waking up at the same time, leaving work behind to face the different work of the evening.
He felt proud of this town, arrogantly so. It never changed. It never would. Looking down the hill his eyes fell again to the little cottage just below him. His eyes often fell to this cottage, perhaps because it looked so inviting or perhaps because no one seemed to live there - although he had noticed smoke curling up from it's tiny chimney often enough. It is a greyish colour, the sort that seems to have sprung naturally from the earth. There is something, he thinks, something so - mysterious. Appealing - quiet about this house. It sits on the edge of a fairly public path, the sort that sees dog-walkers and runners and teens full of hormones alike. Perhaps he should walk that path. Perhaps tomorrow he will venture down his hill...

Lightbulbs

2007-02-19T11:01:00.000-05:00

I wish the boys weren’t scared of the dark. It would make my life much easier, I swear. We’ve been wandering from room to room for months now, it seems, to get away from the darkness and huddle under the light. At first it was the family room light - not too bad because you can always put on the t.v. and light some candles or something. And then it was the light in the downstairs bathroom, which gave me an excuse not to clean it for a few months. Don’t judge me. The boys wouldn’t go near it, especially little Jack and Nathan. In fact, they ran past it as fast as they could as though some invisible hand of darkness was going to reach out and suck them in. Little did I know that was, in fact, exactly what their older brothers had told them would happen. After that it was Callum and Ben’s bedroom light, but since the kids are always curled up in my bed, that didn’t make much of a difference. Then it was the light over the kitchen table - hmmm. That’s a tough one to ignore. So we just ate at the coffee table in front of the television. Then the upstairs bathroom. Pee in pairs. And finally, today, the epicentre of all rooms, the hub of our social itineraries, my bedroom.
“You’re going to have to change some light bulbs now Mom.” I believe the other boys had voted Callum official spokesman.
“I don’t think we have any…”
“We do too. Grandpa left some when he changed the lights for us last time.”
“I don’t know where they are.”
“I’ve got them right here - he left a club pack. That’s 12.” If there was better lighting, he would be backing down from my fierce maternal scowl.
The truth is, in my 31 years of life, I have never changed a light bulb. There - ha ha ha, I know. But I was a daughter, then a nanny, then a wife, basically. I had people for such things. And one thing I know about myself - I don’t learn well if I don’t care about what I’m doing. And I really don’t care about light bulbs.
“It’s okay, Mommy, we’ll help you.” Nathan used his sugary sweet voice.
“Yeah, we’ll hold the coffee table for you to stand on so you don’t fall.”
“I know, Ben. But Grandma and Grandpa are coming up soon, so…”
They said nothing, and it dawned on me that, to them, I should be able to do it all. That they had no ’people’ to do things for them, there is no back up plan in this house. It’s just me. I’m the only person they should have to look to, and how was I going to be able to pull off this whole single mom thing if I couldn’t even change a light bulb? Because this thing, being on my own with them in here and the world all around, is something I do actually want to learn to do well. So here goes, I’ll give up the next few hours and get cracking as best as I can. And I can always call my step dad to see if I’m doing it right.
“Okay, guys, which one should we do first?”
So, just out of curiosity, why didn’t anyone tell me that a second-rate chimp can change light bulbs? I feel like an idiot. The boys dutifully followed me around with fresh light bulbs and chubby fists out to take the old ones, all while holding on to the coffee table like it would snap under the pressure of my weight. I’m pleased to say it did not. And, as easy as it did turn out to be to change the lights, the rapturous applause I received when all was said and done was, indeed, the most illuminating part of my day. Tomorrow - hang pictures without using my ladle, possibly purchase hammer. That’s right, world, it’s all coming together.

Thanksgiving

2007-02-19T10:18:00.001-05:00

In three days it will be Thanksgiving, and I am a whirling dervish of ridiculous plan making. This year we are a smaller group, only about 15 down from 30 last year, but I am still overwhelmed by all of the baking/decorating opportunities. For instance, I found a new recipe for sweet potato pecan pie that I am terribly excited about, and I am seriously considering recreating the table centrepieces from last year. You see, all you have to do is cover some long, plank tables with soft white linens, set your table with orange and chocolate brown accent pieces and fill scooped out pumpkins with mums. If you want it to be really special, line the table with tealights, fallen leaves and tiny golden acorns, setting a little chocolate turkey atop each plate. Then take a picture, because you will be the only one in the room to give a damn.
I don’t say this in bitterness. I’m glad that my family wants to devour my cooking so badly that they knock over my tealights and bite the heads off of my chocolate turkeys. I mean, naturally I don’t expect my sons to appreciate the magazine perfect setting in the fading autumn sunlight. But the adults, especially the women…really, I must profess a certain frustration at their lack of enthusiasm. But that’s what the holiday is all about, I suppose. The perfect picture in your head of what the day will bring, a sort of Cinematic sunlit moment with wine and Louis Armstrong and slowly savoured, rich food. And then your family shows up, your cousin in particular (I’m not naming any names - Katie) with a cat she ‘sort of’ ran over on the way “and I just couldn’t leave it on the road so I put the little thing in the car and brought it here.”
“You brought road kill to my house?”
“No! He’s not dead, but he’s so tiny that he crawled up in behind my dashboard and now he’s stuck there, meowing and hurt, and we have to get him out and bring him into the house!”
Ten minutes later, her children have locked themselves in my sons’ bedroom and I have to get a neighbour to scale the roof (which he does with surprising adeptness - hmm..), yet another cousin had arrived to take apart Katie’s car and retrieve the road kill, as her daughters wreak slow, silent havoc on the boys’ room, trashing it methodically with a skill I’m both appalled and impressed by. Then another cousin arrives (not naming - oh what the hell - Laura!) with two small children, an enormous pregnant tummy that needs immediate filling and no juice boxes. Are you kidding me? What the hell! That’s all I asked you to bring? Oh forget it!
And this is before my mother has touched a toe to my doorstep.
I like to plan family activities for Thanksgiving too, Rockwell-esque events like apple picking at a nearby farm and going on a hay ride to a pumpkin patch. I think I like these activities as much for their wardrobe possibilities for the kids as much as the ambience. Barn coat, check. Wellies, check. Disgruntled twelve year old, check and check. I don’t know why, because invariably I have chosen the wrong farm (‘it’s too bad - the guy down the road has better apples at half the price and a great hiking trail’) or given poor directions or embarrass everyone somehow. Like on last year’s hay ride, when there was a bona fide shepard at the farm and I pointed out - loudly and many, many times over - that he looked so much like a sheep.
“I didn’t know you had to look like a sheep to take care of them.”
“Do you think that’s a real beard, or just sheep’s wool taped to his face?”
“Do you think the shepard will catch me if I fall off the wagon? He looks quite spry.” While my captive audience laughed hysterically, failing to mention, of course, that Shepard was right behind me. They love that story - and every time I’m about to make another faux-pas these days someone will mutter “Shepard!” in my ear.
So there we are, hours away from The Event, and I’ve sequestered Road Kill away from my relatively healthy animals, cleaned the kid’s rooms and found activities for all the children, finished off my sweet potato casserole, basted the turkey, set the pies on the window sill to cool, done the dishes, set the table (and forgot to take a picture!) opened the wine - and She arrives. Mom. With her car overladen with food ‘just in case’ I forgot to make something or something didn’t work out, special stuffing wrapped in tin foil for my step dad ‘because he doesn’t really like anyone’s but mine’.
Okay, breathe. Dinner comes along - and I don’t remember a thing. I assume everyone enjoys their meal because all I can hear between the laughter is a lot of lip-smacking and yummy sounds, but it’s all like sawdust in my mouth. I wish I could taste my sweet-potato casserole or corn muffins or even the honey glazed carrots (I have a deplorable sweet tooth). It’s just that all I see is a mountain of planning and work eaten and gone in less than an hour.
But then - dinner is done. Everyone raves over my cornbread - a new addition - and asks for the recipe for my make-ahead mashed potatoes. I start a bonfire in the backyard, set up the muskoka chairs and wrap myself in a blanket as we all drink wine, cuddle the kids and tell ghost stories under the stars. The dishes are done - not even by me, thank you very much! - the house smells of turkey, pumpkin and happiness, and my aunt whispers to me that my Grandparents would be so proud of me for trying to hold the family together. Ah yes, now I remember. And am truly thankful.

Third Wheel

2007-02-19T10:18:00.000-05:00

There are a few things I’m good at, and quite a few at which I’m not so great. I make a fantastic pumpkin loaf, have excellent taste in scented candles and possess a natural instinct for when a show will be cancelled. Survivor is my next bet. The list of things at which I am not so accomplished - well, this isn’t the day for that particular list. But if there is one accomplishment I have mastered it is this - I am an excellent third wheel. Impressive, no?
You may ask, who in their right mind would want to master such a lost art? Well, I’ll tell you. Some of us who have remained single for an almost obscene amount of time need to integrate. Girls nights are fun, and giggly and full of wine and cheese and all of that, but they’re limited. Eventually, especially if you move in tiny social circles as I do myself, you must learn to ingratiate yourself with the male of the species. Not that that proves to be terribly hard. A six pack and a dvd of the Die Hard trilogy seem to be universally welcome. And don’t boss them. Or complain about your ex-husband. But to be a welcome addition to a couple - it requires finesse, my friend.
You can’t seem too clingy to either male or female. Or dominate the conversation - or seem like a victim. It isn’t the same as going out with a few girlfriends - there is an instant resentment that you must beat down with wit and charm. And choose your ‘dates’ carefully. No Friday nights, because that’s real date night. No New Year’s Eve, because that’s sad (believe me, I know.). Obviously no Valentine’s Day, but I tend to be busy eating a lot of fine chocolate and drinking a lot of cheap wine that night. I recently had to attend a family wedding with a couple - not because there wasn’t a date of my own to be had, but because I would not subject a virtual stranger to such a McGuire-dense event. It would scare away the normals. The three of us ended up sharing a hotel room - not in a dirty way - so that meant that my friend and I were able to get ready together, laughing and primping like we did when we were girls and needed much less primping. And her adorable husband lay on his bed smiling, enjoying this rare glimpse into the secret life of girl-talk.
What on earth is the appeal for the man in all of this? Well, said husband told me that night, actually, that it was an ego boost. He said that he gets to take two beautiful women to the wedding (he lies a lot) and that we are both in such good moods that we’re more fun to be around. And when the two girls are up dancing like fools and drinking too much wine, he gets to be the white knight and rescue us both from ourselves. I don’t quite understand the appeal of that one, but then again I’m not a man. Personally, I suspect it also has something to do with the attention. Whenever I’m out with a girlfriend and her husband, every little kindness is amplified and praised. Like a precious only chid of two doting parents. When he holds the door for us, fetches a glass of wine, gallantly offers to pay for dinner, we both smile and say thank you, and isn’t it nice that chivalry, in fact, is not dead? Also, our conversations are different from the ones he probably has with his friends. With us, he can talk about his emotionally unavailable father, or his upcoming knee surgery or his Christmas list. He gets to be ‘one of the girls’ for the night.
As for me? Well, it’s a way of staying connected to the opposite sex. I have no room in my life for dating, and sons who need a male perspective every now and again. Here I can ask away about hockey and baseball and video games. Without any extra baggage attached for now. Ain’t life grand?

The Woman

2007-02-17T19:38:00.000-05:00

There is a woman who lives near the end of a short, dead-end road. Lots of different homes inhabit this road, some small-scale Victorian's, more than a few traditional red bricks. Even a few stone homes with wide front porches rumoured to have been built from the original brewery a century ago on this very street. She lives in the oldest, though. Her new neighbours cut away half of her yard to build a large new home with palladian windows and a rock garden. People told her to mind, but she didn't really know how. Besides, this new house cast a long shadow over her little cottage. She was now nearly invisible to the naked eye, just as she hoped.
This cottage is in the perfect situation for her, actually. It is small and grey, with a little gabled roof above and an inconspicuous porch before. Inside are her prized possesions. Walls painted in old, faded english pastels, in smooth stone, leafy green and buttery yellow. Her candles are there as are her warm throw blankets, small pieces of Da Vinci knock-offs, some vintage posters for soaps and many journals. But for this particular woman, her most prized possesion, if one could call it that, is her picture window. In her small warm parlour painted smooth pink stone, with bookshelves and pictures and mismatched throw pillows, there is a large picture window with a white seat beneath. Outside the window lays a path through the forest. A path for runners and dog-walkers and lovers. It connects to the street behind her little cottage, which some would consider of a loftier value than her street. The lawns are mowed in neat, vertical lines like the racing lanes in a swimming pool. All of the dogs are purely bred, incestuous snobby little beasts that they are. This woman's mongrel of a dog is of an unsure origin and, like her mistress, feels a certain sort of mislaid disdain for their considerable neighbours. Her cat feels disdain for both herself and the dog.
When people are invited into the cottage - as they very rarely are or ever will be - they comment on this graceful picture window. "The drapes are just marvellous!", They tell her, secretly shocked considering the rest of her untidy home.
"And these cushions! Decadent!"
She smiles her secret smile, willing them to leave so she can be alone again. So she can feel the exquisite loneliness tumble over her like icecubes in a martini. So she can spy on the humanity outside her window with tea cup or wine glass in hand depending on the time of day. In her pyjama pants at any time of day, watching the people who feel unwatched. And she can inhabit them for a small while, all of them. She can feel in them what it must feel like to be a real person, to have conviction, right or wrong, enough so to leave the house. What in the world motivates them one and all?, she often wonders. How do they get out of bed every morning, make breakfast, clean their houses, go to work, make dates and do drinks and have lunch meetings?
She is fascinated by each one seperately, the happy, the sad, the ruined. Notices every detail, the woman who walks her dog every morning with a grocery bag in her heavy woolen mitten, her steps long and full of purpose. This woman always wears the same thing - tight black running pants, a Columbia purple sweatshirt, a thick bubbled vest over, outsized sunglasses (regardless of the weather) and a warm headband over her neat ponytail. Her dog looks thin and expensive, as does his fancy leash. He does his business in the woman's side yard every morning, and his owner dutifully retrieves it in her grocery bag. She seems very in control, the woman thinks. As though she wants everything to seem perfect to the world, even when no one is looking. Does she wander home to her husband, scruffy and in his pale blue boxers and rumpled white t-shirt, getting her a coffee? Does she frown at his naked toes, noticing the little hairs that he refuses to have trimmed? Do they plan drinks with friends for the weekend because they can't stand the idea of being alone, because their marriage seems so much better in front of an audience? Or does she live alone with her dog in a neat, softly lit home, carefully clipping pictures out of Bride magazine in case her boyfriend of 13 years ever asks her to marry him?
Not everyone is so careful when they don't know they're being watched. Teens eating Twix candy bars throw their wrappers into the brush. Runners in aero-dynamically designed shorts pausing, knees almost buckling, doubled over to catch their breath. One unfortunate woman walking with her own arms wrapped around her abdomen, then stopping short to sob, body rocking back on her heels. What on earth could have happened to her? The woman wonders. Because it's a very specific type of sobbing - a shocked, scared sort of cry. When it comes out as a cough in the beginning. The woman's first thought is, oh, perhaps someone broke her heart. But no; there's a maturity to her crying, a helplessness that is frightening. She doesn't even try to cover her mouth, just shakes with silent screams. Someone must have died. Someone young, that she didn't expect to die. It couldn't be a child; perhaps a friend? Someone she doesn't feel she should grieve publicly but still manages to feel lost without.
Hours go by every day. The woman, aging slowly in her robe, sits in her window. She reads there when there is little traffic, eats there when the first flush of spring comes to the forest. She leaves her home less and less. And then one day, when she is especially intrigued in the goings-on, someone notices her.

Bad days

2007-02-15T09:33:00.000-05:00

There was a time for me when I was considered an ‘up-and-comer’. Teachers in my last few years of high school couldn’t get enough of my sartorial diatribe, loved my new-fashioned fiction and melancholy poetry. In fact there was one particular teacher who confided in me that he half-wished I would autograph some of my writing for him because then he could ‘prove that he knew me when’. Little did he know that the when where he knew me was the only me worth knowing. Or so it would seem some days.
Because here I sit at nearly 35 (which as everyone knows means you are no longer in your early 30’s) unemployed for the first time in my life. From my work as a bartender. So one could call me a nearly 35-year-old unemployed ex-bartender with no higher than a high school education and 4 children split between 2 fathers under her belt. People could say that because that’s who I guess I am. That brilliant girl with her first play produced at the local Opera House by the time she was 17 is just another person for me to resent.
Not that everything is bad, just in case one of my sons reads this. My kids are hilariously, brilliantly fabulous and I can only assume that, since I am raising them on my own, I had at least something to do with that. They are every tiny bit of providence and promise in my life. But Callum is now 13, old enough to understand what people will say about my being out of work, and more than old enough to start looking at me differently. Ben is 11 and so understanding and warm, but he knows our life will change. Just as I’ve been changing it for the last 5 years, moving them up here to a tiny little town and a tiny little school. And now that they’re just getting settled…what will that mean for them? For us? Because tiny little towns also have tiny little want ads.
I suppose I could move in with my mother - it’s what she wants. It’s what everyone says I should do. Because there are great schools and tall office buildings and movers and shakers all around her. And ‘the Dads’ live there as well. There would be more people cheering for them in the soccer stands. Jack, my quiet, careful 7 year old, would get a chance to start liking his father, something he adamantly refuses to do now. And Nathan - well at 6 years old as long as I’m there and his toys are there, it’s all good.
But how many more ‘fresh starts’ do I need to make before one sticks? I avoid and run and complain that I could be so successful if only I had the time, or if only I had gotten an education, or if only I had a little help. But I’M the reason I’m not successful. I’m so utterly, nakedly terrified of being rejected, of taking that huge step and tripping back down lower than I was. Terrified that the boys will follow in my small, shadow less footsteps.
Apparently I should have thought things through before travelling the road less travelled. Before deciding that I could do it on my own, could do everything. Be a good Mom and volunteer at the school and bake cookies for class parties. Provide a lovely home with a cat and dog. Work and write and bake and cook in our little beatnik house at the edge of the forest. But the thing about roads less travelled is that there are no maps. No one has gone before to show you the best, safest route. To help you find all of the best side roads and little pit stops. So you end up stopping somewhere for a long time when you maybe never should have even paused. But now, I think, perhaps it’s time to move on.

Crying

2007-02-13T23:06:00.000-05:00

I am a crier. Now, I realize that most women are criers, but not nessecarily like me. For instance right this minute? I'm still drying my tears after having watched the Gilmore girls - Lorelai and Christopher are breaking up, which I'm glad about because I'm really more of a Luke fan and this clears the way for him, but she was just so sad. And because she's been such a loyal t.v. friend so I could identify with her - it's terrible breaking up with someone you may or may not love. Because you'll never be sure, right? Was I right or wrong, who knows. See, right there. That makes me feel like crying. I cry at funerals, naturally (but even then it's that over-the-top honking your nose kind of crying, way too much as I've been told) and I cry at weddings. In fact, at my brother Jamie's wedding this summer, I started to cry when I read the Irish blessing. so much so that I had to stop part way through. And I don't even really know her - she's very fancy, you see. I remember taking my seat and a friend whispering; "Way to hold it together" in my ear. I cried when my son 'graduated' kindergarten because they played that reggae version of 'Somewhere Over The Rainbow', and because he was still such a baby to me. When the boys were all born? Hiccouphing, blotchy hysteria. Not even really enjoying the moment, really.
I cry alone, like when I told my kids we were leaving their dad. And I smiled, said wouldn't it all turn out to be such great fun when we moved away from the city and they got their dad to themselves on the weekends? And I saw how ridiculous I was in their eyes. I let them sleep in my room, turned on a dvd for them, closed the door behind me. Slid down the door and sat there, silently weeping into my balled fist. I cry in groups. At funerals when someone you really love has died, and you forget that there is a certain level of decorum to be recognized at the 'after party'. So you try to mingle and shake hands and say 'thank you for at least pretending to be sad that he's dead' when all you really want is to smell his chewing gum.
Somehow, I still don't really picture myself as a crier. Criers are a little weak, maybe just a smidge desperate for attention. They make people uncomfortable with all that naked emotion and wadded up tissue. They make loud, choking sob noises in the theater when they watch 'Steel Magnolias' and Julia Roberts dies with that bad haircut. So - wait a minute - yeah, I guess I am that girl. But maybe it's not so much a weakness as it is - well, honouring, I suppose. Honouring the misery, the grief, the joy, the change. Honouring the terror of the new, the heartbreak of the old, and the person who, while she may be crying, is still somehow willing to leap on in.

Marriage?

2007-02-12T11:59:00.002-05:00

I remember when my ex-husband proposed. I remember it because, of course, it was the beginning of the end. I remember because my first thought was - 'How exactly does one go about saying no?". And my very next thought? "Well, there's always divorce." Not that I didn't love him - I suppose I just didn't really see the point, you know? We were already committed; what difference would it make?
Now I have very few friends who would agree. In fact, most of them are frighteningly obsessed with the idea of marriage. Trust me, I've tried to steer them in the other direction. I've given them my bitter divorcee talk many times over and from many different vantage points. But - well, there is a really beautiful dress involved, and some decent jewellry. I guess I can see the appeal. My dress was lovely, although I must confess that, when standing at the front of the church, all I could think was "everyone is potentially fixated on the massive bow on my ass". The party was great, though. Fantastic wine, great music. My brother called me beautiful in a speech and made me cry. Actually, I really do believe everyone is entitled to a wedding- I just don't think you should have to get married to get one.
The new trend I've noticed? Why are women starting to tell their fellas to propose? I know three seperate cases of the 'militant proposal'. They are all in their mid-20's - that's right 20's!! - with boyfriends of between 1 - 4 years. And they've each given a variation of 'if you haven't proposed by _ we're through.' Where does a fella go from there? And how do they think they'll feel if he does actually propose? Surprised? Romantic? Mortified? Triumphant? And what do they do if he doesn't propose? Because I seriously doubt any of them will.
Here's a thought - throw caution to the wind and propose yourself. Yes it's unorthodox and terrifying. But at least you'll know where you stand. On solid ground or quick sand; either way, you'll know.

2007-02-12T11:40:00.000-05:00

Billie Holliday is playing, I'm in my 'writing' pyjama pants and old 'good luck' slippers. There isn't any wine left in the fridge. And I'm missing my Nana. Because she would get this yawning, oddly hollow feeling that comes with the blank page. Even if she wasn't a writer, she was definitely a dreamer. And she was fabulous. Nana was from a fine old family in Nova Scotia, the kind that had a name for their house (it was like 'Acadia, something'). They were the main family in the town, with a dairy farm, a porch swing and vast, sweeping secrets. Nana was a redhead from way back, so no one really knew what her original colour was. But she was definitely a redhead at heart. She was feisty. She was passionate. And I think now that she was much disappointed in life. My poor, dear, curmudgeonly old Grandpa was terrified of her most of the time, terrified because I think he knew he couldn't make her happy. As with most fabulous, over-the-top women, no one ever really could. She was hungry for the world, hungry to make an imprint, wear the finest clothes, sleep in the softest bed. Have the best friends (which she managed to accomplish - I've never met another woman with such a loyal following) and be loved the most. Yes, I think in the end that was what she wanted. To be loved the absolute best. And red, knee-high boots. With eight kids, 20 some-odd grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren, I wonder if she felt she won? At least I know she had the boots.

Feel Like Makin'....

2007-02-11T12:56:00.000-05:00

Now, keep in mind it's been an awfully long time for me, so I could very well be romanticising a bit. But if memory serves, sex is the one thing you can do for the first time over and over again. It still amazes me how new it can be, regardless of how new your partner is. I'm not talking about the Kama Sutra, 'let's see how bendy you are' kind of sex. And neither is this about constantly changing partners, 'how to please your man so he won't leave you' sex, or anything instructional. Because believe me, ask around, you don't want instruction from me. It's about experiencing something oh-so-familiar in a different way.
1. The first time you have sex with someone you know you love. Even if you haven't told them yet, even if it's a delicious secret in a pocket of your heart that you're not ready to share, it changes the way you touch. And changes the way you want to be touched.
2. The last time you have sex with someone you loved. It's terrible, and sad, and over. You both probably already know, or at least one of you does. You know this is it, and you want to soothe with the pleasure. Say goodbye with your body. And remember the hollow of his throat, the corner of his mouth, the base of his back...
3. The first time you have sex even when you don't feel like it. Your partner has had a rotten day. He's feeling terrible about himself, he's slumped over, beaten down and far, far away. And even though you're exhausted with baby throw up on your shoulder and a pile of dishes still left from dinner, you want to make him feel good. And once you've made him feel better, his gratitude can make you feel very, VERY good.
4. The first time you wake him up for sex. It doesn't matter if it's only because you were watching Chocolat and Johnny Depp's smoky eyes and Irish brogue sent you over the edge - he's there. And warm. And stubbly.
5. The first time you have sex because you feel sexy. Is it the heels? The way your hair feels on your own neck? The way you've learned to move your hips when you slow dance? The empowerment, the recognition in his eyes is the most potent aphrodisiac.
6. The first time you have sex when you're pregnant. Of course it's weird now. You're going to be a mom - mom's don't like it on top, right? Speaking as a mom - why yes, yes they do. And your fella is so tender and nervous - it can be nice to feel treasured.
7. The first time you have sex after you give birth. Don't expect fireworks. This is strictly the first move to get you back in the saddle. I know your breasts are probably leaking milk and your body doesn't feel like yours anymore, but you need to see yourself as a sexual being again. And let him see it too.
8. Sex after someone you love has died. You need to be comforted. You need to feel good, and alive. Go right ahead.
9. Sex to say 'thank you'. Sometimes, like when he took your Grandma grocery shopping and ate her terrible cookies without saying a word, words aren't enough. Guess what really, really is?
10. The first time you have sex to try something new. In the morning light, under your thick duvet with fingers and lips finding new places in the sun. At night with no lights, against the bedroom wall because you can't make it to the bed. Just before dinner with your coats on at the door as you come home from work. In the car. Kissing in the elevator between floors. While you write on your computer....just kidding! Now go have fun.

2007-02-09T18:12:00.000-05:00

Valentine's Day

2007-02-09T16:35:00.000-05:00

Valentine’s Day is here. The very air we breathe smells like chocolate. Jewellery advertisements play during sporting events with heady, succinct reminders that, without these 2 karat diamond earrings so reasonably priced at $199, your significant other can never love you as you’d like. Women everywhere wait with baited breath, praying to the deity of their choice that their man will get them a gift worthy enough to show their girlfriends at lunch the next day. Men everywhere will not think about this all-important gift until February 14th. Children fill out valentines for schoolmates they barely know, and then are forced to bring pink-frosted cupcakes to school to feed said friends. Single people - actually, I think they may get off the easiest. It’s the one day of the year that you KNOW with absolute certainty is going to be depressing, and therefore plan accordingly with junk food and alcohol.
Does anyone actually like Valentine’s Day? Somebody somewhere must, because it keeps coming back. Without fail, in the middle of the most deadly depressing, grey cold month of the year, it’s there. Mocking us with it’s cheerful, slightly effeminate giddiness. Poor men. There’s really not any way of winning on this day, is there? Perfume? So, you think she smells. Lingerie? How do you know her bra size : did you check? An expensive handbag? Well, isn’t that something you might get your mother? Chocolates? I can tell you right now, she has probably been secretly filling up on all of the temptingly packaged confection for weeks, so she doesn’t want any more.
Poor women, too. The gift thing doesn’t really pose a problem for women, partly because most of us have the intuitive shopping gene and partly because most men aren’t exactly waiting on tenterhooks, fingers crossed, for their Valentine’s gift. The pressure for women is different. If your fella doesn’t come through with a decent haul, you’ll hear about it from the girls.
“Doesn’t he think you deserve more than THAT?” Most women have at least one friend whose significant other really does it up well. Homemade dinner, roses, yada, yada, yada. Suddenly, the new George Foreman grill that you really, really wanted seems a little thoughtless. It doesn’t matter that you asked for the grill, cut out a picture of the grill and taped it to the fridge. It’s not exactly romantic, is it? And what about the odd intrepid pioneer among men who decides not to participate at all? Who says; “Look, this is just a cash grab and my not buying into it doesn’t mean I love you any less.” Brave? Absolutely? Foolhardy? My, oh, my. Now what the heck is she supposed to tell her friends?
So, what are we to do? Because the idea of having a day set aside solely to celebrate romantic love is…bewitching. A grand plan, actually. But are we celebrating love, per se? Or are we celebrating the new limit on our credit cards? To celebrate love, I believe, is to celebrate the language of love. To find the words, the truth, of what you see in this person you have chosen that makes him or her so singular. We have lost bits of that language in this age of acronyms. This hurried, abbreviated language we have altered. Instead of asking someone out for a lovely walk or a quiet dinner, we can say; “Wanna hook up?” Seriously - ‘hook up’? Instead of telling someone she looks beautiful or enticing or stunning, she’s ‘hot’.
Maybe what we need to do this Valentine’s Day, instead of taking out a second mortgage on that tennis bracelet you think you spotted your wife glancing at, is sit down with pen and paper and think. Think of, say, ten things, that are uniquely hers. Or his. Does she always make the bed, even when you’re running late? Does he secretly love ‘Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants’? Does she wear root beer flavoured lip smackers whenever you’re going to kiss her? Does his lopsided smile make your toes curl? Whatever it is, notice. Think about the person you love, who they were, who they are, and who you know they could be. Write it on your computer, write it on a notepad, on a cocktail napkin, whatever. Then go home, order in pizza, light some candles, and share your love in letters.
Happy Valentine’s Day.

Halfway to Happy

2007-02-09T11:10:00.000-05:00

Ever since I watched Cinderella's ridiculously proportioned stepsisters try to squeeze their toes into her little glass slipper, I think I knew. It's better to be tiny. If you're tiny, you're nice. If you're tall, you're a yeller and if you're chubby, you're going to take all of the food. But if you're tiny - well, it's true that you're going to have to do all of the work while the ugly ones lie around, but you get to sing with the birds. And you get a really awesome dress made by rodents - and then an even better dress when the rodent one gets ruined. And you get to ride in Autumnal vegetables, wear delicate footwear and dance with the Prince. So it's all good.
I remember looking down at my feet when I first saw Cinderella. They already looked bigger than hers when I was five. As did my calves, my thighs and maybe even my hips. I didn't want to be one of the big sturdy girls, or 'farm stock' as my Nana called it. I wanted to be delicate and treasured. And while I'm not fond of birds or mice, the deer and livestock seemed to be really fond of her too. Now, I felt like a 'Cinderella' type. I was always singing, always nice (or at least 50% of the time). My mother was a slave driver, making me make my bed every day - seriously! But I wasn't delicate. I was sporty.
Then sporty turned into chubby, chubby to voluptuous, voluptuous into 'I give up.' No one is chasing after me with a tiny shoe, and if Prince Charming came to my doorstep I would still be like Anastacia, trying to squeeze my size 9 feet into a size whatever shoe. Could you blame me? He's Prince fricking Charming! And could you blame her or her sister? I mean, I know they should know better than to expect a man to love them given their bad hair and freakishly large noses. But maybe they still wanted to be treasured, by men and wildlife. Maybe I do too. I'm getting there - I think my dog really loves me.