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.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Homecoming
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!!
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?
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Goodbye Again
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!
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!
Thursday, July 5, 2007
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.
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.
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….
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….
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Break Up
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.
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.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Blame It On Harlequin!!
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.
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
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Ben
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Back waxing????
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…
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…
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Mother's Day
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.
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.
Friday, May 4, 2007
Sun Times Column May 1st
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?
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
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
“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
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
For the Girls
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Column April 10th
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?
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?
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Reduce or Reuse?
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.
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
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.
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...
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Column for the Sun Times Mar. 27
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.
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
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.
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.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Feet
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!
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!
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