Fabulous

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

Sex and the Single Mom

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

The Man

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

Lightbulbs

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

Thanksgiving

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

Third Wheel

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

The Woman

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

Bad days

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

Crying

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

Marriage?

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

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

Feel Like Makin'....

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

Valentine's Day

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

Halfway to Happy

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