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.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
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?
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