Irreverent Mama

2011-04-08T12:57:00.003-04:00

I had a birthday a while back. A milestone birthday, in that it ended with a zero.

So today I was heating water to make a cup of tea. As the water heated, I moved quickly through the house to find my cup, so I could drop another teabag into it. I had to be quick, because I'd set the microwave for a minute, and I wanted to have my cup ready when it beeped. I knew which cup I'd been using all morning... but it wasn't in any of the usual spots.

Bah. Hell with it. I got a clean cup and dropped a tea-bag in, just as the microwave beeped. (Timing!!)

And when I opened the microwave door...

there was the cup I'd been looking for.

Full of tea. Hot tea. A full cup of tea, which I'd been re-heating, as I'd left it steeping on the stovetop a little too long, and it had gotten a little cooler than I prefer.

Steeping, because I'd made it, as I always do, with an electric kettle. I have never once made tea in a microwave. Not only is it an enormous waste of energy to boil water in one of those things, the times I've drunk tea made this way at someone else's home, it makes the tea taste weird.

(Yes, it does. Does too.)

But in my addled and distracted, soon-to-be-senile, post-milestone brain, I'd managed to morph "re-heating tea in mug in microwave" to "preparing fresh cup of tea in kettle".

Oy.

2011-01-07T12:07:00.004-05:00

As we relax and chat round the dining table after dinner, our dinner guest rather abruptly rises and plucks a book from the shelf. Riffles through its pages and then says, nodding at the rainbow on the wall, made by myself and some neighbour children, "You might want to double-check that." He grins, quite clearly very pleased with himself.

He's right. The rainbow is disordered: red, blue, purple, green yellow, instead of the correct Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. In part a result of inadequate hues of construction paper, but mostly of disinterest in stopping production to look it up. I have since double-checked. I know it's wrong. I could fix it... but then it wouldn't be the children's work any more, would it? I said the latter to him, mildly, then changed the subject.

You know what?

If you have to look it up before you're sure enough of your facts to correct someone, perhaps you should reconsider the correction in the first place. And there are better ways to say "Thanks for the lovely meal" than to show up your host.

Pretentious nit. See if I invite you to dinner again.

2010-12-12T09:45:00.003-05:00

At a Christmas potluck last night, Matthew points to one dish among the many crammed onto the long table, groaning under its calorie-rich burden. It's a colourful dish, dark green and white, aromatic with curry and ginger.

"Look, dear. You should have some of that. It looks like just your kind of thing."

"You called that one right, love... It's the one I brought."

I love that man.

2010-08-27T17:37:00.003-04:00

Reading "The Bride Stripped Bare", in which it seems that the protagonist is about to embark on an affair, in retaliation for the affair she believes her husband to have been having with her best friend.

While it was clear that the marriage was flawed before this crisis, she seemed blithely unaware. It is his infidelity (assumed or actual, we're not sure) which triggers her affair (and, according to the dust jacket, her ensuing sensual/sexual awakening; I haven't gotten that far yet).

A retaliation affair? Though not the most laudable of human impulses, "He did it first" serves to make her infidelity, if not entirely justifiable, at least comprehensible, even sympathetic.

But what of those who have affairs simply because... they want to? There is no great flaw in their marriage, there is no lack of love, there is no betrayal, nor even particular boredom. But, lovely, loved, and appreciated as a spouse may be, a new body, a new person, a new set of responses is passionately intriguing, fascinating. Unfair though it undeniably is, a new person is simply more exciting, at least in the short term, than the person you've been lovingfuckingbedding for ten, fifteen, twenty or more years.

A book which purported to reveal the deepest secrets of the role of wife turns out to be no more than a tale of a bog-standard retaliation affair.

Pfft.

2010-02-07T18:30:00.005-05:00

HOSTING TEEN SEX?

No, not a nasty website nor some sort of spam aspiring to induct me into the marvels of barely-legal playthings, but a title on the front cover of that mostly sensible publication, Brain, Child.

So of course I bought it.

Not because I'm interested in sex. Though I manifestly am. Not because I'm intrigued by teen sex, because I'm not, particularly.

But I do have three children, the youngest of whom is still a teen. They're all sexually active.

Though I have never -- since my own teenage years, at any rate -- had any moral qualms about premarital sex, nor about sex, at least for older teens, being a mother has taught me that it is one thing entirely to have an intellectual stance on teenage sex, and quite another to have it happening under one's own roof.

My first must've picked that up out of the ether, because, though we never talked about the possibility of her bringing a boyfriend home, she never did. At least, not when I was in the house. When my son became sexually active, roughly four years after his sister, it did happen in the house. Discreetly, not too often, but definitely under my roof. The girlfriend was slipped into his basement bedroom after I was in bed, and slipped out again early in the morning.

I knew it was happening, of course, but opted not to say anything because:
- he was being duly respectful of my comfort level (and probably his own) by behaving in such a way that I could pretend it wasn't happening
- the girlfriend was a lovely young woman and their relationship was respectful and positive.

It was a matter of personal honesty, of putting my money, as it were, where my mouth is, of behaving in keeping with my principles. If I am not opposed to pre-marital sex, so long as it's positive, loving, respectful and mutually desired, then how could I espouse the familiar "not under MY roof, young man/woman!" strategy? That just smacks of a distinct lack of parental integrity.

Okay, I know I can't take the high road here on my parental integrity. Pretending it wasn't happening is a weaselly way around the dilemma. You learn as you go in parenting, and at this point, though I felt a bit sheepish about my less than 100% integrity, I was grateful to my son for allowing me the out.

And really, though in a very real way I would like to have done so, I could not think of one good reason to prohibit it. "You can't because it's gross!" is not a good reason, and thank God for that. My youngest still thinks it's a bit gross that I have a sex life. I'd have gone decades without. DECADES, I tell you, and I wouldn't have one yet.

My youngest child has pushed the envelope still further by entertaining her boyfriend in her room while I am awake and around the house. When he spent a few days with us over Christmas, they forgot to close the guest room door, making it abundantly clear he had not spent even a small portion of the night in that room.

They are reasonable about it. They don't kiss at the door and scamper direct upstairs to entertain the household with groans and giggles and rhythmic squeaking of bedsprings. They visit with Matthew in the living room, they chat with me in the kitchen, they do homework at the dining room table. And then sometimes, but not always, they head to her room and close the door. Sometimes the conversation continues in her room, unabated for hours, and sometimes it gets very, very quiet.

And, while I am mostly at peace with this -- he is a fine young man, intelligent and kind, sensitive, respectful, interesting -- there is still that squeamishness. And I wonder about it. Not many of my friends know my position on this, and of those who do, not all approve.

"I would never let them have sex in the house! That's like condoning it."

Well, I guess I do condone it, don't I? I don't think it's morally wrong unless it's coercive or abusive. I don't believe that teen sex is by definition damaging. I don't believe that virginity should be saved for marriage. I do believe that sex is best experienced between people who care for each other... and that is what is happening here.

So why, I wonder, the squeamishness? I don't let my emotions call the shots, but I do respect their input. Does the squeamishness indicate there's some important factor my brain has missed that my emotions and subconscious are trying to push me to see?

So I bought the magazine, hoping for some insight.

The article proved to be a debate, with one essay on the "Yes", and one essay on the "No". I was particularly hoping for insight from the "No" side, some clarification of the reasons behind my reluctance, some explanation of the ick response.

I didn't find it there. Instead, the arguments on the "Yes" side all rang true, while those on the "No" side were not compelling at all.

On the "Yes" side, I particularly liked this: "I sometimes want to ask those of my friends who know their kids are having sex but who don't want it to happen in their house ... Do they really think it's wise or helpful to add the burden of furtiveness and guilt to something that might be emotionally complex enough as it is?"

To which I would add: and if your teen knows you have that degree of discomfort with it, are they likely to come to you with any problems that may arise? Or have you, by catering to your squeamishness, proven yourself unworthy of their trust? Are you letting your children swim those waters without the security of your safe harbour?

And on the "No" side? The author argued that letting it happen in the house removed layers of mystery and stripped your child of their rightful privacy. To which I respond, Um, no. Unless you're in the room with them, they have as much privacy as you do when you have sex with your spouse.

The argument that carried the least weight though, was this:

The author, as a child, had overheard her aunt and mother in conversation. "'I'm bored by sex... It was so much more fun when we did it secretly in our folks' basement.' And she swept her hand around her room in a dismissive way to indicate that her queen-sized bed was a total downer."

Wait, now. You were forced into furtive sex as a teen, and so marital sex has no spice. And this is supposed to be an argument in favour of prohibiting sex in your home -- i.e., making it more furtive? If you're going to draw any conclusions from that single example, the more obvious one would be that if you'd been allowed to have legitimate sex as a teen, your legitimate adult sex would be equally intense.

Or, as my husband noted, "If she believes that, then what she's really saying is that the 'not under MY roof!' school of parenting is precisely calibrated to not just make sex more attractive to teens, but, when they have it, actually better. What she should be saying is 'if you really want to take the pizazz out of teen sex, make it legitimate'."

It was the "Yes" writer who gave me the insight I was seeking, when she wrote,

Don't get me wrong. I understand that there's a fairly hefty 'ick factor' here. About the only thing more uncomfortable than imagining your own parents' sex lives has to be imagining your children's.

It was the juxtaposition of the idea of your parents' sex lives with that of your children's that gave me the key. The 'ick factor', I suddenly realized, is nothing more (nor less) than the incest taboo -- a highly useful, profoundly ingrained, social pressure that prevents us from wishing to have sex with either our parents (ew!) or our children (ew! ew! EW!). Because incest is bad for the gene pool, because it is bad for the propogation the species, because it increases the likelihood of birth defects, and because, well, ICK!

So, no, we don't like to be made too aware of the sex lives of our close relatives. But that is not because it's morally wrong for them to be having sex, only that it would be wrong for us to be having sex with them.

Allowing my child to have sex in the privacy of her room with a young man who treats her very well is not "involved" in her sex life, any more than she is "involved" in mine when her stepfather and I have sex in our room down the hall from hers. And so, powerful though it is, the incest taboo is irrelevant. It does not apply. It can be ignored.

I was thinking I might come to a different conclusion when I picked up that magazine... but I'm happy to have resolved that one last niggling uncertainty.

Yes, I let my teens have sex in my house. And no, that doesn't bother me.

Yeah, I'm a little surprised, myself.

2010-01-27T09:41:00.004-05:00

"I recommend... walking around naked in your living room..."

"Thanks, Alanis. I'll do that." It seems that at sixteen, Emma approves of in-home naturism. "Though it would help," she muses, "if you lived alone."

"I'll say. It's happened now and then that Matthew and I will be sure we have the house to ourselves for a while, and decide to make out downstairs, and then someone will knock on the door. Last time, we had just -- just -- gotten back upstairs when Alex (her youngest stepbrother) walked right in the front door."

Emma blinks. "Alex? When was that?"

"Last weekend."

"Ew! I'm not sitting on that couch any more, ever again!"

Mwah-ha. Teenagers are so predictable sometimes. And what is the point of having these predictable, so-conservative bodies around if you can't push their buttons, just a bit? I grin at her.

"How do you know it was the couch? How do you know we didn't use the dining table?"

"EW! You DIDN'T!"

I let my grin grow wider.

"EWWWW!"

She pauses mid-gross-out as the initial revulsion fades and a different thought strikes her. "But at least wood wipes up better than upholstery. I don't have to worry about sticking my elbow in the wet spot."

She grins back as I shout with laughter.

Yup, she's her mother's daughter.

2010-01-21T05:34:00.002-05:00

My step-son is getting married next fall.
At the ripe old age of twenty-one.
To the girl he's been dating since he was fifteen.
A stable sort, my step-son. A good ~~boy~~ man.

Their marriage will probably be fine. Two worthy, if unimaginative, sorts doing what is right and necessary day by day, with enough good will and mutual respect to keep it going in a companionable way. For years. They may not be burning up the world with passion, but they're solid, kindly, grounded.

I am dreading the wedding.

Just dreading it.

Where shall I start?

With the ex-wife's alcoholic dad? No, not likely to be a problem, since when he's in his cups he (reputably, I've never met the man) gets quiet.

Unlike the ex-wife's mother, who, when in her cups gets loud and aggressive. Usually the aggression is directed against her husband. (Hence his quiet retreat to the friendly haze of alcohol, one surmises.)

Though of course, knowing the conservative bent of the happy couple, the reception could well be dry. Where will that leave them?

With the ex-wife? Maybe. She's been known to go off the deep end at weddings, but since she's recently remarried and, so we hear, very happy, perhaps her general good feeling about life will translate to good behaviour. It may, however, translate to too much bonhomie -- barbed, of course -- directed our way. This has been known to happen, and it is not comfortable. She is a woman who, if I saw her on a bus, I'd sit as far from as possible, fearing the possibility of a loud an inappropriate conversation.

She usually delivers.

So there's that.

It could be the ex-wife's SIL, who hates, hates, hates my husband. Because he was supposed to be a failure, and he didn't fail. Instead, by her standards, she did. Unhappy marriage, stalled career, no publications, no children. And she, like all the womenfolk in her family, is loud and aggressive.

Then there's the ex-wife's brother, who, unlike his dad, gets loud and aggressive when in his cups.

There's my eldest step-daughter, who has very little control over her tongue or her temper. Less when she's drunk. Which is mostly. She also hates her dad. We're not quite sure why. Even her siblings are not sure why. Apparently, he 'ruined her life'. Her ruined life has nothing to do with the alcohol, or course, nor of her chronic abuse of her mild-mannered boyfriend. (Verbal, emotional, and physical. She's a big girl.) When she's angry, which is mostly when she's drunk (which is mostly), she is not just loud, she SCREAMS. She can be heard blocks away.

God, I hope it's a dry reception!

And all those people? The ones who like being angry, who rage and scream, make barbed comments, delight in unkindnesses small and large?

They loathe my husband, for divorcing their daughter/sister/mother. Even though it's been 15 years. Even though she's much happier now. Because they like to have someone to loathe. Pouring contempt on people is fun, fun, fun.

And me? They've never met me, but I hear, through the endlessly un-self-censored grapevine of my step-children, that they hate me. They're curious about the bitch "he" ended up with, the one who (despite the year and a half gap) "broke up" their daughter/sister's "perfectly good" marriage.

Oh, goody.

"Bracing" does not begin to describe what I'll need to get through this ordeal.

god

2009-12-31T05:45:00.002-05:00

A picture fell out of one of the Christmas cards as I opened it. Hardly surprising. The annual Christmas photo is a great way to keep track of far-flung relations. You peer over and comment with your significant other --

"Look at little Stephanie! So much more grown-up than last year!"
"I think Jeff is going to be taller than his dad next year."
"Oh, there's their new baby. Isn't she sweet?"
"Hey, the Aldersons have a dog this year."

But this picture, second of its kind, was a professional shot of a husband-wife couple.

Who does that?

After a certain point, mid-twenties at the very outside, unsolicited pictures are just... egotistical. After that, unless you have something specific to display -- "We finally got married this year!" -- there is no need for picture. After a certain point, a point which these two couples have long since passed, what you're displaying is probably not what you think you're displaying. At this point, sending out pictures is just begging for trouble.

"Wow, Suzanne's sure packed on the pounds since last year."
"Ha! Bill's hairline is heading for the hills!"
"She's changed her hair colour again. Hey -- and so's he!"
"Look at his skin. You think he's been drinking too much again?"

If you're a certain kind of person, with a certain kind of bank balance, you might even get

"Wow. Look at her eyes. Do you think she's had 'work'?"

And if you're a certain kind of person, that might be exactly what you're looking for.

Neither of these two had had 'work'.

So, really. What gives with the couple photos?

2009-10-08T09:26:00.000-04:00

"People don't know how to title things," the youngest grumbles as she plays with her iTunes. "Look at this. Someone's given me 'Fun, Fun, Fun' by the Beachboys, and they've..."

I join her. "...only capitalized the first word."

"Yeah!" she nods. "It's not a sentence, duh, it's a title."

I am so proud.

2009-10-08T06:43:00.003-04:00

My husband Matthew's ex is a woman of drama. She is large, loud and hearty. With her friends, she has a ready laugh, she's a bit coarse but a lot of fun. "Rough around the edges", I called her, with an affectionate smile.

I was a friend once, you see, until I experienced the darker side to that larger-than-life personality, the rage that, until she screamed at me on the street on day, loud and long, I hadn't realized was also part of her character. Insults, slurs on my character, confidences I had shared with her, twisted into weapons... all this poured out on a public street at maximum volume.

I didn't scream back. I am not a screamer. I'm not sure what provocation could make me scream on the street, beyond someone's imminent demise. "LOOK OUT FOR THE CAR!!" Certainly not a misunderstanding about when we were supposed to meet.

I didn't scream back, I didn't even talk back, but I did walk away, and I never walked back. Had any of her subsequent communications with me carried the faintest hint of an apology, I might have considered, but what I received were explanations of why I had made her behave that way.

I was married to an abusive man, once. A man who was always convinced that I had "made him" do whatever nasty thing had just happened. Righteously convinced. That's an abusive pattern, and I was not about to continue a friendship with someone who, I had just discovered, was abusive.

It was karma, of a sort, when Matthew and I fell in love. We had both been in abusive marriages, we two quiet, bookish people who, when faced with conflict, share an urge to talk, talk, talk. No bricks hurled, just bridges built.

It's lovely.

Matthew's ex married not too long ago, but, as per the plan, she and her new husband are not living together, but will continue living in their own homes until the children have left home. This has always struck Matthew and me as odd: the children are growing up and leaving home; at this point, they would have three kids between the two of them. Given that Matthew and his ex produced five of their own, one would hardly think three kids too much to manage. Two of these three are within a year or two of moving out. Odd.

We didn't say anything to anyone else, of course, but we couldn't see the logic.

It was the youngest who let us know that the reason is the inability of the two 17-year-old girls to get along that is at issue. They each have one, and, apparently, they "scream at each other. All they do is scream. They just can't get along. And mom is depressed because she just wants to live with New Husband and be normal."

A loud, angry woman whose idea of conflict management is to scream long and loud has produced a loud, angry daughter whose idea of dealing with a step-sister is to scream long and loud. So bad is it that she and the new husband don't feel they can cohabit until at least one of the girls leaves home.

Now that's karma.

2009-10-05T06:20:00.001-04:00

September's Library Challenge Books

Total to date this year: 57

1. Sorry, Walter (Judi Curran). Depressive Irish girl with sound sense of humour goes on a holiday to Canada and finds true love. Good, fluffy fun.

2. The Tea-Olive Bird Watching Society (Augusta Trobaugh). Three sweet little old southern ladies find themselves planning someone's demise when one of their society finds herself married to an abusive con artist.

3. The Canadian Book of Snobs (Victoria Branden). Tongue-in-cheek book. Beginning with a history of snobbery, then exploring its current manifestions in Canadian society. Sexsnobbery, worksnobbery, wordsnobs, carsnobs, food, heros, poems, religion, education... is there any realm of human endeavour that doesn't have snobbery attached to it? In a word, no.

4. Match Game (Beverly Brandt). Abandoned by her emotionally lazy groom when she is cuffed and hauled away at the altar, straight-arrow accountant Savannah decides to track down the woman who stole her identity. And finds true love in the process -- and a shiny new career. Fluff, but fun.

5. A Conspiracy of Paper (David Liss). Set in 18th-Century London, the story follows Benjamin Weaver, former pugilist turned investigator as he picks his way through the multitudinous layers of deceit, power-broking, and murder that is the budding stock exchange. The story is very clever, but you also learn a fair bit about the enormous social changes triggered by the introduction of paper money. Who knew it was more than a logistical improvement? -- bills weigh far less than coins, after all -- but apparently this shift changed the pysche of a society. Fascinating.

6. Jailbird's Daughter (Irene Carr). Standard plot: impoverished-but-worthy young lady makes her own way in the world despite the social odds stacked against her, and is rewarded for her efforts with the love of a good (and wealthy) man. With standard plot twist 1: heroine dislikes hero intensely at first. Except it doesn't work. The heroine is a lovely young woman who, for no apparent reason (except to fulfill plot twist 1) behaves in a manner utterly out of character with him. Only with him, mind you. She just doesn't react that way to people. Why do it with him? Oh, yeah. So they can overcome the obstacle of her poor opinion. Right. I expected a frivolous read, but this didn't manage even that.

7. Whistling for the Elephants (Sandi Toksvig). Part allegory, part coming-of-age story, this jaunty tale veers chaotically through a surreal landscape filled with more-than-just-quirky characters. Very clever, very weird, well worth the time.

8. Darling Daughters (Elizabeth Troop). A novel-within-a-novel in which the main character is an author who reminisces about her childhood as the sole child of a single mother in World War II England through her quasi-biographical novel-turned-screenplay. Though at times the author's depiction of a 10-year-old's mind rang pleasingly true, I often found the 10-year-old 'Sarah' too wise to be real -- even intelligent and introspective 10-year-olds are just not that perceptive/analytical -- but a good read nonetheless.

9. Lucy (Ellen Feldman). A fictionalized account of Franklin Delano Roosevelt's long-term affair with Lucy Mercer Rutherford. Interesting in that I learned a smattering of history along the way, but the 'affair' itself has an air of being... theoretical, somehow.

10. Other People's Marriages (Shane Watson). Author Anna is researching her book on modern marriages. We are taken into the marriages, affairs, and relationships of Anna and three of her friends, seeing the mundanity, joys, tragedy, hope and compromise that comprise relationships -- modern or otherwise. An interesting and intelligent read, even thought-provoking at times, and though the slightly deus-ex-machina happy ending for Anna is a bit of a stretch, I'm a sucker for a happy ending, so I'll take it. :)

Year's total to date: 67

2009-10-02T18:40:00.003-04:00

If you head upstairs after dinner, returning to the kitchen half-hour later, do not expect me to respond with cheerful gratitude when you say, "Are you done the dishes already? I was going to offer to do them!" For, even though I believe you are quite sincere in this, I am not a mind-reader to leave them for you without hearing your intention spoken aloud, and now I am only more annoyed that I did the dishes when I could have been doing something else.

Just sayin'.

2009-09-30T15:04:00.006-04:00

News of Note: As of October 26, it will be illegal to use hand-held cell phones while driving in Ontario. A wise law. There will be a three-month weaning-in period, in which offenders will simply be informed of the law, and beginning Feb.1, they will be fined. A generous concession.

The same law will also make it illegal to text while driving.

Excuse me while I collect myself. And my jaw from the floor.

Text?

While driving?

While I suppose I am grateful for such a law, I am astounded that it could possibly necessary. While yet astounded, I ruefully concede that it is very likely necessary. I sigh for humanity.

So, Driving Texters, be forewarned: You have until Feb.1 to break yourself of your ludicrous habit.

And while we're at it, driving texters? Because it seems we can't take any degree of sense for granted... It's also a Very Bad Idea to drive blindfolded. Write that down. Just not while you're driving, please.

2009-09-09T11:48:00.005-04:00

Heard on The Debaters this morning. Topic under discussion: "Newfoundlanders are the sexiest people in Canada".

On the Pro side, one Cathy Jones, a dyed-in-the-wool Newf. Among her gems: "Newfoundlander says, 'Wanna have sex?... No?... Wanna lie down while I do?' "

How about that? All these years later, I find out my first husband was from the Rock.

2009-09-01T15:58:00.000-04:00

August's Library Challenge Books

Total to the end of July: 48

1.Lost in Cyberia: How Life on the Net Has Created a Life of Its Own (James Harkin). I'm not quite sure why it took 256 pages to make a few (pretty obvious) points. There was some interesting historical information in the first four chapters, but after that the book meandered. The information was never really gathered together to make a particular point, beyond the mildest of truisms: Don't be afraid to step out of the virtual loop; it's not as important as you think. Duh.

2. The Sisters Antipodes (Jane Alison). "In 1965, when I was four, my parents met another couple, got along well, and within a few months traded partners." With a sentence like that, you'd reasonably expect the rest of the book to be pretty rivetting, but within the first 70 pages I had grown weary of the self-absorbed and relentlessly depressive Jane, and was skipping through large chunks of the book to see if/when she'd actually ever learn anything, if she'd manage to find a way to move beyond her childhood jealousy and insecurity. Sadly, it doesn't seem she did. She ends as unhappy as she began, a hamster on the wheel of practiced misery.

3. Bean Bag Buddies (Nicki Wheeler), and Dollmaking (E.J. Taylor). I'm putting these two as one entry, because I didn't read them cover to cover, only dipped into them for instructions and techniques for a sewing project I have in mind. Still, they were library books, and I did read at least part of them! Both were informative, though the first, with its brilliant-hued velour animal toys, was by far the prettiest to look at.

4. Dragonwell Dead (Laura Childs). Theodosia (Theo) Browning of Charleston, South Carolina, solves a murder while running her tea shop, helping a friend find a rare orchid, and organizing a fund-raiser for the Orchid Society. With recipes! It may not be Great Literature, but it was fun, I didn't figure out whodunnit before the Unveiling (but then, I rarely do), and I plan to thoroughly enjoy the Strawberry Slush Tea I will make later this week. Fun book.

5. Vanity and Vexation: A novel of pride and prejudice (Kate Fenton). Yes, yet another Austen re-make, but so cleverly done! I loved reading this book, just loved it. This time it's the men who are impoverished and the women who are rich and powerful; there are trans-Atlantic jaunts, ex-wives, drug-runners and crusty pub-keepers, but True Love does indeed triumpth. A thoroughly satisfying read.

6. The Diary (Eileen Goudge). It could be that I was hormonal while reading this book, but the last chapter made me cry. It's a sweet and touching story, revealed through the pages of a 60-year-old diary. With the perfect twist at the end. Lovely.

7. The Greek Villa (Judith Gould). It's a sore temptation to tell you the entire plot and save you the grief of reading this thing. If it were written by a 17-year-old, it would be a decent piece of writing. Sadly, it only sounds like it was written by one, which made it pretty tough going for me. See, I'm the kind-hearted type who will turn off the television if a character on a sit-com is making too much of an ass of themselves. I simply can't stand to be party to someone else's humiliation. This book gave me the same feeling. "Oh, please!" I wanted to plead with the author. "Stop doing this to yourself!" (Because I couldn't in all fairness complain she was doing it to me: no one was forcing me to finish the damned thing.)

In fact, the storyline is energetic and entertaining enough (even if it routinely strains credulity) to keep one turning pages till the end... if, that is, you can overlook the stupidity of the characters, their mind-numbing shallowness, the unbelievably facile plot twists, and the brickbat-obvious psychological insights. Then there's the dreadful, stilted dialogue, and the truly, truly awful sex scenes. Worst of all though, the lovers sometimes tried to talk while they were having sex, so the poor reader was subjected to BOTH AT THE SAME TIME? Oh, lordy. Let's just say this is one of those rare times in my life I have ever found myself skipping pages to get PAST a sex scene.

Here's a snippet of her style. After about a minute and a half of necking, Our Hero decides it's time to make the next move. " 'Let's get undressed,' he whispered into her ear." (Because, hell, maybe she didn't know you needed to do that first.) And then, after a further minute and a half of necking while undressing, " 'Let's get in bed,'" (in case she couldn't tell where this was leading), "he said, taking her by the hand and leading the way" (in case she didn't know where her bed was).

And afterward? The pillow talk?

"I can hardly believe I found someone like you."

She marveled at his words, wondering if anybody else on earth had ever felt such a great love. ("Great love." They have known each other perhaps three weeks; this is the second time they've had sex. "Great love"?? You can strain your eyeballs rolling them that hard. ) "You have no idea what this means to me. What it makes me feel like. [So, OH! Why don't I tell you what I feel like??] I feel... I feel like nothing could ever come between us. That nothing could ever hurt us."

[Isn't that TOUCHING? Isn't it PROFOUND? Oh, and cue the sinister music, because we all know the Bad Guy is hot on her heels.]

"And nothing will as long as we're together," he said. [This is a very clever example of the plot device called foreshadowing, see, because we know he's about to fly off to do business for a few days, and the Bad Guy, as noted earlier, is hot on her heels.] "Nothing, Tracey. Our love is too powerful."

Eeew. "Our love is too powerful." I winced the first time. I'm wincing again. Eeew, eeew, eeew. Aren't you embarrassed for her? I'm embarrassed for her.

I think what I'm saying is that unless you're the type who truly enjoys seeing other people humiliate themselves, you might want to give this one a miss.

8. Julie and Julia (Julie Powell). Yes, I know everyone has read this one already. I only read it because I was about to see the movie, and only after reading the book did I check out the (now discontinued) blog. Completely backwards for a blogger, and I should be ashamed of myself, I know. It turned out to be the correct order, though: I loved the movie, enjoyed the book, and found the blog... okay. Julie Powell, needing a project to keep her focussed and sane, decides to start a blog chronicalling her attempt to cook all 500+ recipes from Julia Child's "Mastering the Art of French Cooking"... in one year. Funny book, funnier movie. But then, could anything with Meryl Streep in it be bad?

9. Friday Nights (Joanna Trollope). I've enjoyed everything I've read by this author, and this was no exception. I loved the character of Eleanor. I loved the way she made the children so real and believable, the relationship of the various mothers to their children different, but all probable. But the pivotal figure in the book? The New Boyfriend who acts as such a catalyst to this group of women, in one way or another? Totally unbelievable. What man would do those thing? I could never figure out why he was doing the things he did... except to drive the plot, that is. As every Trollope book, a thoroughly enjoyable read... but that Jackson guy? Not real at all.

Total to the end of August: 57.
Year's goal achieved! But why stop when I'm having so much fun??

2009-08-18T11:45:00.010-04:00

Parenting brings wisdom. Wisdom and humility.

Know why?

Not because of the mistakes you make and learn from, though of course they help. Not because you constantly run the risk of psychologically damaging your children. I think that risk is HUGELY over-rated by parents. Kids are just not that frail. (Look at how many parents are terrorized by their toddlers and teens. Frail? Pfft. Those small (and not-so-small) bullies are causing trauma, not receiving it.)

No, parenting brings wisdom, and a cold dose of humility, because you can see yourself in your kids. You see echoes of your younger self in their behaviour, and thus, you get an adult perspective on your own behaviour.

This particularly applies to adult children. My eldest is 23 now. A young adult, but an adult. Given that she's been living mostly on her own since she left for university, and that since graduation she's had a job in a different city and paid her own way completely, she's earned those adult stripes.

But she is a young adult.

We're just wrapping up a conflict, she and I, and a significant one. At one point, I greatly feared we were heading for another estrangement. We had one of those for the three years between 17 and 20, and I'd assumed that with adolescence behind us, we'd left that kind of thing with it. This week, I seriously questioned that assumption.

But it seems we'll make it out of these woods. And what have I learned?

1. Keep my opinions to myself.

Not that I am terribly forthcoming with them. Once they hit their late teens, my kids can go months without hearing an opinion. They get lots of questions bytimes, exploratory questions, not aggressive ones. But I don't often pronounce on their lives. When they leave home, I do this even less.

At this point, though, I'm thinking that I won't tell her anything I'm thinking, at least when that "anything" is at all critical of certain areas of her life. I think I'll be reluctant to do it even if I'm asked (which, we can all note, I wasn't this time). We will call this A Lesson Learned. From here on in, she is welcome to learn from bitter experience.

Lesson 1b: It is probably best she learn from experience.

2. She is not as measured and mature as I thought she was.

I'd expected disagreement with my position, expressed with some degree of huffiness. I did not expect a full-on onslaught of furious outrage. I expected her to disagree with my opinion, even to tell me I had no business imposing it upon her; I did not expect her to deny my right to an opinion. (Obviously, expecting a negative response, I did not embark on this conversation lightly. I felt it necessary, a maternal duty shouldered with stoicism rather than enthusiasm.)

She is certainly not as meaured and mature as she thinks she is... which leads me to the Most Important Lesson of all:

3. At age 23, I was not as measured and mature as I thought I was.

Without a child of that age to point the way, I'd have only my memories to go on... and they are, of course, the memories of a 23-year-old. I'd have a 23-year-old's perspective on the situations, the people involved, their responses, my own behaviour.

Of course, I've gained perspective over the years, even without my children's input. I've learned some stuff about my younger self along the way, but I will tell you now, NOTHING shows you how blinkered and restricted a 23-year-old's thinking is like arguing with a 23-year-old, even a sensible, mature, intelligent 23-year-old such as mine.

Wow.

Um, mom? On the off chance you ever stumble across this blog?

Sorry.

2009-08-07T06:47:00.000-04:00

"How do you know when you're hungry?"

It was a question posed by the leader at the Weight Watchers meeting I attend periodically. (When you're losing weight, you go weekly. When you've reached your goal and maintained it for long enough, you only have to go in monthly. I am less reliable than that, but I do show up from time to time. Keeps me honest.)

Sadly, the leader is poor at leading discussions, so what could have been a fascinating discussion bottomed out after a few tentative offerings from the group.

That was a while back, and I'm still mulling it over, because my honest answer is "Damned if I know."

Really.

For the record, I'm slim. Not fat, not skinny, just smack in the middle of my healthy range. I come from a family of morbidly obese people, though, so when my forthy-something body starting hording those fat cells a few years back, I panicked a bit. Do I want to be 100+ pounds overweight like my mother, my brother, my sister, my aunt? Wheezing at the effort of crossing a room, groaning to get out of a chair? Suffering asthma, arthritis, fatty liver, diabetes, colon cancer, clogged arteries, heart attacks? Having to sleep with one of those machines that keeps your airways open? Every single one of those things is suffered by at least one member of my immediate family, and every single one of them can be connected to overweight. And my family isn't just overweight: they're morbidly obese.

Fat like that isn't about aesthetics or vanity, it's a quality of life issue -- it's a life-threatening issue -- and I want no part of it.

So, after floundering for a few months, unsuccessfully trying to slow the steady increase on my own, I joined the local Weight Watchers.

And it worked!

Four months later, I was 25 pounds lighter. (My family mocked me, you know. "YOU'RE not fat! What are you doing at WW?" In point of fact, with those 25 extra pounds on my body, I was technically overweight. Not fat like them, no, not wallowing in poundage, but as I said to my sister, "What? You mean I should wait until I'm a hundred pounds overweight before I do anything about it? I don't see how that would make it any easier.")

But... "How do you know when you're hungry?"

When I was younger, I knew I was hungry when I wanted to eat. Easy. And if I didn't want to eat, I wasn't hungry. Simple.

Now?

If 'hunger' is the drive to eat determined by your body's genuine needs, then I can't trust my 'want to eat' cues at all. Because, following them, I'd probably end up as fat as the rest of my family. I have days where all I want to do is eat. Every time I wander into the kitchen (and I work from home, so I can do it a LOT), I open a fridge or a cupboard, grazing, constantly hunting for something else to push into my mouth. (Mercifully, I have balancing days where I can forget to eat. Surely I'm 'hungry' on those days, and yet it's not recognized hunger that tells me I need to eat, it's the dizziness or the extreme fatigue.)

So, what's 'hunger', anyway?

I eat by the clock and by the charts. I don't obsess, I'm not bogged down by minutiae. I have general principles I adhere to, essentially Michael Pollan's basic guidelines: "Eat Food. Mostly Plants. Not too Much." I drink lots of water. I avoid junk food.

But hunger? What the hell is hunger? When am I hungry?

Damned if I know.

2009-08-01T15:00:00.000-04:00

July's Library Challenge Books

1. Charms for the Easy Life, Kaye Gibbons. Three generations of strong and strongly individual southern healing women, headed by the powerful Charlie Kate, narrated through the grand-daughter, Margaret. If you're looking for depth, nuance or layers, it's not here, but the book succeeds marvellously as a straightforward narrative about interesting people.

2. The Petty Details of So-and-So's Life, Camilla Gibb. Sister and brother Emma and Blue survive the ordeal of being 'raised' by a negligent, alcoholic mother and a psychotic and viciously cruel father by bonding together. They respond to his abrupt departure in wildly different ways, each seeking healing from the trauma of their childhood with greater or lesser success.

3. Everything Changes, Jonathan Tropper. I have a new Favourite Author. I loved this book, absolutely loved it. A man, shaken by the possibility of cancer, is further shaken when his father makes a decades-overdue reappearance in his life, and suddenly, everything comes into question. The results bounce from rambunctuously funny to heart-rending, and, ultimately, just right.

Each main character is realized with unshadowed honesty and compassion both. The son's introspection and analysis is full and sensitive, and yet his passivity in his dealings with his fiancee is nothing less than cruel. The father is worthy of both respect and scorn. No one is perfect, but everyone is worth knowing.

4. Otherwise Engaged, Suzanne Finnamore. I refuse to believe that getting that diamond can turn a sensible 36-year-old woman into the nitwit portrayed in this book. Of course, I was never a woman who would scheme and manipulate to get the ring in the first place. No wonder I found this book so annoying.

5. Digging to America, Anne Tyler. Two families brought together by their decision to adopt a Korean baby: one All-American, one an Iranian immigrant family. It's a fascinating look at the perceptions and mis-perceptions that occur across cultures... with a romantic thread (between the independent widowed Iranian grandmother and the kindly American widower grandfather) for good measure. Excellent book.

6. This Room is Yours, Michael Stein. It's well-written and on an interesting topic, but I just couldn't get into the flow of the book, probably because I found the narrator tediously self-absorbed. Given that it's a fictionalized memoir, that's probably unfair -- a memoir is, by definition, about yourself.

7. Thornyhold, Mary Stewart. A nice light read for a summer afternoon. A young woman with an unhappy childhood finds a home in the house bequeathed to her by an eccentric aunt, and love in the arms of a handsome neighbour. With a little witchcraft lite thrown in for a gothic twist to a sunny plot.

8. Not Wanted on the Voyage, Timoth Findley. An untraditional re-telling of the biblical story of the flood. Beautifully written, tragically bleak. Found it dreary and enraging in equal measure, and my rage was equally distributed across pretty nearly all parties, including the sympathetic ones.

9. The Sunday List of Dreams, Kris Radish. Facing retirement, Connie decides to step outside her practiced routine and act on the list of dreams she's kept all these years. It's a nice premise, and the book starts off well, but bogs down 3/4 through, losing much of its initial energy as it trudges to its close. I'm completely onside with the idea of women claiming their sexuality -- I'm the mother who buys her teenage girls their first vibrator, remember? I just wish she hadn't become quite so preachy about it. It felt more like a (rather boring) lecture than a novel at several points. Nonetheless, if you're the type who can flip past the tedious pages in the latter quarter of the book, it's an enjoyable read.

10. Oh, drat. What was that book called? A short little item, about a writer mourning the loss of her composer husband. I returned it to the library before I made note of it... and now, it's gone. I can picture the cover: leather arm chair covered with woven back piece, in warm tones of brown and red. It had line drawings at intervals throughout, unusual in a book for adults... Oh, well.

Ten this month, bringing my total so far this year to: 48. Given that my goal was fifty, and I'm quite sure I've forgotten far more than two, I can safely say I hit my goal by the end of July. However, this is entertaining, at least for me, so I'll be continuing until December.

From here on in, it's all gravy!

2009-07-17T08:33:00.004-04:00

You know you're hormonal when...

"Hey, there!" I call up to the man on the scaffolding at the side of my house. A blond, shaggy head appears over the edge. "If I do a load of laundry, would it be safe to hang it out, or would things be falling on my head?"

"No, we're just doing the soffits. It should be fine."

... the slightly unkempt body attached to that blond, shaggy head with a grade ten education looks entirely beddable.

I start the washing machine.

2009-07-01T07:19:00.000-04:00

I forgot to keep track in May, so now I don't know which were May's and which June's, and I'm quite sure some have been left out... Still, here's my half-baked tracking efforts. I'm still well ahead of my goal of fifty this year, though!

1. The Girls, Lori Larson. Conjoint twins, joined at the head. Told primarily through the eyes of one of the twins, with occasional (and revealing) input from the other. Interesting book.

2. Sweet Hush, Deborah Smith. A love story. I read a romance novel and liked it. Imagine. (Generally the genre leaves me cold.)

3. Another Woman's Husband, Sarah Duncan. Oddly named, since that woman plays almost no role in this book. The emotions of the tempted-to-stray wife are well portrayed... though I confess I did far less agonizing when I was in that situation; of course, my marriage was much worse, and my then-husband had been having his own affair for going on a couple of years. Still, the protagonist's feelings rang true. I was enraged by her decision to 'fess up to her husband -- what an awful thing to do to the man! And the ending? The ending made me crazy!!! As if that's going to make anything better. Good lord.

4. Gazelle, Rikki Ducornet. A pivotal year spent in Egypt, in the life of an unhappy American thirteen-year-old. Child of a loving and mild but slightly mad American father and flamboyant Icelandic mother. Feels far more European than American in its sensibilities, this book.

5. The Rebel Sell: why the culture can't be jammed, Joseph Heath and Andrew Potter. Fascinating look at the origins, development, and social implications of the countercultural movement. I learned that my definition of 'countercultural' is far too constrained and civilized. The real thing is much further-reaching (and, to my mind, ridiculously naive and very destructive).

6. The Hungry Years: Confessions of a Food Addict, William Leith. Mr. Leith isn't just addicted to food: he'll overindulge on anything going --painkillers, booze, drugs, you name it. The book is an honest look at the problem of food addiction in general, his personal experience of addictive behaviour, and his own resolution. Well done.

7. The Quilter's Kitchen, by Jennifer Chiaverini. Though the plot of this small book is nearly non-existent, the recipes are fabulous. We're tried the peanut chicken satays, the cucumber-tomato salad, the Southwestern couscous salad, and slow-roasted pork, all yummy. Tonight? Roast chicken in a cilantro-orange marinade.

8. Step Ball Change, Jeanne Ray. Two sons married off, one son still at home, and a daughter who's just gotten engaged to the richest young man in town, her own dance school, massive house renovations, and a happy marriage. Caroline's plate is full... and about to get fuller, when her sister calls needing a place to live following her husband's defection with his ~~secretary~~ 'junior executive'. The only truly annoying thing in an otherwise pleasingly lively and frivolous book is the ridiculous thread wherein the middle-class parents agonize about how to pay their half of a rich man's wedding. Hello? The bride is 34, an independent adult. Why are you paying anything (more than a token contribution)? And if we are being all traditional, isn't the bride's family supposed to plan the wedding? Then do it within YOUR means, not the gazillionaire fiance's family's. Very silly (and of course, happily resolved).

9. A Metropolitan Murder, Lee Jackson. Murder on a subway train in Victorian England.

10. Saint Valentine, Nick Tomlinson. Tale of a Valentine card, convincingly told from the perspective of a love-struck 13-year-old boy. Both funny and touching. The blind spots of a young adolescent are well-portrayed. Good read.

11. We Always Treat Women Too Well, Raymond Queneau. Very Hobbesian book: "...poor, nasty, brutal, and short." That latter point is the only good thing to be said about it. Perhaps the most shocking thing about this book of mindless, random violence and deathly human interaction is that it's supposed to be funny. Ghastly.

Total for May/June: 11

Total so far this year: 38

2009-04-05T13:07:00.010-04:00

1. Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man, Claudia Carroll. Fun and frivolous read, with the hint of a more serious message. Only a hint, mind you. Successful woman in her late thirties decides it's time to get serious about finding a husband. She wants the wedding band, she wants the Vera Wang. She is inspired, dissuaded and aided in this task by her three closest friends, who (SUCH a convenience to the plot!!) are respectively, a happily married woman, a twice-divorced, happily single woman, and a gleefully promiscuous gay man.

2. The Woman in the Row Behind, Francoise Dorner. A truly inexplicable book. Why did she marry him? Why does she claim to love him, when it's clear she doesn't like him much? (Nor does he deserve it.) How does she fall into two extra-marital sexual liaisons without any apparent effort or interest? And, given she seems to care so little, why bother? Why does she claim to feel pain at the marriage's disintegration? And if she cares so much, why doesn't she speak up to prevent it? Bizarre book. The emotional disconnect of any character in this book from their own motivations and from anyone else makes it extremely difficult to care what happens to any of this unlikeable lot. Waste of time. Good thing it was short.

3. Rebecca, Daphne DuMaurier. I'd never read this before. Yes, really. And now I'm in on the joke! You know, all those spoofs of gothic horrors, the ones that show the sinister housekeeper, the brooding and haunted man, the (impossibly, insufferably annoying) innocent ingenue. Didn't you just want to smack that girl upside the head? Honest to pete. But now I've read it, thank heavens, and it's done.

4. The Stolen Child, Keith Donohue. Engrossing dual story, intertwined lives of the stolen child and his changeling. The ending sort of dodged its own climax, but a great read.

5. Around the World with Auntie Mame, Patrick Dennis. Silly and entertaining story of the adventures of 19-year-old Patrick's travels with his wildly rich and eccentric Auntie Mame.

6. Sex, A Mystery, Fiona Quirina. A lively and quick-moving mystery novel in which sex surrogate Lydia, who prefers to call herself a courtesan, graduate of Barnard with a Harvard MBA, finds her Tuesday client in her bed with an ice pick through his back. She is, of course, the prime suspect, and works hard and efficiently to prove her innocence. Fun.

7. The World I Made for Her, Thomas Moran. The narrator is a critically ill 30-something man living in an intensive care ward as he drifts in and out of comas, battling his mysterious and potentially fatal illness. Nuala is his nurse. A beautifully written heart-breaker of a book.

8. Artistic Licence, Katie Fforde.

9. Away From Her, Alice Munro. The older I get, the more I learn to enjoy short stories, and Alice Munro is a master of the genre. Excellent.

10. Simple Slipcovers, Tracey Munn, from which I learned that slipcovers aren't. Dammit.

11. Another Life, Ann Roth. Light and easy, with an odd, but oddly logical premise involving the two "widows" of a deathbed-discovered bigamist.

12. Mistressclass, Michele Roberts. Two sisters reconcile, (almost, kinda-sorta) a long-past betrayal, while a thread about Charlotte Bronte either elucidates or confuses. I'm not sure yet...

2009-03-22T13:48:00.006-04:00

Books. Books, books, and more books. How I love my local library...

February and March's list:

1. Jitterbug Perfume, Tom Robbins. Seriously weird book. Funny, in a darkish and weird sort of way. Not sure if I'd recommend it... but wouldn't discourage someone from attempting it, either.

2. Understanding Menopause, Janine O'Leary Cobb. Useful, informative. No magic bullets, sadly. :-)

3. Asking for Love, Roxana Robinson. A collection of short, sad stories. Lovely little things, beautifully crafted... but a story isn't required to be sad/wistful to be meaningful. I wonder about the mental state of Ms. Robinson.

4. Naked Once More, Elizabeth Peters. Mystery story about a murdered author, entertainingly untangled by another author, as written by a third (real-life)one. Lots of fun.

5. Toss the Bride, Jennifer Manske Fenske. Very silly. Very shallow. Good entertainment for a 15-year-old... or a lazy 40-something looking to pass the time with no mental effort.

6. Keeping the World Away, Margaret Forster. I gave up at the end of the first section, 86 pages in. By then I should have had more than the vaguest of clues what was going on, right? That probably says more about my (lack of) mental prowess than the author's skill, I'm sure, but I couldn't finish this one.

7. Bitter Chocolate, Lesley Lokko. Starts in Haiti, bounces around the States and Britain. The book follows three women, but though a tenuous connection is forced by the author, the third woman (a spoiled rich thing) has no real bearing on the other two, nor on their stories. I have no idea why she's in the book. Not an awful book, but not one I'd go out of my way to read, either.

8. The Old Country. Yawn. It reads like a British sitcom of the more predictable variety, meaning that I get exasperated with the character's inability to step outside their foibles, even when they are a) aware of them and b) aware of the problems they cause... but that's expecting way too much for a genre that's nothing more than character-slapstick. It meandered along endlessly, going nowhere in particular. Without an appreciation of the humour [character does something supremely inept, insert laugh track here] there was nothing there. Yawn.

9. Quite Honestly. I have this title written on a scrap of paper, but (quite honestly) I've returned it to the library already and have forgotten what it was about... Oh, wait. Just googled it, read the first line, and remembered. A girl decides to help rehabilitate a fellow just out of jail, falls in love with him and becomes a petty criminal in order to "understand" him, even as he successfully goes straight. None of the characters are all all convincing, and so there is no sympathy possible for this ridiculous woman and her ludicrous actions. It's supposed to be humour, but it misses.

10. Just Jane. "A novel of Jane Austen's Life". It was okay. Worth reading if you like Austen, but otherwise not.

2009-02-19T20:02:00.005-05:00

With an amusing tagline ("Only a ball should bounce"), one might hope for something a little playful and less dismally ugly. One might hope, but one would be disappointed. Bitter experience has taught us that D-cup-wearers can't be choosers.

Appearance is one thing, style another. With such a clever tagline, one could reasonably hope for more from the product blurb:

An ideal bra for women
engaging in high impact activities
such as horseback riding, running,
soccer, volleyball, aerobics,
police officers...

On the other hand, one is greatly amused in speculating precisely what "high impact activities such as... police officer" could be.

2009-02-12T10:14:00.007-05:00

Oh, yes. That Reading Challenge.

I absolutely intended to post about my January books in January. I should be having a toasty February here in frosty* Ottawa, what with all those good intentions I make then completely forget.

(*Not so frosty today: three degrees and rain, rain, rain. "Is this it, mum?" my 15-year-old wanted to know. "Is spring here now?" I managed to choke out a "No, sweetie" before drowning in laughter at her ~~dopiness~~ sweet innocence. )

Missed intentions notwithstanding, I have been reading! I have been visiting the library! I just haven't been writing about it. Because I'm disorganized that way.

So. My January books:

The Omnivore's Dilemma -- Terrific book. It will make you reconsider how you perceive your food, and may even change what/how you eat. The first two sections are by far the more engrossing/compelling. I understand why the third section was necessary, but it dragged. Apart from the discussion of meat-eating, which was interesting, I could easily have skipped the entire thing. (In this section I primarily learned that Michael Pollan sure does like himself...) This does not detract from the value of the book, which I liked so well that I went out and bought my own copy. But it started as a library book, so that counts.

The Uncommon Reader -- The unexpected fallout of royal bookworm-ery. Funny and clever -- and short!

The Aging Brain -- Interesting subject matter, unremittingly boring book. Badly in need of a stern and unyielding editor. The man has no idea how to streamline his ideas, clearly believing that the more technical terms one crams into every paragraph, the more erudite one appears. My brain aged a solid decade just getting through the first two pretentious chapters.

Garden Spells -- Quirky and entertaining light read.

The Russian Album -- My Canadiana quota.

There were more, but I've forgotten. Oh, the shame. Still, five for the month puts me well on track toward my goal of fifty for the year.

2009-02-05T06:14:00.006-05:00

Family myths. We all have them. You know, "Oh, sis is so [insert trait here]", "Brother is the [trait] one." For years my mother -- my entire family -- always passed the gravy boat by me, based on my preschool loathing of the stuff, despite the fact that at every holiday gathering in my adult life I'd been grabbing the damned thing back and liberally dousing my mashed potatoes with its delectability.

We have myths in our family. I'm sure there are some I buy into without even realizing it's a myth, but there are others I watch with some bemusement. I don't necessarily say anything; many myths serve a useful and empowering purpose... but myths they remain.

I've even used myths. Shortly after she'd learned to read, my middle step-daughter was finding this whole 'literacy' schtick hard-going. Reading was difficult for her, and, being the contrary little cuss she was at that age, she was resisting mightily. Add to that a mother who sees time spent 'with your nose in a book' as time wasted, and the girl was well on her way to being functionally illiterate.

Enter devious me, weilding the parental tool of the Family Myth. Every time we saw her even glance at a book, Matthew and I would start perpetrating the myth: "There she is, reading again! That girl always has her nose in a book!" (Only in our family, that was a good thing.) "Lizzie's such a reader, just like her dad!" "It sure is nice to have such a book-loving family!"

And it worked. In very short order (two months?), Lizzie (and all of her siblings) bought into the myth. Lizzie was A Reader. And, perceiving herself to be a reader, so she became one, and the myth became a reality. She is still the child most likely to have a book on the go, the one most likely to bring a book in her backpack against those empty moments.

(Aren't I brilliant?)

So. Let this stand as proof that I have nothing against the family myth, providing it's a positive thing. What bemuses me is how people buy into things that are patently false. It's very weird.

We have a bunch right now, surrounding the dog.

-She likes men better than women. (She does? Who believes this? Everyone in the family but me and the dog, evidently...)
- She has a particular fondness for the youngest step-son. (She likes him, sure. Just like she likes everyone. Male and female. She's a friendly little critter.)
- She has a most particular fondness, a tremendous bond of adoration, for Matthew.

It's odd, this family tendency to slice up and allocate the dog's affections. While the first one totally confounds me -- I have no idea where it came from, or on what it could possibly be based -- the other two have some basis in reality. She pays more attention to my youngest step-son because he pays more attention to her. However, she pays him no more unsolicited attention than she does anyone else.

And that last one?

Well, she greets Matthew like a crazy thing when he walks through the door: leaping up, licking his face, yodelling. She does not do that to me. She does not do that to the children. This much is true. She does not do that to the rest of us because we don't let her. I trained her within the first month that she was not to jump up on me, and so, when I come through the door, she does not jump up on me. The children did the same. Matthew, however, loves the jumping, and so permits (even encourages) it. And now the fact that she goes banzai when he walks through the door (and a more muted form of banzai when the rest of us do) is read as the dog loving him more intensely.

Am I annoyed by this? No. Nor will I ever, ever do anything to dispell the myth. Indeed, I encourage it.

He often travels for work. When he is gone, she'll walk up to his side of the bed, put her chin on it and sigh. She takes his slipper into her crate, and sleep with her nose in it. I make sure to tell him these things. I do not tell him what I know from the children: She does these things for me, too, on the far rarer occasions when I am away for a day or two.

Some months ago, you see, Matthew was mulling over his current condition, and concluding that Something was missing. He wanted more social contact, he knew he needed to get more exercise, to get out of the house more. He's a depressive sort, and he felt the need for a source of pleasure in his life. (I know. Living with me was not enough to put him in a state of perpetual bliss. It's an astonishment to me, too.)

He considered a few options -- join a book club, take a course, volunteer -- but what he decided in the end was to get a dog. A dog would get him out of the house, would give him casual social interactions with other dog-owners at the park, and would give him a source of affection and pleasure.

The dog has done all that. Daily walks, chat with other dog-owners, and a living, loving creature to take pleasure in, something to bring a measure of joy to his (mildly) depressive soul. It brings me great satisfaction to see his genuine need met in such a simple, wholesome, loving way. If part of his joy is predicated on the myth that she loves him above all others?

He can have that.

2009-01-23T07:46:00.006-05:00

I wandered lonely as a cloud...

The boy stood on the burning deck...

In Xanadu did Kublai Khan...

Come into the garden, Maud...

Come, madam, come, all rest my powers defy...

Lazy, laughing, languid Jenny...

A panther is much like a leopard...

Tiger, tiger, burning bright...

Do not go gentle into that good night...

Once upon a midnight dreary...

I grew up with poetry. My grandfather, born and educated in Britain at a time when poetry recitation was a mainstay, sought to fill the gap in his grandchildren's Canadian education with a fine round of poetry. It was never dreary, it was fun. I loved memorizing the rolling phrases, I loved hearing him recite a poem with enthusiasm and zest, or, when the poem demanded, with great spooky mystery, and I loved doing the same.

And yet, when I hear the strains of a poetry-reading beginning on the CBC, I almost always turn the radio off -- generally with an exclamation of exasperation -- within the first fifteen seconds. I just can't stand it.

When my grandfather and I shared poetry, it vibrated with energy. When I hear poetry declaimed on the radio, it is moaned in a deadpan, the words falling like some relentless drip, drip, drip. Not dripping of water, clean and fresh. More like, oh... the plop, plop, plop of (so I imagine) sludge from a sewage pipe.

Who wants to listen to that? The poetry of my childhood was not "kiddy poetry". It was rich and layered and nuanced, full of marvellous sounds and meaning -- and yet it was presented as exciting, interesting, full of LIFE.

There is no life in their droning. Only tedious, pretentious efforts at sounding portentious.

Or something. I have no idea why they feel they must read the stuff like that. Why turn something so rich and vibrant into a tedious, dreary droning? It doesn't have to be that way. I've heard the odd Poetry Slam on the CBC, where poetry is turned into a rhythmic, pulsating form of performance art. Very cool.

Let's have more of that, shall we? More life and less droooooning.

2009-01-04T18:12:00.003-05:00

I've found the perfect reading challenge for me:

You decide whether you're going to read 12, 25, or 50 books from your local library this year, then you leave a comment (and a link, if you have a blog), making your commitment public on J. Kaye's site.

I'm in for 50.

I won't even break a sweat.

Anyone else?

2008-12-23T07:11:00.007-05:00

"... all life on earth can be viewed as a competition among species for the solar energy captured by photosynthesis..." (The Omnivore's Dilemma).

The sentence caused a flicker of response, a spark something interesting begun in my mind. I set the book down to consider, to let that spark develop. Just think about that sentence for a minute. All life on earth derives from the sun. Amazing, that. A flash in my mind of solar particles streaming to earth, warming the soil, spurring to growth, and the whole rest of everything else on this tiny planet in a distant solar system in a backwater galaxy burgeoning out from that soil. It's mysical, it's miraculous. Just because we can explain certain bits of how it all fits together doesn't detract from the wonder of it all.

Amazing.

It's been a while since I've attempted to pray, but this seemed to call for it. For along with the wonder, the awe at the intricacy and inter-twinedness of it all, was gratitude. Maybe I'm just globally grateful to be the recipient of life, maybe I'm grateful to a specific entity -- yes, god -- but whatever it may be, it seemed appropriate to express that gratitude.

So I tried to form a prayer, and...

it didn't work.

The salutation... "Oh, lord"... seemed pompous and false. "Father God", which (being fatherless) I relished in my adolescence, didn't work, either. I shied away from both... with a surprisingly visceral revulsion. Wrong. They were just wrong.

Okay, so skip the salutation. On to the meat of it. I struggled to line up the words in the best order, to best express what I was feeling, and again, it didn't work. It was so damned artificial. Like I was composing a stiff and proper thank-you note. And it wasn't so much the tenor of the thing -- formal, casual, ponderous or light -- no matter how I tried it, whipping out phrases and tossing them away like discarded garments, none of them worked. The problem wasn't the tone of voice, the problem was the words themselves.

Not which words I was choosing, just words. Language, at all.

I love words. I think it's possibly humanity's highest achievement, language. There are few things I love more than the puzzle of trying to fit the words to express the meaning, playing with them, ordering them, picking and choosing to get just the right nuance, feeling, to connect my mind with yours. It's profoundly satisfying to me.

But in this instance, words were not bridging gaps. Words were taking the feeling and reducing it, channeling it, limiting it.

In fact, the more I struggled to package up my responses and mail them off to that great ear in the sky, the more the whole endeavour just became ... embarrassing. The words didn't fit. They were profoundly limiting, and, thereby, false.

Limiting not just of my feelings, but of where I was sending them. The expressions of God that I grew up with don't really fit my perception of him/her/it now. "Father" God doesn't do it. (Nor would "mother".) Those words make whole thing too concrete, too specific, too bounded in physical reality, in human experience. "Lord"? Good lord. I think not. I don't think that way any more. Once more, embarrassing.

Instead, I simply focussed on the feelings of wonderment, satisfaction, appreciation for this mystical, miraculous, marvellous world, in all its astonishing intricacy.

If there is (as I believe) a god out there, and if he/she/it notes and cares what the specks in creation think or do (I'm largely dubious), then surely he/she/it doesn't need words -- words of one particular language from one particular speck (me!) on one of uncountable millions of planets in the myriad of galaxies -- to grasp what I'm trying to convey.

So I focussed on the feeling and tried to keep words out of it -- harder to do than one might think -- and trusted that it was being received. And if not, if god doesn't listen to the burbling of the teeming masses, then certainly the exercise is good for me. Awe, gratitude, appreciation are all good for the soul. (Or, if you will, the psyche, or,if you wish to reduce it that far, simply something as prosaic as your mental health.)

I did, and, though I was stumbling and clumsy in my efforts, it, unlike my abortive attempts at formal prayers, felt right.

I think I need to learn to meditate.

2008-12-10T13:45:00.005-05:00

Series of tweets from a young mother:

Baby just tossed himself off of bed and onto hardwood floor. Am worst mother, ever.

Seconds later: (He's fine. I'm not.)

Six minutes later: 6 and a half months old. Husky fella, but still: BABY

Two minutes after that: It was a high bed. Will berate myself forever.

Four minutes pass, then: Thanks, all, for the reassurance that I am not, in fact, the worst mother ever.

It does occur to one that the trauma could not be oh-so-bad if she could turn her back on her baby and occupy herself with her invisible friends in the computer. One could even be a bit scathing about emotional aggrandizement/grandstanding and self-indulgence, if one were of a cynical turn of mind. (And an unkind one.) You would also be missing the crux of the messages.

It's the last tweet that reveals the core reality. Did she truly think she was the worst mother in the world? No. She is an intelligent woman. (She is. Highly.) She knows there are vastly worse things a parent could do (and have done) to a child than a mere moment's inattention.

Was she, however, shaken and in need of reassurance?

Verily.

And she got it. In spades, within seconds, and from a variety of sources. For all its flaws, the Internet can be a good and kindly place.

Which is why we're all here, right?

2008-12-07T05:44:00.003-05:00

This is not the post I was going to write.

I was going to write about something I overheard the other day while walking home through the park after an afternoon's Christmas shopping. A most exquisite and delightful piece of concrete irony. Two young women were chatting as they strolled toward me, and one, in all sincerity, said something to the other which was so totally at odds with their dress and demeanour as to cause a snort of appreciative laughter irony-loving me, and which gave me the seeds of a most excellent blog post. I had it all sketched out in my mind. Short and pithy, it was going to be, and in less than a hundred words I'd give any readers (I hoped) the same delightful jolt of laughter I'd just enjoyed.

I was going to write about that. I would still be writing about that ... if I could only remember what it was. But I can't. I've lost, completely and utterly, the kernel of the post. I cannot remember what the girl said.

I can remember where I was. I can remember the weather, what I was wearing, who I'd just gone shopping for, and even much of what I purchased. I know the young women's approximate ages. I can remember that what I overhead was very brief, one, perhaps two, sentences. I can remember it was totally at odds with something very obvious about them. I recall making a mental note and telling myself it would make a great blog post.

I can remember all that. I cannot remember what was said. I cannot remember what it conflicted with.

This happens all the time. It is utterly maddening.

Why, oh vagrant memory, do you torture me so? Why torment me with that sense of incompletion, why tantalize me with an almost-memory, the memory of an intention without its substance? A fusty nut with no kernel, indeed.

If my memory is going to drop the key element, why not just drop the entire damned thing?

With all the surrounding data, you'd think I'd be able to reconstruct the memory, but oh, how sadly rarely does this happen. I lay in bed in the very early morning, before I was quite awake -- the best time, I've discovered, for this sort of exercise -- and let the thoughts drift around this image, trying to hear their words again. I got close, once or twice. I had that "aha" feeling... and then, nothing.

Bah.

I suppose this is better than losing it entirely. A semi-recalled conversation can be brought to mind if the other party is there to fill in the gaps. They don't even need to know there were any gaps, because I can recall enough to fake it. A semi-recalled intention can often be accomplished anyway, if enough wisps of surrounding memory lead you to the point of action.

I am not going senile. I watched my lovely grandmother slip steadily away into a smiling, peaceful senility, senility which caused this woman who was my second mother, who lived next door and whom I saw every day of my childhood and adolescence, who taught me to sew and to cook (my mother being a little domestically challenged), to now welcome me with the kindly graciousness she bestowed on all strangers. I'm not going senile, but don't think the fear hasn't run through me once in a while.

No, I'm just middle-aged forgetful. And yes, that kind of retention is to memory and overall brain function what parrotting the times tables is to higher math -- a useful skill, but low-level, and usually pretty easy to live without. I can do all sorts of high-level brain stuff: I'm creative and analytical; I can think laterally. I've developed a decent supply of wisdom, I think, which will only increase as the years go by. I'm good in a crisis, I can retain my ability to reason clearly despite massive amounts of stressors. I can separate emotion from reason, and balance the interests of both sensibly. (Try doing that one as a teen or even as a twenty-something.)

So. The old brain is ticking along just fine, thanks.

But, damn, I wish I could recall what that girl had said.

2008-11-28T09:01:00.001-05:00

Observation:

When, in a confict, someone says, "Not to belabour the point, but..."

They are belabouring the point.

Moreover, they know it.

2008-11-02T06:55:00.002-05:00

The hour just went on the clock. (Two weeks late from last year on in, because we have to get in sych with the Americans. It's dark up here: why can't THEY get in synch with US?)

Anyway. The hour just went on the clock.

Goodness, we have a lot of clocks...

2008-10-31T14:14:00.010-04:00

Candy?
Check.

(Second batch. Matthew bought the first bags a FULL MONTH early. (What was he thinking?). He bought the second batch two weeks early -- again with the WWHT -- but I tossed them into not one, but TWO grocery bags, each seriously knotted, and bunged them into the back porch. Out of sight, out of mind holds firmly true with a memory as porous as mine...)

Jack o'lantern decoration on the front door?
Check.

Two pumpkins, one on either side of the porch steps?
Check.

One of which is carved into v. traditional jack o'lantern.
Check.

(Cheery little bugger, isn't he?)

Candle for inside jack?
~~Not yet.~~
Check!

Hand-made ghost decorations made?
Check.

Hand-made ghost decorations hung across porch?
~~Not yet.~~
Check!

I think we're just about ready!

Isn't it exciting? Small children across the city are already abuzz with excitement. They'll have a hard time eating dinner, poor mites, so eager will they be to don those costumes and glean all the candy their ~~greedy~~ innocent little hands can scoop.

Hallowe'en is most fun when your children are little. The tiny ones, the four-and-unders, still amazed and awed that people keep putting candy in their bags! They tend to forget to say "thank you", but their expression of astonished delight says it all. By the time they're eight and nine, and the best you get is a muttered "thanks" as they dash off to the next sucker, it begins to pall a bit. Particularly when the mutterers include your own beloved offspring.

My children have all outgrown trick-or-treating and will spend the evening at one party or another. And I will woman the front door, opening to each shouted "trick or treat", dropping FUNSIZE chocolate bars into bags, plastic pumpkins, and, for the truly dedicated, pillow cases. I will get up and down 50 times in two hours. I will feel the chill drafts of late October dampness swirl around my ankles and into my living room. I will coo at the preschool sweethearts and silently sneer at the mutterers. Mutter for mutter.

"Thnx"
"Greedyungratefulbrat. You're welcome!"

I will keep this annual event up until my children have all left home, till all pretence of caring can be dropped. Then I shall join the ranks of the few cheerfully unfettered curmudgeons on the street, and stay cosy behind firmly closed doors on the last day of October.

Bah, humbug.

Updated: But that little ladybug, with the hearts on her wings instead of spots, who could only lisp out a shy, "Merci"? Oh, lordy, she was cute...

2008-10-18T10:30:00.004-04:00

One of the great pleasures of the fine months is the amount of time we get to spend in the local dog-friendly park, chatting with the other dog-owners and watching the dogs romp. One of the dog-owners, we'll call him Mr. Nasshole, has taken it upon himself to make an email list of all willing dog-owners, so that we can be apprised of events pertinent to us -- like the end-of-summer party or the annual spring poop scoop.

(Yes, indeed. Conscientious dog-owners of the strong-stomached sort gather in late April armed with gloves, shovels, bags (and gas-masks?), to clear the park of the six months' worth of dog shit that has emerged as a winter's snows melt away. We are nothing if not Sterling Citizens, because you know those of us who gather to take on this wretched task are not those who neglected to pick up their dog's leftovers all winter long. We do it for The Good of The Community.)

Although we both agree that the list is a good notion, and that Mr. N. is performing a useful service to the dog-loving community and to our local park, Matthew and I have quite different responses to Mr. Nasshole as a person. Matthew thinks he's basically friendly, perhaps more socially skilled with dogs than people, but otherwise a nice enough fellow. I think he's a belligerant, self-important dork with bully tendencies, who needs to be In Control at all times.

My reasons for this assessment arise out of an event which I will not recount here. However, my impression wasn't altered at all by the following email exchange. (He is Ima Nasshole; I am Laura V.).

Sent: Monday, October 13, 2008 11:47:29 AM
Subject: Re: Warning for Dog Owners/Walkers (Riverside Park)
To ALL :

Thanks Suzie ( Kevin ) and to Frank Weldon the park forester-warden (who sent me the below cited bits)
Ima Nasshole

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Warning:
>>over the past week, there have been two reports of dogs
>>having been poisoned in our area. One of the reports was
>>for Riverside Park. The other was for MossyGlen Park.

>> The source of this information is extremely reliable.
>>Although the reports are UNCONFIRMED they felt that
>>it was worthwhile passing along a caution...

On 14-Oct-08, at 2:21 PM, Laura V. wrote:

Hello, Mr. Nasshole;

Thanks for sending this out. It's good to have information, so we can be more aware and cautious.

The email leaves important questions unanswered. I suppose no one knows what kind of poison, or how it was administered? How are the dogs faring? I do hope they've recovered!

I would like to speak with Mr. Weldon directly, if that's possible. If you're not comfortable giving me his email address, would you please forward this email to him, so he can decide what, if anything, he can tell me?

Thank you,
Laura V.

Sent: Wednesday, October 15, 2008 4:22:30 PM
Subject: Re: Warning for Dog Owners/Walkers (Riverside Park)

Mr Weldon is the forestry guy; it was Suzi Franklin who sent me the info on the poisoning
I.N.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Sent: Wednesday, October 15, 2008 6:18:14 PM
Subject: Re: Warning for Dog Owners/Walkers (Riverside Park)
My mistake! It looks like I should have asked you to forward my email to Suzi Franklin, then. Did you/would you do that, please?

Thank you,
Laura V.

Three days have passed. Full radio silence from Mr. N.

So. Who's right, boys and girls? A well-intentioned man, if lacking in social skills (Matthew's take), or a self-important dork whose need to control things will ensure he never passes along the address that will take his almighty hand off the spigot of information?

2008-10-15T11:38:00.004-04:00

You ever picked up a magazine in the doctor's office, only to find out someone has scribbled answers all over the "How Much Fibre Do You REALLY Need?" quiz? Or opened the newspaper in the coffee shop and found the "Top Ten Events in History" quiz all finished?

That was me.

I confess, I am a quiz addict. I love 'em. Can't leave a box unticked, an opinion unspoken. I fill out those consumer questionnaires from that Dianne woman, I answer the phone when Decima calls. I'm always willing to have some total stranger asking dopey questions tell me how well suited I am to my husband, how good my grammar is, whether I'm in the correct profession.

My favourite colour is green. That says significant things about my mothering skills, and also whether I should renovate the kitchen this year. I like chocolate, but my favourite junk food indulgences tend more to the salty and spicy; I drink beer more often than wine; I am left-handed... I am prone to criticism; I am all-forgiving; I'm a loyal friend; I'm a loner; I'm repressed; I'm a tigress in bed.

You just never know WHAT hidden truths about your psyche you could learn from these things!! Because it's all there!

Ah, quizzes. And now that we're all online, there is so much more to discover! So many more buttons to push, circles to tick, boxes to fill in!

Which is how I found out that I am an Audrey!

Who wouldn't want to be an Audrey? I even have the cheekbones!! Sure wish I had the lips...

Curious? Here's the explanation, based on TWO questions. (Only TWO! So easy!)

You are an Audrey -- "I am at peace"
(Yup. When I left my first marriage, what I wanted more than anything else was peace. I found it.)

Audreys are receptive, good-natured, and supportive. They seek union with others and the world around them.
(Mostly.)

How to Get Along with Me

- If you want me to do something, how you ask is important. I especially don't like expectations or pressure
(Expectations are just fine. Knowing the other guy's expectations is useful for healthy communication. Just don't pressure me with them!)

- I like to listen and to be of service, but don't take advantage of this.
(True.)

- Listen until I finish speaking, even though I meander a bit
(Me? Fail to get to the point???)

- Give me time to finish things and make decisions. It's OK to nudge me gently and nonjudgmentally
(Meh. I know how to meet a deadline. No nudging required.)

- Ask me questions to help me get clear
(Nope. I'm usually clear in my own mind.)

- Tell me when you like how I look. I'm not averse to flattery.
(I like compliments. I like playful flattery. I loathe obsequious, smarmy, or ham-fisted flattery. Make it clever, or just go away and stop humiliating yourself.)

- Hug me, show physical affection. It opens me up to my feelings.
(Nope. Unless I know you well, physical affection will only make me retreat. I do the social hug thing, but that's nothing to do with "opening me up to my feelings" -- feelings I'm generally pretty attuned to, thanks.)

- I like a good discussion but not a confrontation
(Absolutely! I fervently wish more people had the skill of lively, respectful discussion. Why, why, why, must we turn these things into attacks?)

- Let me know you like what I've done or said
(If you want to.)

- Laugh with me and share in my enjoyment of life.
(Who doesn't like laughing with friends? But I find lots of joy on my own.)

What I Like About Being an Audrey

- being nonjudgmental and accepting
(Mostly.)

- caring for and being concerned about others
(It's what I do for a living!)

- being able to relax and have a good time
(I'm good at relaxing. My "good times" are generally pretty low-key, but they suit me!)

- knowing that most people enjoy my company; I'm easy to be around
(Some days I agree with this, others, I feel inept and isolated. It's probably hormones...)

- my ability to see many different sides of an issue and to be a good mediator and facilitator
(Yes.)

- my heightened awareness of sensations, aesthetics, and the here and now
(Don't think so.)

- being able to go with the flow and feel one with the universe
(Go with the flow, yes. Or, quietly evade the flow with no one any the wiser... One with the
universe? Not often.)

What's Hard About Being an Audrey

- being judged and misunderstood for being placid and/or indecisive
I am passive, and this bothers me. Do people judge me for that? Oh, well!

- being critical of myself for lacking initiative and discipline
Yup. More lacking initiative than discipline, but yes.

- being too sensitive to criticism; taking every raised eyebrow and twitch of the mouth personally
When I was younger, absolutely. Now, not so much.

- being confused about what I really want
Nope. It can take me a while to reach a decision, but once I do, I don't second-guess myself.

- caring too much about what others will think of me
Nope.

- not being listened to or taken seriously
Depends on the circumstances. I don't always assume I have something worth hearing!

Audreys as Children Often

- feel ignored and that their wants, opinions, and feelings are unimportant
Hardly ever. My mother did a fabulous job, even while taking no shit. No mean feat, that.
- tune out a lot, especially when others argue
Never. I still have a terrible time tuning out conflict. I wish I could!
- are "good" children: deny anger or keep it to themselves
ABSOLUTELY, particularly the "denying anger" bit.

Audreys as Parents

- are supportive, kind, and warm
- are sometimes overly permissive or nondirective
Yes, on both counts, I think.

Curious to take the quiz? You can find it here. If you do (only TWO questions!), come back and let me know who YOU are!

2008-09-27T07:32:00.004-04:00

My daughter is in the shower upstairs. I know this not only because of the hiss of the water though the pipes in the kitchen, but because the locus of her music has shifted. Her iPod dock has moved with her.

She is fifteen, and it is 7:33 on a Saturday morning. (She heads off to work in an hour.)

Thanks to the wonder that is iPod, she is never without her music. Dock in use in her room and the shower; earbuds in at all other times.

She is not quite as bad as her brother was at that age: I'd pop my head in his room to check that he was in for the night, and see him sleeping with the earbuds in. And yes, diligent mother that I am, I'd check the volume levels. I knew from experience how much tinny drizzle I should (and should not) be hearing, seeping from the leaky earbuds. Generally I turned it right down on principle...

It was because of the brother that I made a rule: earbuds in only ONE ear in the house. One gets tired of speaking to non-responsive lumps lost in their private world of sound.

Their older sister was similar, though her technology was a mere Discman.

Just as I catch myself shaking my head in dismay -- do those kids never need quiet? does she not need to ease into her day? -- I realize I was very similar at the same age. With a radio and LPs. (Though, unlike my own children, I never had vocal music on while I did my homework. One cannot do physics or memorize French verbs while singing along, or at least, I never could, and I can't listen to vocal music and not sing along. So I listened to classical. Mozart. At 15. I'm so proud.) Still, though I was a quiet kid, I hadn't the drive for quiet that I do now, a near-physical need for it.

I hear Emma's music come on in the mornings, I tense up. It's not that she has it unduly loud. She's essentially respectful of the other residents. It's louder than I'd like it in the enclosed space of my bedroom, but it's reasonable.

But it's still noise. As I sit here, there is already the hum of the fridge in the room next to me, the more strident buzz of the dehumidifier in the basement. The water heater drums mildly. I'm enjoying the tick of the keyboard and the mild patter of rain outside, the occasional swish of tires down the wet street, but those other noises, the fridge, water heater and especially dehumidifier, I could live without. They intrude.

Add the bump, bump, bump of Emma's music, and my shoulders start to rise.

It's curious, this need for sound we have when we're young. It's not just that kids use their music to establish their identity, though of course they do, but that they seem to need to be immersed in it at all times. Is there no need for peace? No desire to be unstimulated by anything but their own thoughts?

Seems not. Seems that desire comes with maturity, mostly.

And quite honestly, when I consider that in another four or five years I will not be receiving a morning thud, thud, thud on my eardrums, I do not get wistful for times past, I get eager for times to come. Bring on the empty nest!

A peaceful home. The only music the music I choose, when I choose.

And I'll get a different damned dehumidifier.

2008-08-31T09:29:00.003-04:00

I have a love-hate relationship with the idea of honesty. Yes, I believe it's a virtue, but I do not believe it's "always the best policy". Does anyone, really?

"Does this dress make me look fat?"

If the question is asked in the changing room, you can be honest, and thereby prevent your friend from buying something that makes her look like a ship in a tent. If the question is asked moments before stepping onto the stage of an awards banquet, you lie, lie, lie. What could possibly be the value of perfect honesty at such a moment?

People don't consider that principles/values can and do come into conflict: when honesty and kindness come into conflict -- and they often do -- which will you choose? Many would vigorously declare for "Honesty, of course!", as if honesty is the only path to integrity. Too frequently choosing kindness is seen as mere squeamishness, a lack of moral courage. Sometimes it is, of course, but...

Keeping something to yourself, refusing to expose person A to person B, allowing something to pass unremarked... all these various kindnesses can be harder to maintain that honesty. But at what cost honesty? Is honesty always worth the price?

And even then, when hard, clear honesty is the only way to proceed, must it be done without kindness? Must it simply be blurted out because "you need to know", or "you have a right to know", or "you need to get your shit together"? The gut-wrenching pain that honesty can cause needs to be approached with compassion, not blurted out, all the pain only the recipient's problem, because "it's for your own good."

How came knee-jerk, unreasoned honesty to be seen as a sign of integrity or purer virtue? That kind of honesty is the refuge of the simplistic. It's not high-mindedness, it's simply a lack of thought; it displays a certain shallowness of thinking. Why waste time and emotional energy weighing pros and cons when you can simply blurt out the callous facts -- and then claim the moral high ground for your insensitivity?

I can be very straight when need be; I rarely see good reason to be cruel with it. Clarity does not equate brutality, and when pressed, I'd rather err on the side of kindness.

I've often noted that people who dish out that kind of honesty are often outraged when they get a dose of it back... which shows a certain lack of integrity. Someone who weighs the pros and cons of honesty vs kindness, who knows the pain of honesty and deals it only when necessary and only to the degree required, that person will accept honesty when dealt similarly.

Those who dish it out willy-nilly, they don't like getting it back so much.

Methinks they deserve more than they're getting.

2008-08-14T06:44:00.008-04:00

Hormones.

They say that a woman's sexual peak is in her mid-thirties. And lord only knows, newly single after a dozen years in a dreary marriage, I was feeling my oats, as the phrase goes. (And a very weird one it is; must be related to sowing the wild ones, but has always conjured up images of greasy men in trench coats for me. However, we're all agreed on a definition, and what I was up to in my early- to mid-thirties involved men of a grease-free variety, and the only trench coat in sight was one -- a London Fog, I think.)

So, I was quite willing to believe that was my sexual peak. And I was standing at the mountain-top, pounding my chest a bit. She smiles in fond remembrance.

After the oats were fondled, there followed a few years of the standard girl-meets-guy, guy-moves-in-with-girl, guy-and-girl settle in to happy domesticity ... well, mostly. It was happy, but there was a respectably non-standard mutually agree-upon foray into non-monogamy in there, too. (Enthusiastically embraced, and, later, contentedly set aside.) All very good for confirming my sexual peaked-ness.

Then the forties began, and the hormones, they seemed to recede a bit. Clearly, I was sliding down off that peak, and though the mental interest in the subject has never waned, the physical was a little sluggish, prompting some degree of internal consternation: I like sex! I've always liked sex! Why don't I hardly want it no more???

I've accepted the effects of aging in lots of ways with barely a murmur. The wrinkles (which, so far, I genuinely like), the shifting body parts, the gray hairs (after one foray into the natural look, tastefully coloured) ... all of these, if not embraced, at least accepted. I yam what I yam.

But this receding of the libido? Much harder to take. This did not fit in with the woman I've always perceived myself to be. I like the energy of eros, I like the sexy me. I like that it's often hidden under an ostensibly demure front; the libido flaring out comes as a doubly-erotic jolt. But now, the demure front was becoming less of a front, and I did not like it. I was not about to go gentle into that drab night.

My worries were needless. The hormones, they've shifted yet again. Realizing that there were less of them overall, they seem to have taken a "united-we-stand" approach. If they can't populate my body in equal measure every day of the month, if they can't maintain their former levels of potency at all times, they'll all band together for maximum impact for the mid-cycle week.

Good lord.

If this is what men experience all the time, the wonder is not that some of them wander, but that any of them manage monogamy at all.

For a week a month, I eat, sleep, breathe sex. I ooze pheromones. I eye men on the street. My mind wanders, my eyes wander. That's all that wanders, mind you. We're monogamous now, Matthew and I, and I am a woman who keeps my word.

It's taken some conscious effort. I don't go out with my male friends, a decent percentage of whom are former lovers, that week. Me, in that state, imbibing alcohol with a man not my husband? That's dancing drunk on a highwire over hungry lions. Can't be done.

Matthew, he's certainly reaping the benefits of the randy week. He has no complaints.

But, my god. If I had this to deal with every day of the month, monogamy would assuredly founder. I am reeling. Reeling even as I enjoy the ride.

Sexual peak in the thirties? Pfft.

2008-08-06T20:19:00.005-04:00

Atoms are very, very weird.

I am no scientist, but I have always, for all my education in the Arts and Humanities, been fascinated by science of all sorts. I researched and wrote a report on bees when I was eight, made models of clouds when I was ten, devoured books on astronomy when I was eleven and twelve, designed simple circuits in my early teens.

It's probably sadly telling that absolutely none of this happened under the tutelage or with the encouragement of an actual science teacher. I did it all on my own, because it was interesting. Perhaps if I'd stumbled across the right teacher, I'd have charged down a totally different career path. Who knows?

Science classes were intermittently interesting, but thankfully by the time I reached high school I had long since perceived the distinction critical to the survival of intellectual curiosity: Education and schooling are not the same thing. If you're lucky, there's an overlap. If you're very lucky, there's a considerable overlap. A lot of the time, there's remarkably little, or at least there was for me.

The corollary to this distinction is the awareness that just because you don't like school, doesn't mean you don't like learning. You may hate your math class and still like math. To be bored witless in your physics class (which I was), does not mean that physics is boring. Thankfully I grasped this distinction young, so my love of learning proceeded unquashed by bored teachers and learning-hostile fellow students. (No, I didn't let my peers know I did all this stuff. Do I look stupid?)

So I suffered schooling, and I did my learning (well, a good portion of it) elsewhere. Which is marvellous, for now that I'm no longer in school, I'm still learning! Unimaginable purgatory to many of my adolescent peers. I hope they're very happy slinging hash 30 years later...

(Nyah, nyah, nyah.)

It is no surprise, then, that I'm reading "A Short History of Nearly Everything" by Bill Bryson, and learning all sorts of stuff. It's the sort of book that annoys the crap out even the most long-suffering of spouses, as the person reading the book is forever calling out an excited...

"Listen to this!" (No, really. Listen!)

"For all their devoted attention, your atoms don't actually care about you--indeed, don't even know that you are there.... (It is a slightly arresting notion that if you were to pick yourself apart with tweezers, one atom at a time, you would produce a mound of fine atomic dust, none of which had ever been alive but all of which had once been you.)"

Now, isn't that a thought to set you pondering?

And when you get to the bit of the book about atoms, your pondering achieves dizzying heights. If you think with Mr. Scott that "Ye canna change the laws of physics!", you haven't considered the atom. Because, oh! Listen to this!

On an atomic level, "electrons jump from one orbit to another without traveling across any intervening space" (teleportation?!?); certain atomic pairs work in instantaneous paralell, no matter how much distance lies between them (non-sentient telepathy?), and if that's not weird enough, "matter could pop into existence from nothing at all--'provided, ... it disappears again with sufficient haste.'"

It's not so much that you can't change the laws of physics as that the laws which apply to the larger reality are irrelevant to atomic reality. Which is a mind-boggler, right there.

Atoms are mostly empty space. Well, I knew that, from my (outrageously boring) grade eleven physics class. Have known it, therefore, for decades. But either I was never told, or never grasped, the implications of this. Implications, you ask? Well, just listen to THIS!

"When two objects come together in the real world...they don't actually strike each other. 'Rather,' as Timothy Ferris explains, 'the negatively charged fields of the two balls repel each other ... were it nor for their electrical charges they could, like galaxies, pass right through each other unscathed.' [Like GALAXIES?? I will be pursuing this later, you may be sure. Back to the quote now:] When you sit in a chair, you are not actually sitting there, but levitating above it at a height of one angstrom (a hundred millionth of a centimeter), your electrons and its electrons implacably opposed to any closer intimacy."

Floating through a reality of repelling electrons. Too bad the angstrom doesn't prevent numb bum on hard office chairs...

Science is fascinating, I tell you. Utterly, utterly fascinating.

2008-08-01T07:25:00.000-04:00

Why can't I get my eyeliner to look this good?

2008-07-24T09:33:00.006-04:00

Warning: Utterly frivolous, self-absorbed, totally girly post to follow. I honestly don't know what got into me today...

Here we have a black leather purse. A serviceable purse. A good-quality, reasonably expensive purse.

Here's why I bought it:

See all those pockets and zippered pouches and niches and cubbyholes? I just love that stuff. I am not a Bag Woman, one of those female with a purse -- excuse me, bag -- for every occasion and outfit. I have this purse. Summer and winter. It was not inexpensive, but that's okay. I anticipate it will, like its similar predecessors, last me five to eight years.

Seriously.

But somehow, this summer my faithful black leather purse began to see a bit ... heavy. Cumbersome. Wrong, overheated. Like wearing a wool sweater in August, tights to the swimming pool, drinking hot chocolate on sunny 30-degree patio . So for a while I was carrying this:

Not exactly the peak of style or dignified by clean, crisp tailoring, but light, summery. A gift from friends who had visited Peru. Entirely authentic. Well authentically Peruvian tourist trade... Bright (brighter than shows in this picture) and does the job of carting wallet and keys, etc., just fine.

Thing is, it is mostly orange and I am partial to red, particularly one flame-red wraparound dress. Brilliant orange and flame red? Eep.

It was when I found myself bunging the black purse and a book into this, and walking about with it slung over my shoulder like a purse that I realized I probably should admit that I needed a new one.

The Natural Food Pantry is a nice place and all, and I like their bags, but a Style Statement this ain't. Or rather, yes it is, and I don't want it to be mine. So off I went bag-shopping. I mean, there's Bag Woman and there's bag lady. Keep this up, and next I know I'll be carting my stuff around in a couple of old plastic Loblaws bag.

First stop, the shop where my daughter's friend had just bought a cloth bag with faux leather handles that I quite liked. Well, I liked the style and shape. I did not like the pattern. Being assured that there were "lots more like it", I went to the mall.

Nope. There was only the one fabric bag left. The others were all very faux leather in a range of colours and one style: overstuffed. I discovered in myself a Leather Snob. If I'm going to buy a bag that looks like leather, I want it to BE leather. If I'm going to buy an inexpensive, just-for-fun bag, then let's not have it pretending (poorly) to be leather.

These bags didn't look fun and clever to me; they looked like an ill-dressed poor cousin trying to sneak into an upscale club. Though I usually lean to smaller bags, a big bag can be a fine thing, but these looked less like bags and more like your great-grandmother's ottoman, all overstuffed and ruched. Some even had upholstery buttons on them.

So, never mind.

Matthew, who had come along on this entirely frivolous outing, suggested a store I'd never heard of. Assured me he thought I'd like it.

I loved it.

So many fun bags! All of them up to seventy percent off, because, this being late July, stores are pretending summer is over. Good thing, because I wouldn't have given them a second glance at their full-ticket prices. Good lord. Fabric bags, fun as they are, will not last more than a couple of seasons before they start to look ratty. I am not paying the same for a two-season bag as I would for an eight-year purse.

Are they NUTS?

But! Seventy percent off!! In the end I was torn between two. One would go with more of my wardrobe, but the other was just so much fun! Totally frivolous -- no, not totally, because it's big enough that one side can hold my purse stuff (change purse, card holder, sunglasses), one side can hold work stuff (small notebook and pen, any current documents, cell phone), and the center compartment can hold private and/or messy stuff and/or imporant-not-to-lose stuff (tampons, make-up,keys). I could easily fit this week's book in there. But it looks totally frivolous. And the pattern is too riotous to go with a huge number of things.

But! So! Fun!

But I have a purse, and I have that orange South American messenger bag. Two bags? That's plenty. Three if you count the Natural Food Pantry bag. Which I don't. So a new bag would bring my total to three.

More than I've ever had at one time in my entire life.

So. One more bag is MORE than sufficient.

Way more.

But which one?

And I dither and I hem and I haw. This is not the Laura of history. Not the Laura Matthew has come to know and love. Laura is a focussed, goal-oriented shopper. Laura goes in, sees what she wants, buys it and comes home.

Or she doesn't see what she wants, and she comes home. Extended shopping sprees are very rare. Once in a long while I get the bug and spend a day just shopping (and buying very little). But dither?

I never dither.

Matthew is finding this quite entertaining. He's never seen me go all girly before. In other arenas I can take a while to make a decision, but not this one. He's not impatient at all. He's too taken with the transformation. When, however, he can see that I'm getting exasperated, he asks the cogent question.

"How much would you normally spend on a purse?"

I tell him. He looks at the price tags with their bold red "REDUCED" stickers.

"You can but both these for less than that."

You can see why I love him, no?

So now I own this bag:

Which has long, black, nicely structure over-the-shoulder straps. The bag ends up clutched between elbow and waist.

And this:

WOW, huh? It's also ENORMOUS. I've never owned such a large bag. It's wild, it's gargantuan, but I love it.

I now own FOUR bags.

I think I've become a Bag Woman...

2008-07-19T10:16:00.002-04:00

You know how, when you get a song running through your head, and you just can't get it out of there?

Maybe you just have to go with it...

2008-07-16T07:02:00.002-04:00

There's something soothing about plunging your hands into hot water. More so in winter, when, at least for me, the intial sensation often sends a rather pleasurable tingle down my spine and into my arms -- if it's particularly potent, right down to my calves. No idea what that is, but I like it.

The tangy citrus scent of the dishwashing liquid as it enters the sink and churns to a froth under the pouring stream. And that froth! White and clear, yet somehow studded with blue and red and green and turquoise iridescence. You could get lots in the colours.

Swirling the wet cloth across ceramic plates, working it along the tines of a fork, those are tactile experiences, experiences to be savoured. The undulation of the cloth in the water -- visual sensuality. Even the sounds, the muted rattling of cutlery under the water, the tap of china against glass bring pleasure.

And then, pulling the dish, clean and dripping, from the water, watching the water curl across its surface and away, the steam rising, the plate newly-minted and angled perfectly amidst its peers in the drying rack.

If you think about it the right way, it's a glorious medly of sight, sound, taste, touch and smell.

.
.
.
.
I tried.

I really, really tried.

But I still hate doing dishes.

2008-07-09T08:31:00.005-04:00

Yesterday evening, returning home from an evening with a friend, I scoop one of the blue boxes in front of my house, and set it on the porch.

(Blue boxes, for those of you not in the know, are large plastic bins into which we toss our recyclables: plastic, glass and aluminum, primarily. These are set at the curb and collected the same day as the garbage. Alternate weeks, we set out our "black boxes", which are filled with paper and cardboard. In the summers, blue box week is also garden waste week, and we set out bins or bags of lawn clippings (assuming I had such a thing as a lawn), leaves, weeds, etc.

It's a fine system.)

There is another blue box still at the curb, still full and awaiting the morning's collection. So why is this blue box, formerly full, now empty?

We have yet another recyling option in our fine city. (Actually, I think this one's provincial.) You can still toss your empty booze bottles in the blue box, but you can also take them in to the Beer Store (yes, that's really what it's called) where they will be re-used. Not only is this arguably more efficient, (and saves the government some money, likely; I seem to be feeling parenthetical today) but you get paid a small premium for each bottle returned.

Having no car, I'd long ago arranged with a neighbour that when they returned their bottles, they'd take mine, too. And were welcome to the two or three dollars profit that might result. To that end, bottles were accruing in a spare blue box on the shelf in the back porch.

They were accruing, that is, until my son, not aware of the system, noticed the extra blue box and put the bin of bottles out at the curb a few weeks back.

Oops.

Or maybe not. For that night, some while after dark, I heard the distinctive clinking of bottles. In the shadows is a fellow, a little down-at-heel. He's astride a bicycle which has a clever little hand-made trolley behind it, a trolley which houses a large black metal bin. He's tipping the bottles into his bin.

A recycling scavenger!

Well, that's cool. I won't have to impose upon my neighbour. I need only to put my bottles at the curb with enough time for the recycling bike guy to come by. A symbiotic relationship: the bike guy gets the proceeds, I get rid of the bottles, and they end up where they should be, the Beer Store instead of the recycling depot. Perfect. I rather enjoy the nice, tidy balance of it all.

Upon conversation with neighbours, I discover that this is disapproved of. That others on my street have been known to chase him (and his colleagues; there are many of them) away, like raccoons out of the trash.

I am a little appalled. They are not expressing fear for the security of their homes. They do not fear they're being checked out for future burglarization. These people coming round, quietly in the evenings, do not make a mess, they are not intrusive, except for the clatter of bottles. The objection is territorial: my neighbours do not like these outsiders (these, let it also be noted, evidently poor outsiders) messing with their stuff. Even when their stuff is being discarded.

They object to their appearance. Not because they look potentially criminal. Because they are shoddy.

Shoddy? They are clean, they are appropriately dressed for their task in jeans and t-shirts. They are simply not dressed in the styles, colours, and labels of the affluent.

Some of my neighbours sneer at these people. "Losers."

Losers? They bike for miles, they haul loads of bottles each week, they appear to be pretty systematic in their rounds. Couldn't this be viewed as laudably entrepreneurial? Seems to me they're working pretty hard for a paltry few dollars. And if that's pathetic to you, that's only because you've been privileged enough never to be in a situation where a few dollars really matters. What's pocket change to you might be fresh vegetables on the table for these people.

Or, as one neighbour pointed out, a pack of cigarettes. So? Your pocket change buys you the wine you sip on your porch most evenings. How is that so very different? -- except that these people might well have to do without their personal vice were it not for your discarded bottles and their hard work.

It's so easy to be superior. Why does it seem so hard to be kind?

2008-07-07T18:01:00.002-04:00

Oh, dear.

There's stuff going on. Family stuff going on. Stuff that I'm not quite ready to write about. It's all too, too dreary and wearying right now, and I'm quite, quite sure I am not yet capable of making it entertaining in the very slightest.

It may never be entertaining.

Suffice it to say that some of my stepkids have revealed themselves to be not only insensitive, but among the most vicious and malicious people it has ever been my misfortune to have in my life.

You know how I've said before that, for all the small conflicts and stressors, we've been remarkably lucky with our teens, that we've never had the pure unadulterated hatefulness and hostility some parents experience?

I can't say that any more.

2008-07-01T18:55:00.004-04:00

When was the last time I was so angry?

Hmmm... I'm not sure. I'm not a woman prone to anger. I don't really enjoy stewing in righteous rage, not, at least, as a way of life...

But tonight?

I'm furious.

Diva Daughter, the eldest stepdaughter ... you know, the one who has had NOTHING to do with us for over a year because we dared to suggest she might attend a family dinner without the boyfriend of three weeks attached to her hip? The one who, despite having lived with the boyfriend for six weeks (a whole three months after that conflict -- the girl was not letting any grass grow under her, er, feet) was NOT having sex with him? That step-daughter?

The other stepkids are with us for a couple of weeks. They are chatting at the dinner table. And they tell us such funny stories about that daughter. She's just so funny, that girl. She tells the funniest stories. Her favourites, it seems, told "hundreds of times" to all sorts of friends and family, revolve around conflicts I had with her middle sister. Conflicts which had me in tears, most often. One of which had me in tears on the floor, that's how much fun I was having.

I tried so very hard to make connections, to be a resource in their lives, but this particular child (a child who has, over intervening years, become quite a delight) had NO interest in a positive connection with me those first few years. This child was determined to be in conflict with me, and nothing, I gradually learned, was going to prevent her from doing so. Not promised treats, nor coaxing, nor firm discipline. It was a matter of loyalty. Mommy was queen, and thus, I had to be The Enemy. (Mommy said so.)

It was not a happy time for me. Eventually, after a more than a few heart-breaking episodes, I learned to disengage. Thus, instead of becoming the Crying Stepmother, I undoubtedly became the Remote and Evil Stepmother. I'd call that being caught between a rock and a hard place, me.

And now, years after the fact, years in which I have formed a good relationship with the formerly problematic middle daughter, years in which the eldest daughter turn nasty (to her dad; by then I'd learned to keep out of these things); turned nasty and eventually left, I learn that eldest stepdaughter has been using these long-ago, miserably unhappy episodes as opportunities for the spotlight, as comic anecdotes for the entertainment of (hostile to me) friends and family.

Just warms my heart, that does.

And her siblings? Her siblings are too STUPID AND INSENSITIVE to know that telling me of these stories, repeated many times down the years, to know that I have been the butt of malicious jokes and embarrassing stories, many times ("hundreds of times") over years, would be at all hurtful or embarrassing to me.

Gawdalmighty.

I held my tongue. I did not retaliate. I did not laugh, mind you, but I did not burst out with anything hurtful, either.

But I fantasize. I imagine telling an equally "funny" story about how my son's then 17-year-old friends would ask before coming over, "Is your step-sister going to be there? The fat one? Because if she is, I'll come another time. I don't really want to have my leg humped today."

Because a couple of years ago, the eldest step-daughter had some flirtation/hormonal issues, and was a serious embarrassment to herself. We tried to direct her away, gently, but subtlety was not her forte. So my son's friends,knowing what awaited, simply avoided the house when she was around, so intense and persistant was her desire to have their attention and desire.

But I did not say, "Oh, that's so funny! Hey, that's almost as funny as when D's friends wouldn't come around if his oversexed step-sister was likely to be in the house. Because they were afraid -- oh you'll love this -- that she'd be humping their legs! Yeah, they actually SAID that!!!"

Isn't that HYSTERICAL, kids? Just as funny, EVERY BIT as funny, as knowing I've been mocked and ridiculed by your BITCH of a sister for YEARS. Ha, ha, ha, fucking ha.

I didn't say that, because I am the grownup. Just barely, today.

And when might I expect THEM to grow up?

Gawdalmighty.

2008-06-10T07:01:00.005-04:00

I was in Toronto. Matthew had some business to take care of, and I was whiling away the time in my old city, shopping, strolling, taking it in. I don't wish to live there again, I'm quite happy where I am, but I didn't leave because I hated it. It's nice to go back.

I dropped in at a coffee shop. I had another hour before I was to meet Matthew to catch our train back. Time enough to have a coffee, rest my legs for half an hour before walking down to Union Station. I popped into a Second Cup, hoping for a decaf skinny latte.

(Virtuous, no? And to those of you who say "Why bother with coffee if there's no caffeine?" I reply, "Because I like coffee. I like the taste of coffee, the smell of coffee, the feel of that hot cup in my hands." Otherwise, I'd just pop a caffeine pill. They do exist, you know. If caffeine's the only reason you're drinking the stuff, you don't really like it.)

I get in line. Service is very slow, but I'm not too worried. If worse comes to worse and I actually have to leave before I get my drink, so be it. I'm enjoying the funky decorations of the place (the Second Cup franchise leaves its franchisees a lot of leeway in decor), the crowd of funky people around me, the crowded shop, the buzz of the city. Just as there's more to a cup of coffee than caffeine, there's more to a coffee shop than coffee.

Even as I'm thinking this, I'm surprising myself. I must've needed a day off. I'm extraordinarily mellow.

I'm not so mellow when the funky young things behind me start sniggering, and it evidently has something to do with me. Apparently this Second Cup, unlike any other I've ever been in, uses a pull-a-number system, and "Your number came up ages ago." Well, it couldn't have, could it, since I didn't know to take a number? Smug little prats. Like most urban teens, they consider themselves so very wordly and urbane, but haven't the life experience to know that how it's done in their neck of the world is not how it's done throughout the world. That's not urbane, kiddlies, that's provincial.

All this sneering occurs in my head. In reality, I simply move forward to order my drink.

When it arrives, I hunt around for my purse -- and it's gone! Or rather, the purse over my shoulder is not mine. In the crowded line, I must've, somehow managed to set down one black leather purse and pick up another, without noticing! I scan the floor behind me. The line-up was along the counter, and there are a surprising number of purses set down there beside their owners. Easy to see how this could have happened. None of them, however, are mine.

I scan the shop. Don't see it. Could someone have picked up mine, as I've managed to scoop the wrong one, and walked off with it? Is she still in the shop somewhere, as yet unaware of her error? I think to call my cell, usually snapped onto the side of my purse, thus alerting the person of her error (because at this point, I'm still assuming it was an error), but my cell phone is in my hand.

Damn.

What to do? The panic is rising. Sternly pushed back, but rising. I'm five hours from home, I have a train to catch, I can't even pay for the coffee waiting for me on the counter! My train ticket is in my purse! Money! All my ID to replace! Ugh.I have my cell. I can call Matthew, so there's that. I look around the shop once more, scanning floors and tabletops, backs of chairs. Maybe I should check the bathroom?

I'm starting to catch people's attention with my anxious face and movements. Faces glance toward me, away, then back. People pause over their coffee to stare. No one is showing concern, though, no one is offering to help, nor even a sympathetic smile. Callous lot, just staring at me as if I'm a bug in a jar.

Then I realize why.

I am wearing nothing but my large red bath towel.

I am filled with relief. This is a dream!

I try to leave the dream. Nothing doing. But I know it's a dream, because the only times I'm ever naked or semi-naked in public, I'm dreaming. So now, even though it seems I have to continue in it, I'm a whole lot less worried about it all.

The manager of the store graciously gives me my coffee for free, and I sit down to savour it. The anxiety of the dream still compels me to keep scanning the room, and I'm a little worried at what nastiness my subconscious will have dreamt up for me when I get to the train station with no ticket, but hell! It's a dream!

May as well just enjoy the coffee and the funky, busy, urban ambience.

I woke up before I left the coffee shop, as it happens, which was a relief. A relief to be out of the situation (though once I sat down, I appeared to be fully dressed again), and a relief to know that yes, it really was a dream.

I don't interpret dreams. I rarely believe they have anything significant to tell me, that they're anything more than the farting of my subconsious. But they're entertaining, no?

Anyone care to take a run at determining what that was all about?

2008-06-04T09:23:00.004-04:00

I knew it would hurt. I'm not an idiot. I picture the procedure (as described in fairly graphic detail by a helpful girlfriend), and I just know, you can't have that happen without pain.

However -- and here I haul out that tried-and-true test of female fortitude -- I have had three babies. More to the point, three labours, and even more to the point, all of them without drugs. Sure, they hurt, but I was up for it. I can deal. I am focussed, I am stoic, I am capable. I don't like pain, but I can manage.

So yeah, this was going to hurt, but I knew I could cope.

So I lie down on the table, wearing nothing south of the navel but a pair of disposable panties. (Indeed. Who knew those existed?) And the sweet young twenty-year-old sets in to deforestration.

It's not so bad. The wax goes on, warm and almost soothing. The wide strip of cloth is applied. I press where instructed, to hold the skin taut, and -- FZZT! -- the cloth is ripped off, taking a decent amount of foliage with it. And sure, it stings like a bugger. My skin is burning. It ain't pleasant, I'm not having fun, but it's nothing I can't deal with.

And that's as bad as it would have ever been, had I just been getting a "bikini wax". But, brave, gallant fool that I am, I was not stopping there. For I was getting a brazilian.

Why? Because I am a generous and considerate woman, that's why.

See, we've just passed an anniversary, my sweetie and me. Our first, if you're measuring from the wedding. Our twelfth, if you're measuring from our first kiss. (Yes, we married on the anniversary of our first kiss. Isn't that so sweet and romantic? It was he who made note of the First Kiss date, not me. I'd never have been more specific than "sometime in the spring, wasn't it?")

So, because he is such a wonderful, sensitive man, and because I am still very happy to be with him, I thought to commemorate this occasion in some way. In addition to the small piece of sculpture I bought him, more of a desk ornament than anything, I thought I would get him something more personal, more ... intimate.

Given how many highly satisfactory hours the man has spent (all told over the years) nuzzling about down there, considering how he gets far more up close and personal with the lady bits than I've ever managed -- more so than any of the various medical personnel, even -- I thought I'd buy "him" a wax. And no half-measures here. We're doing the full monty. Nothing between him and the object of his affection but ... air.

The sweet young twenty-year-old bends to her task. "Press here." "Just once more, then I'll move over there." "Push down here, please." "Just once more for this spot." "Gee, those ones are stubborn, aren't they?"

Gradually, she moves in from the outer edges. Gradually encroaching on ever-more-sensitive tissue.

And when she gets to the crux of the matter? When she's into true brazilian territory?

"I'm going to use this kind of wax now," she chirps, indicating a different pot on the table beside us, "because it's gentler."

She daubs it on, taps it to test for consistency, gets a good grip, then ...

I passed out.

KIDDING!!

I only WISH I had.

There is nothing, people, nothing more painful than what happened next. There is no pain on earth to match it.

Okay, I exaggerate. We all know that. If you've had an arm gnawed off by rats, if you've had toenails removed without anaesthesia, if you've had smallish portions of your body seared with hot irons, you've experienced worse. But in the ordinary run of things painful?

Nothing can match having goodly sized chunks of hair ripped from the edges of the lips of your labia. (Too graphic for you? Too bad. I lived through it. That's far, far worse.)

I stared at my focal point. I did the labour breathing -- the third stage, high-level, I'm-going-to-die-if-this-doesn't-ease-up-in-12-seconds breathing. It helped. I know it did, because I stayed there on the table. I did not, as flashed through my mind at intervals, beat the sweet young thing unconscious with the magnifying mirror and make a break for it.

I did not even scream, though at times my head jerked back and my chin jutted to the ceiling as my eyes rolled up and gasps, ohmyGODithurts gasps squeezed past clenched jaws.

And, when the waxing is finally, finally over, when she puts away the pots and the wooden spatulas and the bits of cloth, just as you're starting to think you have indeed survived... she goes in with tweezers. For the hairs that didn't come out with TWO kinds of wax. That is, the REALLY, REALLY STUBBORN ONES. Tweezers.

My labour analogy?

A brazilian at its epicentre is worse than all but the very worst moments of labour. In fact, if a brazilian lasted as long as the average labour, women would go insane. Totally mad with pain. And possibly never recover.

If labour hurt as much as a brazilian throughout its entire duration, women would certainly never have a second child. Not without heavy, heavy drugs.

I am not having a second brazilian without heavy, heavy drugs...

On the way home, shaky with a combination of pain, adrenaline and sheerest relief, I phone my girlfriend, she of the graphic description. Who has had, I now note, never had a brazilian, but only the far gentler bikini wax. Because when women experience something we need to TALK ABOUT IT. At length.

I inform her that when the esthetician left the room and I had a look ... there were a fair number of stray hairs. 45 minutes of unpleasantness which included 30 of sheerest agony, and there is STILL HAIR DOWN THERE!

"So did you call her back to finish it off properly?" A reasonable question. I paid an exorbitant amount of money for the procedure; the damned thing should be done right.

Did I call her back in?

"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND???"

"Call her back in"... Good lord.

Matthew is delighted. And very solicitous of my comfort, and beside himself with appreciation for my self-sacrifical agonies. I have earned many, many, many Wife Points.

So there's that.

And I will never, ever do that to myself again.

The End.

2008-06-02T19:12:00.001-04:00

Did you know ...

Did you know that a "bikini wax" and a "brazilian" are not precisely the same thing?

In fact, did you know that "brazilian" is NOT a subset of "bikini wax", and so...

if you schedule a "bikini wax", thinking that when you arrived the esthetician would ask you what kind of waxing you wanted, and you would tell her, and that would be fine -- if you thought all that, you'd be wrong?

And did you further know that just because an esthetician can do a bikini wax does NOT mean she can do a brazilian?

Ha! Neither did I !!!

So I'm going back again, tomorrow, to get a brazilian. And it will take forty-five minutes. (Did you catch that? FORTY-FIVE MINUTES).

Ye gods and codfishes...

2008-04-02T20:20:00.000-04:00

There are many good reasons to read Andrew Sullivan, though the man is so frenetically prolific, reading every post he writes would be a full-time job... Among the many good reasons are the random and funny things he finds.

File this under "Didn't think it through".

2008-03-22T07:03:00.004-04:00

I have a new venture! Come read about exploding rats (though if you've been here a while you've already seen that one), and see me get my just rewards for my exemplary mothering.

2008-03-15T20:04:00.005-04:00

Great excitement in the Irreverent household today! Bekah and I finally got around to trying out the cookie press we bought at the Pampered Chef party a month ago.

(Note to self: Do NOT take enthusiastic and social teen to party at which one might be tempted to spend outrageous amounts of money on luxury goods. Enthusiastic and social teens are so damned appealing that it is very hard to say "NO. No, we will NOT be purchasing the cookie press at $41.50, and we will even more so NOT be purchasing the $40.00 deep dish pie plate, even if it IS in a very pretty cranberry and even if you DO love pies and even if you WILL make pies yourself -- AND clean up the kitchen, mum, really!!!" It is very difficult to say NO to all that sweet and sincere enthusiasm without looking like a total wet-blanket drip of a mother in front of a room full of completely besotted adults. "Isn't she cute? My 14-year-old is never so sweet and enthusiastic.")

So we haul the cookie press out from under the counter. We mix up the recipe included with the kit. We ooo and aaaah over all the different shapes.

We learn a bunch of stuff, too. We learn that you need to set the press flush against the cookie sheet. Flush. And press the handle once, and only once. We learned that it is wise to scrape the exterior surface of the disk after every couple of cookies. We learned that if you tip the barrel up, you will get air bubbles in the batter. We learned that when you change disks, you need to tap the barrel to get the dough to settle against the disk again.

We learned so very, very many things!

Then we set the three dozen cookies into the pre-heated oven. And within three minutes, we have learned another, VERY important cookie-press lesson. When you are preparing cookie-press dough, you may not (NOT!) substitute margerine for butter:

Ahem.

2008-03-02T09:19:00.004-05:00

The word cloud of Irreverent Mama:

Want one of your own? Hop on over here. Maybe you'll even decide to put YOURS on a t-shirt! Or a mug.

2008-02-23T07:20:00.004-05:00

I hear the giggles as I walk by her room. Bekah is chatting on Skype.

(She has no idea of the luxury of those limitless calls. Limitless long distance calls -- limitless because they're free. What will be the luxuries her children enjoy which bemuse her? What awaits my grandchildren?)

She is chatting with her friend Philippe. Philippe was the very likeable young man who spent a summer with us as an exchange student two years ago when he was 17 and Bekah not quite 13. English-speaking 17-year-olds from Ontario went to Quebec and New Brunswick to improve their French; French-speaking youths came here in exchange. A lanky young fellow, with an exuberant mop of red curls, Pilippe's soft-spoken easy-going ways and good humour endeared himself to the entire family.

Bekah, it seems, endeared herself particularly to him.

They've kept in touch through emails and IM, and most recently with the free phone calls. The conversation just flows between those two. Hours and hours of it. He's held her hand through a boyfriend and a breakup; she gives him (very sensible) advice re: family relationships and the appalling lack of greenery in his diet. I don't know what all else they might talk about over the hours. I'm not told.

I am of two minds about this relationship. I am not entirely comfortable with the amount of time she "spends" with him. Obviously, sex isn't an issue, which is a relief to me, because she's only 14. A physically mature 14, a very sensible and emotionally stable 14, but still fourteen. But still, she spends a lot of time on this one relationship. I worry some about balance in her life. I keep an eye on her, making sure that other activities and relationships are not suffering as a result. They don't seem to be, but I keep a cautious maternal eye on her.

On the other hand, and this hand weighs heavily, I am very pleased that one of the most significant relationships in her life revolves entirely around conversation. They have no shared activities. They have shared interests, but, separated by a thousand kilometres or so, they can't do them together. The can't watch movies together. They do occasionally play internet games together, but not often.

What they do is talk. And talk and talk and talk.

Yes, I do haul her out of her room. She eats meals with the family, chores get done, homework is accomplished, she spends time every day chatting with me. But they talk. Every day.

I recall an occasion when her father came to visit me over Christmas break. We were in our early twenties, maybe even in our late teens, and had each gone to our respective families for the holidays. But ten days was too long for our love-struck hearts to be separated, so he drove over to visit one day.

After visiting with my family, we were desperate for some time together, so we went for a drive, chatting idly about this or that thing out the window, and ended up having a coffee in a roadside diner somewhere. We sat on opposite sides of the table ... and the conversation shrivelled. We had nothing to say to each other. Nothing.

He held my hand. We smiled at each other. But we had nothing to say.

Why did I go ahead and marry this man, when conversation is so desperately important to me? Well, at the time I didn't know that. I didn't know at lot of things at 19 or 20. It took twelve years of a conversation-free marriage to teach me how my soul craves conversation. Not just mindless words, words, words tossed out, cluttering the air -- though there's certainly a place for casual, idle, and functional chatter. But conversation: a steady flow of interest in the other, the exchange of ideas, the building-up of new ideas as a joint creative enterprise.

To me, that's the bedrock of a relationship. Fundamental, foundational, indispensible.

And for twelve years, I lived without it.

I married him because I was young and stupid and "in love". We loved each other! Conversation would come, right? I didn't realize that "in love" would not create something that didn't exist. I didn't realize that "in love" would parch to dust and blow away in the desert of silence and strictly-functional communication.

Bekah, in her room, chatters away. There is no lack of conversation with those two. Their relationship is not, as mine was with her father at the same point in the relationship timeline, built primarily on hormones and the physical.

So, though the amount of time she spends with this one friend does cause me some concern, the quality of the relationship reassures. If he is going to become someone significant in her life -- someone even more significant -- they are going about it the right way.

But I'm still glad he lives in New Brunswick.

2008-02-18T08:24:00.006-05:00

Story from another blog:

Woman looks for parking space. Woman does not find one. Woman parks in a tight niche beside a drive, trying hard (but, it emerges, not entirely succeeding) not to block the driveway. Woman returns to car to find this note on her windshield.

"PLEASE DO NOT PARK SO CLOSE TO DRIVEWAY. ITS A WRIGH OF WAY THANK YOU"

Woman sniggers at spelling and grammar, and determines to park IN the drive the following day. I agree, the "wrigh" is sad and silly, and I, too, would snigger at it. The total lack of punctuation is sad. However, spelling and grammar aside, it was a polite note, and -- hold on to your hat, folks! -- Woman was in the wrong, not the note-writer.

In the comments, several people identify it as a "passive aggressive" note. Huh?

"Please do not park so close to the driveway. It's a right of way. Thanks."

Polite, yes. Clear, certainly. Passive aggressive? Would they have preferred "aggressive aggressive" and had the woman come back to a shattered windshield? Since note-writer didn't know how to contact car-owner, what are his/her options, other than leaving polite note? Well, obviously, to be passive, full stop, and not object politely to the other guy's lack of consideration. Because bothering us just because we inconvenience you? That's just ... inconvenient! Object to my behaviour?! You passive aggressive, inconsiderate schmuck!

If Woman does park in the drive, I hope note-writer has her towed. Would serve her self-righteous self right.

Several commenters also suggest she visit passiveaggressive dot (something. com? org? net?) In fact, I've been to passiveaggressive dot whatever a couple of times, and stopped because it was so appalling. Its contributors have no idea what passive aggressive means.

Very few of the items cited there could in any way be construed as anything other than clear, polite communication. The real objection, if these people had the integrity/maturity to acknowledge it, is simply that they have been corrected for some small misdemeanor, and they don't like it.

So, if they don't like it, if the communication annoys them, let's just call the other guy's behaviour "passive aggressive" so we can ignore it and continue doing whatever the hell we like -- and it can be the other guy's fault!!

Great system for people who want to go through life without once saying, "Oops. Sorry!" Too bad there seem to be so damned many of them.

2008-02-12T06:56:00.000-05:00

I stubbed the middle toe of my left foot a while back. Damned thing would ache. Oh, how it would ache. And hurt when I touched it. Then it got better. Then I stubbed it again. Then it got better. Then I stubbed it again ...

Not that I ever remembered stubbing it, mind you. But that often happens with me. I'll come up with a bruise, and have no idea where it came from. (No, I don't bruise particularly easily, I don't think; I just have a terrible memory. It takes a while for a bruise to emerge, see. Ample time -- AMPLE -- for me to forget the originating mishap.) But whether I remember or not, I must've banged myself, obviously, because I have a bruise.

So, the toe? I must have stubbed it, because it kept aching.

Gradually, however, it permeated even my oblivious consciousness that this toe had been "stubbed" an awful lot for an awfully long time. Perhaps I should take a look? Sadly, not as straightforward a proposition as one might think. Recalling the facts of the back (bad) and the age (fortyplus)... Not a combination that makes for easy access to the underside of one's toes.

Though I don't get as close as I might prefer (who ever thought I'd be nostalgic about the days when I was young and bendy (and disgusting) enough to be able to chew my own toenails?), I do manage to ascertain that this toe, when viewed from underneath, is quite evidently blue. As is a spot on the big toe, two doors down.

One should not google these things. Did you know that there's a sydrome, caused, near as I can make out, by vascular detritus collecting in the tiny veins of the toes, which will make your toes go blue (and eventually, if left untreated) develop gangrene and fall right off?? Well, you do now. And so did I.

I made an appointment with a podiatrist that afternoon.

Three days later, I'm sitting in an enormous red leather reclining chair with my bare feet raised well up. After a mere, oh, 35 minutes, the doctor enters. Before she's even settled her butt onto her small beige stool she says,

"You've got frostbite."

Frostbite? When did that happen? Surely one would notice? Which is pretty much what she said to me when informed that I didn't know when it had happened.

After all, I live in Ottawa. It's cold here. From time to time, despite decent footwear, one's feet do get very, very cold, like when one is standing waiting for a bus that simply never comes. After the tingling comes the numbness. If one decides the damned bus is never coming and walks home, the toes don't much cooperate with the venture for the first half-block until they warm enough that you can feel them once again.

And then, perhaps, when one gets home and, removed from the cold air within the boot, they meet the warm air of the house, they might perhaps ache, sting, and burn like a bugger. This, however, has happened to me any number of times over my life -- not that often, all in all, but our winter are long and cold. There's lots of opportunity for this to happen.

Lots of opportunity, multiple occasions, yet never have I gotten frostbite from it. Well. Never before, at any rate.

Now, apparently, I have it, and will always have it, and the only solution is to avoid extremes of temperature, hot or cold -- no more revivifying, comforting, chill-banishing hot baths! damn!! -- and keep my feet warm. Lest I get it again (which is now more likely), and/or damage the toes further. Lesson learned.

I left her office $200 poorer (!!!) but laden with goodies. I've got creams (to soften and to warm), I've got lengths of natural wool in which to wrap my affected toes, I've got neoprine (sp?) insoles for my current boots, and I've got a shopping list: new, better boots, and new, better socks, and the catalogue from which to order them. Too bad she can't write prescriptions, because $18 for a pair of socks??? And those boots she suggests are twice as much as I usually spend.

Though, if you like hiking boots, they are very, very nice...

Frostbite.

Yeesh.

2008-01-31T13:08:00.001-05:00

Six things about me. Meme from John.

1. I have claustrophobia. I have trained myself so that I can manage elevators, if the trip's not too long, and I can manage the toilets on trains and planes, but caves? Can't manage 'em for love nor money. (I've tried both: a bit of naughtiness completely scuppered by a panic attack; and if even that can't get me in there, bribery can't even begin to be effective.)

2. I used to play the piano with reasonable competance. I loved Chopin's waltzes in my teens, but now find them a bit lush and overblown. Bach's preludes and fugues were my adult favourites, but, sadly, life encroached and it's been years since I've played properly.

3. Every morning, I sit in front of a SAD light for 45 minutes. It keeps me from plunging the depths in the winter. I loathe winter. Loathe it. Unfortunate, that, given where I live.

4. I used to scoff at the idea of a soulmate. If such a thing existed, most of us managed just fine without one, but I had serious reservations as to the existance of such a thing. That was my stance on the matter for years. Until I met mine.

5. Although I've been happily monogamous for some years now, I am generally ambivalent about the practicality of monogamy. I certainly don't think it's neccesary or essential.

6. I am left-handed.

2008-01-30T06:09:00.000-05:00

Twenty-two years ago. I was in the final trimester with our first child. We didn't know the sex, so we had to choose contingency names. The boy was easy. Adam. We were agreed on that. Simple, basic, masculine, virtually impossible to shorten to something stupid and/or cutesy. But the girl?

I wanted Zoe. He wanted Jennifer. Now, there's nothing wrong with "Jennifer". I didn't mind it. It's a perfectly nice name, and in fact, I rather liked the way "Jenny" felt in my mouth.

"Jenny, lovie, come here! Mummy wants you!" Jenny would have long, shoulder-length brown hair and bangs, an open face and a big smile. She would run to me through a field of daisies with the sun bouncing off her silken locks. (This was my first child, recall.) I could deal with Jennifer just fine -- except that his sister, who was due to give birth any second, had told us that was one of the names they were considering. She had told us this months prior, well before our nameless bump was conceived.

But he was determined. Our child would be Jennifer. His sister, he was sure, wouldn't mind. His sister, I was sure, would be pissed -- and I would completely agree with her! Big brothers can be so oblivious. Besides, these babies would be cousins who'd see a lot of each other. It was just silly. Two girls, the same name, born within weeks of each other. But I couldn't get him to see ~~it my way~~ reason, and ours was not the kind of relationship where I had anything like the last word. If he didn't change his mind, our baby would be Jennifer.

And I would be pissed, and his sister would be pissed. (Why didn't I just ask her? I'd been instructed by The Husband not to, and at that point, though I chafed, I was still young and In Love and attempting to live by some pretty farcical -- but very sincerely held -- notions of what constituted husband-wife relations. So I didn't. I look back at the woman I was then with no little mortification, I tell you that.)

Oh, well. Maybe we'd have a boy. Maybe they'd have a boy!

They had a girl. Jennifer.

And then, I was in labour. It was not easy, it was not gruelling. It was sixteen hours of textbook first-baby labour, at the end of which, they held my baby out to sweating and euphoric me.

"It's a girl!" crowed the doctor.
"What will you name her?" asked the midwife.

And, as they handed this wet, warm, wonderful baby, this whole other HUMAN BEING I had just expelled from my weary, disheveled, aching and blissful body, I gazed into her slate-gray eyes, then glowed at the room.

"Zoe! Her name is Zoe!"

That was that. Zoe she is.

And you all know I'm no longer married to her father ...

2008-01-14T04:26:00.000-05:00

"Agh!" The wail from the bathroom is as heart-rending as it is loud. "Look at this! I can't go to school today, I just can't!"

Welcome to the world of body drama, where pimples and body odour are social crises, where lop-sided breasts and mid-cycle spotting bring fears of cancer and early demise, where every personal quirk is viewed as an abnormality that will bring unending public scorn on the sufferer.

At any given time, there are anywhere from one to five females in my home, ranging from 14 to 22 years old. (Not including me, obviously. My hormonal challenges are of a different, more, ah, mature nature.) Let me tell you, I know from body drama ...

It's tough, being a teen. Everything is changing, and changing quickly. Your body is out of control, your emotions are all over the place -- some days it seems your entire life is out of control.

Where do you go for information, instruction, and assurance? You might consider Nancy Amanda Redd's recently released "Body Drama". Nice to look at, nice to touch, and so well-designed -- visually and conceptually.

The book is perfectly structured to deliver the maximum information with each visit, no matter how long or short.

It is divided into five categories: Shape; Skin; Down There; Boobs; Hair and Nails. (A brief tangent: You know, I can accept the usefulness of the generic and innocuous "down there", but I cringe every time I hear or read the word "boobs". Can we not just call them breasts? "Boobs" is just so ... ugly and clunky and disrespectful of such lovely objects. Ugh.)

Body Drama is chock-full of terrific, solid, factual information. That is its foundtion. What makes it work is that Ms. Redd "gets" teens. Within each drama are three subheadings including "What if they notice?" Ah, yes. Remember? The all-powerful, omniscient "they" which is presumed by teens to be morbidly fascinated by every burp and hiccup of their lives, minds, and bodies. "What if they notice?" includes practical information on how to prevent the "drama" from being public, and why it probably doesn't really matter as much as you think if it does get out there.

Where Body Drama suggests that something is a bad idea -- tongue piercing, for example -- it doesn't stop at the reasons why it's a bad idea. Recognizing its adolescent audience, the great risk-takers, the tremendous don't-bother-me-with-facts, I-know-what-I-want's of the world, it then says, "But if you're going to ignore this good information, here's how to do it the safest way possible."

This is not a cop-out, this is reality. The thing about teens is, you can't make their decisions for them. Like it or not, they will make their own decisions, and some of them will be stupid ones. All you can do is provide them with good information -- all the good information -- and hope for the best.

And then, we come to the pictures. Amongst all the excellent information the book provides, there are pictures. Pictures, pictures, and more pictures. Pictures of zits, of stretch marks and head lice and cellulite. The pictures make the book so very visually appealing, and it is with the pictures that the possibility of offense arises. Because the pictures, they are plain, they are un-airbrushed, they are real. The squeamish out there will use terms like "explicit" and "graphic" -- and they'd be right, except for the tinge of negative moral judgment that accompanies such words.

Teens are curious about their bodies, and this curiosity is not just natural, it's appropriate. If they don't have the information, they are at huge risk, because not knowing stuff has never, in the history of humankind, prevented a teen from experimenting anyway.

So, yes, there are pictures of girls in there. Naked ones. There are pictures of breasts, because how else will you know the huge range of "normal"? And, the big one: there is a dual-page spread of 24 vulvas.

I confess it was a mild jolt, even to unflappable me, opening the book to that page, but it took me about 1.4 seconds to get over it, and get interested instead. Because men, they get to compare, don't they? All their "stuff" is right out there -- and I'll bet lots of boys have been traumatized by that very reality. But girls have a different anxiety, that of not knowing. Even if you take a peek at your own, for most straight women, that will be the only one you ever see. So seeing a bunch of them, seeing the variety, is interesting.

Some, however, will be horrified, and refuse to buy the book on that basis. Others will say, "Okay for my daughter, but I can't have it in the house, because what if my son sees it?"

What then? Well, then he will get to satisfy HIS curiosity, too, in a way that does not take him to porn sites. Because he will, you know. It is simple curiosity, not deviant urges, that takes most young teen males to those places, and once they're there, they can get hooked. That is NOT where I want any son of mine either spending his time, or getting his information about female sexuality. With Body Drama, he will get high-quality information that is respectful of women, information that teaches him about his future partner's health, needs, anxieties, information that will help him be a better husband and friend. So, yes, if my son were to pick up the book, I would not be ripping it from his hands.

I love this book. Optimally, it will be used by mothers and daughters together, to promote discussion, to answer questions, to just "talk girl-stuff". If you know your daughter needs the information, but you're too squeamish to start these conversations, you can leave it lying around where she'll find it.

I hope you don't decide to ban it from your home. Like it or not, your child will one day be a sexually active adult, and, no matter how you might like it to be otherwise, THEY decide when that happens, not you. What parents do is provide a moral/ethical framework, and solid, quality information for the decisions your child will inevitably, eventually, make. Because you want, above all things, for your child to stay safe and healthy.

And Body Drama is a wealth of quality information, presented in a way that stands a pretty good chance of being heeded. Not always an easy task, with teens. Well done, Nancy!

2008-01-11T08:36:00.000-05:00

It started with a not-quite-dry bath towel.

I'm changing careers. This is not news; it's been ongoing for a while now. I work from home, and will continue to do so; only the source of the income will change. Well, that's not true. A lot will change, most of it for the better. Or so I hope.

In the meantime, however, I continue with the old job and squeeze the new one into the cracks. As new income increases, old job will decrease, but for the foreseeable future, I'm holding down a job-and-a-half. And it's going to get worse.

Matthew was heading into the shower when I realized that his towel was still in the dryer. (He does the meal planning and grocery shopping; I do the laundry. Both of us view this as equitable. Most days.) I popped down to the basement to retrieve it. Because it was very cold, it was hard to tell if it was quite dry or not. But when I'd flapped it a few times in the warm kitchen air, it was clear: still damp.

Our dryer is functioning at about the same level of efficiency as the fridge a month before Christmas. It needs replacing, but we do have laundry lines in the basement, which I used for years, with the dryer there for emergencies only. This year I've gotten lazy.

I hand Matthew his towel.

"I'm afraid it's still a tiny bit damp, but it'll do." He nods, easy-going sort that he is. "I could be hanging things, like I did last year, but there's so much clutter heaped up down there I can't move around."

My voice cracks on the last words, and, to my astonishment, I'm falling apart. Some men would grab their towel and head for the hills at this point, but Matthew is made of sterner stuff. He doesn't take me into his arms for a "there-there" pat on the back. He just tips his head, indicating his listening ears.

And I'm off. Stuff I didn't even know was in there.

"I hate using the dryer all the time, I hate using all that electricity when I don't have to, but I can't even reach the lines because of the clutter, and I hate the state the basement's in, and I know I keep saying I'll get to it, but I just never do, and everywhere I look there are lists of things that I should be doing and I'm not, and I just feel so inadequate. I know I could be doing it, but I'm disorganized, I'm not using my time effectively, I procrastinate..."

I wind down to a halt. My throat feels shredded with the tension, but I'm not crying. I don't cry readily, not for personal stuff. Too busy analyzing and thinking it through. I save tears for fluffy-cute kittens on TV commercials and tragic stories of children shredded by wars.

He's a patient man, Matthew. He knows when to listen, he knows when to speak. "You're not inefficient at all. I don't see that as procrastination, I see you being strategic with your time and resources properly. There isn't time to do it all, so you choose what's most important. That's not inefficient, that's not disorganized: that's just smart."

Now I'm sobbing, but it's the good sort, the shudders that break up and release the tension, and I'm in his arms. My sobs shake both of us, and Matthew, patient, loving, perfect Matthew, holds me until the storm runs its course.

Wonderful man. He's right, of course.

And that damned basement? We'll sort it together. When there's time.

2007-12-28T06:38:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas! Happy New Year!

I can't imagine you don't have some idle curiosity as to why the blog's suddenly gone all covert. My own fault. I was trawling around my list of blogs, and popped into my daughter's, left a comment, and only after the comment appeared did it dawn on my I was signed in with this account.

I have another, family-friendly account. THIS one is mine. Now, I can't think of a single thing I've written here that would offend the girl, but the point is, I want to be free to do so, should the need arise. I do not want to be censoring myself in this place, looking over my shoulder for the sensibilities of my near and very dear.

I emailed her immediately, of course. (Well, immediately after I made this place private. Which took all of 2.5 minutes.) She said not to worry, she had private spaces, too, and quite understood. However, she is only human and I am realistic. I do not believe for one second that faced with the ongoing temptation to get a peek into mum's private world, she wouldn't do that. I know I certainly would, were our positions reversed. I might resist for a time, I might not resist at all, but inevitably I would be in there, snooping about.

Hence the quick vanishment.

Not to fear. It is temporary. I figure a month or two. Let her try to find it a couple of times and then lose sight of the project.

Okay, so that's that. What I REALLY came here to tell you all about is my newest writing venture!

Another contract, this one even more fun than that wedding place. Check me out over at my very own twice-a-week paid blogging gig. Topic? Women's sex and sexuality. So far I've talked about talking about it, about ebb-and-flow sex drives, Global Orgasm Day, illegal vibrators, and most recently, the boredom that is porn. Fun, no?

Well, I think so. Pop over, take a gander, leave a comment if you wish. Then pop back here and tell me what you think. And if you have any brilliant ideas for post ideas, send me an email. You know where to find me.

2007-12-19T14:02:00.000-05:00

I get up early. Really early. Five, give or take fifteen minutes, generally. I do this because I like the quiet, the peace, the solitude. I could, as so many people do, get that at the other end of the day, but that doesn’t work for me because a) I have teenagers and b) I fall asleep.

The younger teen is in school, so she has lights-out at ten, but I’m well gone by then. Staying up later would be work, a monumental effort probably involving toothpicks in the eyelids, not to mention copious amounts of caffeine — which sort of takes away from the “peace and tranquility” aspect of it all.

So, morning it is. It’s dark, it’s quiet. I get some reading done, I might catch up on a couple of emails, but mostly, I think. About my work, about my goals, about challenges to overcome, about things that give me pleasure and satisfaction. I think and take notes, writing always having furthered my thinking. An interactive process between me and the paper, because yes, this form of writing is always done with pen and paper. Much as I love my keyboard the rest of the day, the glaring white glow of the monitor is an affront to this very quiet time; the blanket of stillness around me is best suited to — no! requires — the soft scritch of pen over paper.

The feeling that the whole world sleeps while I have this hour or two of solitude is immeasurably precious to me. Which is why the sudden loud hum from the kitchen came as such a jolt. Why, when it escalated into a choppy screech, I found myself standing staring at my wailing fridge. A sharp vending-machine smack to the front didn’t help. Nor did the swift kick to the side.

Clearly fridge abuse was not going to help. The noise was the fan. Of that much I’m quite sure. Not from the rear, but from the freezer compartment at the bottom. The compressor?

The noise is growing louder. Were I upstairs in bed, I’m sure I’d be hearing it, and I briefly wonder if the whole house is about to be woken by a screaming appliance. But no. No because while it increases in volume, it decreases in tempo. It’s getting slower. And slooower … and now the noise is lower, more grind than squeal … and s.s.s.l.l.o.o.o.w.w.e.r.r.r.r…

And …

it stops.

The fridge gives one final, convulsive shudder, and is no more. Silence thuds against my eardrums. It has given up the ghost. Let us have a short moment of silence for the faithful, if occasionaly leaky, refrigerator .

Everyone else in the house is still sleeping. It’s just me and the corpse. I can’t leave it like that. It’ll soon start to stink.

It takes five minutes to unload the freezer compartment into the basement chest freezer. Another five to put two plastic grocery bins full of produce and condiments at the chill end of the unfinished basement. They should last a few days down there. Certain dairy products are on shelves in the back porch, where I hope they won’t freeze solid.

It is only as I turn to head back upstairs for the seventh and final time that I notice, in the velvet early-morning silence that I so treasure, a semi-regular drip … drip … dripdrip … drip. There’s water dripping into the laundry tub! And it’s coming from … the ceiling. The unfinished basement ceiling.

Look at it! A steady rivulet, about a foot wide, a glistening swath along the underside of the kitchen floorboards along which pulsate half-formed droplets, sparkling domes of water gliding along the stream, which, when they reach the joist about the laundry tub, accumulate sufficient weight to form into a drip… drip … dripdrip …. drop.

It appears to be coming in from the outside wall, but that’s crazy. It’s well below freezing out there. There’s no ice dam, just a huge mound of snow. I know, because I was out there, at ten to six in the half-lit morning, digging. Just to make sure.

At a more decent hour, I call the contractor. The very wonderful contractor who fixed our porch last summer, the man who earned my undying gratitude for a) doing it quickly b) doing it mostly on budget, (even my pathetically small budget, which had caused other handy types to stagger away in fits of derisive laughter) and c) dealing with the eight-seven gazillion carpenter ants that emerged when a rotten board was removed. (Said carpenter ants being the little surprise that caused the “mostly” in the “on budget” sentence.) I particularly love him for doing this all while I was OUT OF TOWN. I didn’t have to actually see one single carpenter ant. And that, my friends, is a great way to spend your honeymoon: NOT seeing seething, pulsating swarms of carpenter ants dripping in writhing clumps from the ceiling and onto the porch deck.

So when I hear his voice on the phone, later that day, after dawn has broken, I am instantly reassured.

“Turn off the water to the house,” he tells me. “Open the lowest and the highest faucets in the house. Wait an hour. If the drip stops, we know it’s a pipe that’s probably frozen and burst.”

As indeed turns out to be the case. Mr Wonderful Contractor Guy will be around tomorrow morning, with his friend Mr (we hope) Equally Wonderful Plumber Guy to find and repair the leak. I am hugely relieved. Faced with the choice of a few hundred dollars for plumbing versus ten thousand dollars a foot for foundation work? I’ll take the plumber. Well, yes, really what I’d like is for the leak to magically fix itself, free of charge. But I don’t think that’s one of my options.

So, you can see it’s been an eventful day here at casa Ilona. With no water (which means NO FLUSHING) and no fridge, I think I’ll be cancelling the party I had scheduled for tonight.

So if you’ll excuse me, I have some phone calls to make. Because tonight? Tonight I won’t be hosting a party — I’ll be buying a fridge!! And not flushing. Urgh.

2007-12-07T10:25:00.000-05:00

We don't have a lot of excess money. We live in a small and lovely house in a nice neighbourhood. We aren't suffering, but with eight children and huge child support payments going out (and teeny ones coming in: Matthew pays, quite literally, over ten times the amount I receive), there is enough for basics and no more.

Since we don't run a car and this is North America, some would say we don't even have the basics.

Though I do sometimes get weary of the constant balancing this against that -- "You got new boots last month, so, no, you can't have a pair of dress shoes this month" -- I don't tend to feel that way.

This is partly the fiscal autonomy we have. We each put a set amount into a joint account to cover monthly expenses; we also each have a private savings account, allowing us some discretionary money that needn't be accounted for to the other. It may not be a lot, but it is private.

It's mostly, however, because Matthew and I are so much in synch on what must be purchased, what is optional, and how funds should be allocated.

Last weekend we went to a favourite gallery for a reception. The featured artist is a friend, and we have a couple of his pieces. (Which have, I add with some satisfaction, appreciated markedly since their purchase.) In fact, his work has increased in value so much that nothing we liked was possible for us. His silver lining is our cloud...

In the basement rooms, however, we found a piece by a different artist, which we loved. The gallery, as we have cause to know, has a very generous monthly-pay plan. We looked at the piece, went away for dinner, came and looked again, went home. Two days later, Matthew came home with the piece. Because we bought this, he won't be buying the rowing machine he's wanted for months, and I won't be getting these boots for a while yet.

But the art, ("mixed media on wood") sits over the dining room table, and every time I see it, I get a rush of pleasure. It looks good at all times of day; every light level brings out some new aspect of it; there is no time at which it is less than appealing. To us, at any rate, which is all that matters.

(I did try to get a picture for your possible curiosity, but my camera, she is a light hog. No flash, the image is blurred and you miss the gorgeous subtle textures and much of the colour; with flash, a huge white glare distorts part of the glossy surface, no matter which angle and distance I took. So you'll never know what the fuss is about. My regrets are sincere.)

Another man would have insisted on the rowing machine. Another man would have been sullen and pouty because he couldn't have both. (The man I used to be married to would have bought both things he craved, neither of which would have been anything I wanted, and let me fend off the bill-collectors.)

I feel such gratitude that I am in a relationship with someone with whom I'm in such basic, effortless harmony. Not that we don't annoy each other bytimes, but we don't abrade.

And now we have another lovely piece of art for our mutual delight.

2007-11-30T10:43:00.000-05:00

"And then one of the kids hollered, and I ran down the hall, totally forgetting I was just wearing the panties and the boots."

Yep, she really said that.

She'd been getting undressed, see, and was down to her fancy new knickers and her boots, and one of the children cried out in their sleep, and she just had to race down the hall, catching her husband's attention -- he was uploading pictures from his camper to his computer -- and then (imagine that!) he chased after her, this vision of near-nudity in high boots, with his camera.

But she didn't set that up. She didn't intend for him to take her pictures! Oh, no, no, it was completely unintentional.

Why do women say stuff like this?

Granted, she's about ten years younger than me, but that puts her in her mid-thirties, not her mid-teens when such sexual self-deception is excusable, or even her mid-twenties, when it might still be lingering. In my mid-thirties I wasn't playing those kinds of games with my own head. I might play them deliberately with a willing partner, but neither of us believed the pretence. It was for play.

But she seems to expect that I believe it was unintentional. A child cries out in their sleep, and she MUST race to them. Immediately. Wearing nothing but a pair of silky panties and high boots? What will THAT do to the psyche of a nine-year-old boy?

Honest to Pete.

Silliest thing I'd heard in a long while. And while this is a strong example, I hear this sort of thing a lot. Women who just can't allow themselves to take ownership of their sexuality. Women who pretend they're not courting male attention, women who just don't know how they managed to end up having sex. Come now. Unless you were unconscious, you have to have cooperated a little. (If you weren't cooperating, you were raped, and no, you were not complicit. At all.)

But I'm not talking about rape. I'm talking about women like my friend who set up sexual exchanges, but pretend they're not doing so. Women who manage to have articles of clothing removed "without realizing" they were being peeled off their body. Women who stare at a fellow across the bar and then react with outrage and disdain when he approaches.

I don't get it. I'd far rather be party to what happens to my body, far rather play together with the man, than be played with.

But no. She races around the house 2/3 naked, but it has nothing to do with flaunting her gorgeous ass and long, lean flanks to her husband. Not at all.

"He chased me down the hall with the camera! Can you believe it?"

Well, yeah, I can. What I find harder to believe is your wish to pretend you had nothing to do with it.

Sigh...

2007-11-21T09:10:00.000-05:00

"You're only as old as you feel," says my mother. She's 67.

"True enough, until you catch sight of yourself unexpectedly."

We cackle down the phone. We've both done it, of course. Walking down a street, you look into a display, and instead of the items inside the store, you see yourself mirrored in the glass. Unexpected, your response is as to a stranger. For a split second, you're not seeing yourself through the filter of your consciousness, your self-perception.

This can be a rude jolt. A bakery has a large mirror on the wall behind the till. A quick glance up, "my GOD, that woman looks severe." My God, it's me. How mortifying. Paste a smile on that face, you forbidding harridan.

In from the cold, glance towards the window, encounter a mirror I didn't know was there. My SKIN. What's happened to my skin? Isn't the cold supposed to shrink things? Shouldn't it make my face smoother? Another ten years, I'll have jowels, so help me. Gawd.

But sometimes the jolt is a good one. Just having had my hair done, I glance to one side to speak to the friend beside me, and see myself in the mirrored pillar behind her. "Wow. What a gorgeous woman." And it's ME. Ha!

Which has me wondering: what is the face I expect to see? If I'm only as old as I feel, what age is that? My self-perception and reality are obviously a few years out of synch. How many?

I suspect about ten years. I think were I to see my 35-year-old face smiling (or, as the case may be, glowering) back at me, I wouldn't be at all startled. Which, were I suddenly blessed with my 35-year-old face, would be rather startling.

Would people react differently to me? And if they did, would it be an improvement or a diminishment? Would people see the younger woman as more vibrant, more vital, more "with-it" and thus more worthy of attention? Perhaps, but I have my doubts.

The younger woman certainly got more sexual attention, more global, universal awareness, but the 40-something me gets her fair share. Just from a different, more specific audience.

My perception is that I get more respect now than I did ten years ago, but perhaps that's a function of my increased self-confidence and greater depth of wisdom. (Yes, I think I have some small store of wisdom, accumulated through the years.)

In which case, I am as old as I feel. Which is my real, my chronological age. My well-earned, well-lived, well-considered age, with its gray hair (diligently covered), its wrinkles (signs of the life lived within this skin), its occasional hot flashes (power surges?). And its very rich interior: the experiences, the memories, the time spent thinking, evaluating, reading, learning, considering, the richness of perspective, gleaned in bits down the decades. The interior. Which, in the end, is far more significant than the exterior.

2007-11-07T10:46:00.000-05:00

Wendy has tagged me for a meme:

"List one fact, word or tidbit that is somehow relevant to your life for each letter of your first or middle name. You can theme it to your blog or make it general. Then tag one person for each letter of your name."

Since I've "come out", more or less, I'll use my real name.

I - Irreverent, of course. I chose this word as my blog name because I've never quite taken the status quo as my guide; I've never quite meshed with common expectations. As I mature, I've increasingly stood outside the norms -- motherhood, marriage, ambition, aspirations, morality -- with a slightly crooked grin on my face. Not that you would necessarily be aware of that at first glance. I'm a quiet type in real life. Several of my favourite memories revolve around the astonishment on someone's face when they've discovered that I've done or said or thought something that they had considered far outside my supposedly conventional, even demure, character. Heh.

L - Loyal? Probably not ... though not precisely disloyal, either. Loveable? To a select few, but not widely. Likeable? To a larger few, but I'm not awash in friends. Luscious? Sometimes I manage this spectacularly. Other times, not so much. Limpid pools, my brown eyes? Depends on who you ask. L, L, L ... I'm stuck.

O - Ontario. Though I love to travel, I've always lived in the one province. And yes, you can fit the entire UK into it five times over, supposing such a thing were possible, but still. One part of one country, my whole life long.

N -Naughty. Distinct thread in me, in which I take great pleasure. A bit of an iconoclast (could've used that for "I", couldn't I?) Occasionally biting, often mischievous, deliciously bawdy bytimes. An aspect of myself that has gained me friends and lovers, and, I suspect, lost me a friend or two. (Not, I hasten to clarify, because I mess around with friends' lovers, but because there are an astonishing number of easily-shocked people out there.)

As a young mother, I once cleared a sandbox of fluttering mummies who were complaining about their husbands' lack of sexual sensitivity, by making clear (and, I thought, relevant) reference to cunnilingus. Within moments, it was me and my toddler, alone at one end of the sandbox, and all the other mummies and their tots at the other. Pfft. Squeamish bunch. If this can send them scurrying away, no wonder their husbands are "insensitive". I roll my eyes at them ...

A - Ambitious? Nope. Avaricious? Not so's you'd notice. Amiable? I suppose, but it's being damned by faint praise, I think. NOT American: Canadian, thank you. There's a difference. Artistic? I'm a competent pianist, have played about with other instruments in my time, have a pleasant enough voice ... Auditory!

That's it. I'm auditory. Sound is important to me. Pleasant sound -- music, melody, wind, birdsong, rain, running water, the steady tap of my keyboard -- bring me pleasure; unpleasant sounds -- angry voices, excessive volume, certain electronic noises, the tick of a clock late at night -- cause me distress beyond what is reasonable. I use music to mold my mood: calming music for times of tension; powerful music for times of uncertainty; driving, rhythm-intense music to see me through a boring but necessary task.

Wendy! This was far more difficult that I thought it would be when I started. But there, it's done, and I hope I haven't bored you all to death...

2007-11-05T03:09:00.000-05:00

Bekah's iPod was stolen from her locker a couple of weeks ago. She hadn't secured her combination lock sufficiently it seems, and a brisk shake was enough to loosen it. (This, at any rate, is the theory of her two older siblings, who have more recent experience than I with high school lockers and combination locks -- which, evidently they're not making as well as they did when I was in school ...)

So, the girl has no iPod. She loves, loves, loves her iPod. Listens to it all the time. Is never without her music. So, not surprisingly, she asks for one for Christmas. The new one. The iPod Touch. Which, having seen one owned by one of Daniel's friends, is a very snazzy gadget indeed. One can see the appeal. Hell, seeing the thing has me, who has never owned any kind of MP-3 player, wanting one, just for the extreme coolness of the thing. So sleek, so well-designed, so very clever.

However, a little quick research tells me it costs $330. Before taxes. Which puts it solidly outside my Christmas budget. I might be able to manage that for one, but not for all three of them. Bekah suggests a compromise: "It can be my only present, and I don't need a stocking." I try to picture a Christmas with one gift the size of a thickish credit card and nothing - nothing! - else. Besides, I've already bought stuff, so it's too late anyway.

We sit on my bed and have a Serious Talk, in which I explain why her suggestion, generous as it is, doesn't really resolve the difficulty, and how I just don't feel I can spend that much more on one child than I would be on the other two. I ask if she has any other ideas. At this point, however, she is mute with despair. Possibly anger. Definitely mute.

"Well, love, I'm going to go do the dishes now. You think about it, and in a little while, we can do some brainstorming." Perhaps I got a nod, but perhaps that was just her head wilting a little closer to the bedspread.

As I do the dishes, I suffer. I want to buy the damned thing for her. I have a couple of ideas, in fact, as to how it could be managed, but I'm keeping them to myself for now. I don't want to leap in and solve this problem for her. I want her to face the reality that satisfying this desire of hers would result in injustice to her siblings. I want her to wrestle with it.

But I don't want her to suffer! And I have a possible solution or two! And I could just run up there and fix it for her right now! And I sternly tell myself to Knock It Off, and I finish the damned dishes. And tidy the kitchen. And clear the dining table. And sweep the floor. And mess about with bits of paper on the end table. All the while one ear is cocked to the upstairs bedroom. I don't hear any slamming of doors and drawers. I don't hear any sobbing. Is this good or bad?

Just as I am about to pop with maternal angst, I hear her on the stairs. She swings round the newel post to face me. Her face is not blotched, though her eyes are a bit puffy. And she is smiling.

"I have decided I don't want the iPod." And she proceeds to lay out her new idea for her Christmas gift, a clever, creative, grown-up one. (Which I will not describe at the moment, so as not to distract the flow of the narrative.) And the iPod? "I can save up for one and buy it in the new year. If I get any Christmas money, I can use that towards it, too."

Imagine. A fourteen-year-old, denied her heart's desire, does not scream and rage, does not slam doors, or hurl things about her room, nor even stomp on the stairs; she does not rail against the injustice and hate me for not making enough money and her siblings for stealing resources that might otherwise be hers. Instead, she faces facts, changes direction, and comes out with a different, creative solution.

I am so proud of her.

2007-11-02T13:27:00.000-04:00

Someone out there thinks I have a penis. Quite a few someones, actually. Moreover they firmly believe it's insufficient, or at the very least, it's malfunctioning. Often both.

It's an interesting peek into the world of male insecurity, these Get a Bigger Dick ads. First of all, it is universally accepted that anything less than -- what? 6 inches? 9 inches? a whole fucking foot? -- is wholly insufficient. It is a Problem that must be resisted with every fibre of your manly being: never accept your small d'ck as the inevitable.

It's unacceptable, and seriously detrimental to your quality of life: yo yo, dn't let your tiny cock rule your life. (It is, however, perfectly acceptable -- appropriate! Required, even! -- to let your huge cock do just that. Because Big Cocks RULE, dude!)

And it must be fixed! great way to increase the size of your penis is here for you. Now! If not sooner! not tomorrow, not next week, enlarge your cock today. There is not a moment to lose hurry to accept this unique offer, because it means your s'ex'ua well-being. (We shall not dwell on the inherent contradiction of dozens of identical "unique" offers.)

You see, if you purchase whatever mysterious lotion, potion or mechanism that effects this wondrous enhancement, your girlfriend will be amazed at your new gigantic penis. See, though she's never said as much, your a long way from really satisfying her. This lack of satisfaction has nothing to do with your lovin' style or complete and utter lack of foreplay, it has nothing to do with your obsession with your manly bits. No, she's frustrated when you make love so why don't you give her more meat. And we're not talking steak.

You want proof? Just listen to the testimonials from satisfied customers. my friends ask what my secret it, and I say it's in my pants.

Yes, indeed. Once you're packing a solid seven, eight, ten manly inches into your pants, women will be yours for the asking. You don't have to improve your conversation, you'll never have to learn the fine art of eye (as opposed to nipple) contact. No worries about namby-pamby stuff like time, attention, patience and nuance. Shit, no! Get yerself that giant dick you've always dreamed of, and women will be having orgasms in your wake as you walk by.

If only life were really so simple...

And thank GOD it's not.

2007-10-28T09:18:00.000-04:00

Every couple develops their own little rituals, little domestic patterns of behaviour, patterns that you very often scarcely notice, but which give comfort to both: the comfort of consistency, the comfort of familiarity. Two people moving in the comfortably worn, familiar, soothing patterns of mutually satisfactory domesticity.

Little rituals that you scarcely notice unless one of them drives the other mad.

Every night, when I get undressed for bed, I put such items as require it in the laundry basket, conveniently located on the floor next to the shelves on which our clothes are stored. Such items as can be worn again are hung or folded, and put away. Then I wash my face, read for a bit. If Matthew is in bed and awake, there's usually ten minutes of snuggling and talk before we turn out the light. Sometimes the snuggling becomes more ... focussed ... and takes considerably longer than ten minutes, but we'll fade to black on that. It is not the point of this post.

Every night, when he gets undressed for bed (often, though not always, at the same time as me), Matthew leaves his clothes in a heap on the floor beside the laundry basket. Then he brushes his teeth, reads for a while. (Ditto the snuggling and talk and fade-to-black as per paragraph above.)

I have no idea why his laundry has to spend the night on the floor. Usually (though not always) it makes it to the basket in the morning. I have asked him why; as I have utterly no recollection of his answer, it is clear to me that it was neither convincing nor compelling. However, whatever it was, it is both convincing and compelling for Matthew, because, happy in having explained all to my satisfaction, he blithely continues in this irksome habit. Not wanting to disappoint his cheerful self, and, because generally he does put it all away in the morning, I have decided to let it go.

So what if the socks'n'boxers'n'shirt'n'jeans sit in a rumpled heap in the dark overnight? No skin off my nose. Once it's dark, I can't see them. Once I'm asleep, I'm unaware of them. It's a small thing, a fleeting thing, an insignificant little quirk.

AND IT DRIVES ME CRAZY!!!

But here is my dilemma: To object to such a small thing would be petty, and I deplore pettiness. I will not admit it in myself, nor, worse, display it to the man I love. The nightly freeing of the laundry is a very small thing. And he has his reason -- whatever it was -- for this little domestic ~~Chinese water torture~~ ritual.

Despite all my nobler inclinations, despite my efforts to rise above it all, it still irks me. Whenever I pass by the laundry basket -- sometimes to see a sock, or even the sleeve of a shirt draped, in tantalizing potentiality, right over the rim! (Why not all the way in? Why? WHY?) -- it irks me.

So I've come up with a solution, brilliant in its simplicity. Every morning, when he is in the bathroom, I take from his pocket the largest value coin in there: a loonie or a twonie. So far, in two weeks of employing this new strategy, I have accumulated close to $20.

Now when I see that heap o'laundry in the evening, instead of an itch of exasperation, I feel a small rise of smug vengeance, knowing that in the morning, he'll pay for the privilege of parking his clothes outside the designated area.

It's a system that works for both of us. One of those little domestic rituals that evolve between couples, enabling us to rub along with minimum of abrasion, a ritual and a pattern that brings comfort and satisfaction to both.

And it's not petty. Nuh-uh. Not at all.

2007-10-23T07:46:00.000-04:00

Some of you have been wondering what's happening here lately. One of you even worried that I'd given up blogging altogether. Not to worry!

I do have a project going, though, in my Real Name. I am going to tell you about the project, but I won't write my name here so as not to draw a certain family member, inveterate busybody with a tendency to moral superiority, and compulsive googler of friends and family, to this blog. However, if you go to Aisledash dot com and look at any of these posts, those are mine (and yes, that's my real name).

It's not an elite venue, I know. It's an entry-level writing job. One might even cynically call it sweatshop writing. Particularly if one knew what it paid. HOWEVER. It is writing, it is writing for pay, and I am loving it.

The reason I'm telling you this is not to brag, but because it's clear I'm going to need SOMEWHERE to talk the occasional weirdnesses over there.

For two weeks, it was calm, quiet, and unexceptional. And then, suddenly, one afternoon someone picked up on my post, "Lingerie for Him". Well, sixty THOUSAND someones. Yes, indeedy. That post got 60,000 hits in about three hours.

And, though I'd written about all sorts of male underwear options, I made a small little joke about the man-thong. (I am a live and let live person in matters of personal attire. Whatever floats yer boat, and all that. But as for me? Personally? I think thongs are a wee bit tacky. There are very, very few men -- or women, for that matter -- who look good in them. And those that do (the men, I'm talking about now) I don't find attractive: no matter how sleek and lovely their asses, they are too full of themselves. Lovely ass ON an ass, as it were.

Now, I'm quite ready to admit that my sample size, from personal experience, of men who might look good in a thong and would actually wear one, is small. But it is MY experience, and all I have to go on. He was a self-absorbed ass. So, my personal feeling is that buff men who'd wear them are self-absorbed asses.

But I said NONE of that in the post. NONE. I just tossed off one frivolous line about them. In a 300-word post outlining various options in masculine undergarments. (Because I am such an expert on the subject, don't you know ... )

WELL.

I could have just written one line: "Man-thongs are tacky", stopped right there and saved myself the effort of the rest of the post. The comments, they came rolling in. Of the 60,000 hits, there were 60 comments. I let about 30 comments stand. The rest were absolutely too ridiculous (or too vile) to post.

We had Rob9 who complained about - and described, in excruciating detail - his manly bits. Then we had VENUS, who offered to give Rob9's sad parts a little encouraging lingual attention. And that just got Man4U so excited that HE COULN'T SOP HISSELF FRUM YELING. (That is pretty much how he expressed himself, though I paraphrase. Strangely, there was ne'er a spelling mistake in any of the many obscene words he used.)

Oh, and we mustn't forget the several homophobes. Nasty, they are. And TruckerDude, who ranted on about how he (a trucker dude) din't wear nothing but his big hairy ass under his kilt. Yes, yes. Thank you for the detail. I shall treasure that mental imagine, indeed I shall.

There were more, but this, I think, suffices to give you a picture. Just imagine these things pouring into your e-mailbox!

I have hereby decided that the collective maturity level of the American public in matters of sex is nine years old.

And, for the record, I was talking about UNDERPANTS. Gawd help me if I ever really talk about sex ...

2007-10-09T11:28:00.000-04:00

From Denguy.

Four Things Meme.

Four Jobs I've Had:
1. Checker on a highway construction site
2. Childbirth class instructor
3. Medical editor
4. Teacher

Four Movies I'd Watch over and over:
1. Sense and Sensibility (Oh, that Col. Brandon! Beats the snot out of brooding Mr. Darcy in the masculinity stakes.)

I loved The Shawshank Redemption, Fried Green Tomatoes, and Thelma and Louise, but they all had scenes in them that, terrific as the movies undeniably were, I could just not bear to watch over and over again.

2. OH! Late addition: Fiddler on the Roof.

Four TV shows I really like (reality version)
I hate reality TV. I watched one episode (two?) of the first Survivor, and broke out in hives. Ugh.

Four TV shows I really like (non-reality)
I don't watch TV much. This past year, I have watched...
1. 10 or so episodes of House. (Bekah is a HUGE fan.)
2. 2 episodes of Grey's Anatomy. (Bekah is a consistent fan.)
and ... ummm ...
3. That's it.

But if I do like Denguy, and go back a ways to when I did watch regularly:
1. Seeing Things
2. Magnum, PI
3. M*A*S*H
4. Bill Nye the Science Guy (Okay, I watched with my kids, but I'd have watched even if they didn't want to!)

Four places I've gone on vacation:
1. England
2. Scotland
3. France
4. Nova Scotia

Four Favourite Foods
Ask me tomorrow, and you'll get a different set of four. The one constant? They'd probably all be spicey and/or have lots of cheese.

1. Thai coconut curries (wet)
2. Spinach paneer
3. Black beans and rice
4. Hot and sour soup

Four Websites I visit daily
1. Work it, Mom!
2. Woulda Coulda Shoulda
3. Greavsie
4. The Daily Dish

Four Places I would Rather Be
1. Tahiti
2. Tahiti
3. Tahiti
4. Tahiti
(Tahiti is my fantasy destination. Would the reality live up to the fantasy? Oh, likely not. But since the likelihood of my actually being able to compare fantasy to reality in this lifetime is pretty nearly nil, my illusions will almost certainly remain untainted by reality.)

Four bloggers I Tag:
Do I know four bloggers? Well, actually, I know lots more, in one incarnation or another. But tagging people makes me nervous, so you can tag yourselves. If anyone cares to do this, leave a link in the comment box.

2007-10-07T17:08:00.000-04:00

I look at my reflection in the mirror. And sigh.

"It's a nice shirt, otherwise, but I just don't like the neckline," I tell Bekah, who stands at my side, considering the image before us. "I hate it when the 'v' ends way up here. It should come down to..." I loop my finger at the nadir of the 'v' and give a vigorous tug, "... at least here."

She nods. "Yeah, because otherwise it looks like 'My boobs should be up here'..." She waves her hands roughly in the area of her clavical. Which, as it happens, is right where her 14-year-old breasts hang out. If such a word as "hang" can be used of their perky perfection.

"'...but I'm old, so they're way down here." The hands flicker somewhere slightly north of her elbows.

Ouch.

Thing is, she's nailed it. That's exactly what's wrong with the shirt. And, while not exactly a National Geographic woman, I am 46, and these reasonably substantial breasts have seen three pregnancies and a little over three years of nursing. Perky they ain't.

"Hey, missie. Enjoy those while you can, because you're built just like me." We are. Sometimes she borrows my bras.

She grins. "I am! But I just mean that shirt makes your boobs look old and saggy, not that they are."

And again, she's absolutely right.

The shirt is now in the going-to-Goodwill bag. My long-suffering, well-served and still-noteworthy breasts do not deserve to be so maligned.

2007-10-04T09:10:00.000-04:00

“I did start it. I mean, maybe I hit him harder than I intended. Maybe he didn’t realize it was supposed to be playful.” I'm on the phone with a good friend, venting, questioning, ranting, debriefing; trying to gain perspective on an event that had shocked me to the core a day prior.

“Your first marriage was abusive, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but - “

“But nothing. There is never any reason to hit someone in the face. It is never all right for a man to hit a woman in the face. Don’t start excusing his behaviour.”

“I’m not trying to excuse his behaviour. I was shocked, humiliated and absolutely livid. I’m just trying to determine if my emotional reaction is fair, if it’s justified.”

“Your reaction is justified. Your poke in his stomach was playful. Everyone could see that. When you hit someone in the face, that is not playful. It's never playful. A blow to the face is intended to put you in your place, to establish dominance.”

“Huh. I hadn’t thought that through, but it would certainly explain the humiliation I felt. In fact, it was the intensity of my response that had me wondering whether I was over-reacting.”

OVER-REACTING???? You were the fucking BRIDE! This asshole didn’t just hit someone on the face, which would have been bad enough, male or female. He didn't hit some poor sap at a dinner party. He hit the fucking BRIDE, at her fucking WEDDING.”

Yes, indeed. At my very own wedding, the boyfriend of one of the guests smacked me across my face. Not just any guest, one of my two closest friends.

A moment to remember, indeed.

Let me recap.

The wedding had drawn to a close. People had met, people had congratulated and hugged. The ceremony - short, sincere, and touching - had gone without a hitch. More chatting, some eating, some drinking, and then a gradual drifting away of the guests until only a handful of us remained: me and my wonderful groom, my two friends, and the one friend's boyfriend of five years.

Now, I've met the boyfriend before, and we hadn't quite hit it off. We didn't not hit it off, either. I just didn't feel comfortable with him. He's a bit intense, a bit persistent, persistent to the point of aggression, almost. I've felt judged by him when my opinions didn't mesh with his standards. But we live in different cities, and I've not had a lot to do with him, so it didn't really matter. I did my best to be nice, because I value my friend and don't want to alienate her.

So.

The five of us are chatting, and my local friend suggests that we three women get together before my out of town friend has to leave with the boyfriend. We've spoken many times of the possibility of getting together, the three of us, but never had we had such a good opportunity as this. Out-ot-town friend defers the decision to her boyfriend. She further defers the responsibility of asking to me. In BF's presence, she tells me, "YOU try asking BF."

So, it's my party. Though Matthew's entirely sober, I've had two glasses of wine, enough to put a small spring in my step, and we've all been getting along famously. Lots of laughter, a little flirting, lots of light-hearted fun. I'm feeling more comfortable with this fellow than I ever have. So, with everyone watching, I approach him, put my hands on his collar bone, say his name with a saucy grin and a bit of a wheedle in my voice. "Oswald? Do you-"

He shoots out an abrupt "No" before I finish my sentence. I stick out my tongue - done right, this is charming and coquettish and just a little naughty - I stick out my tongue at him and pop him in the tummy with my fist. Not enough to wind him, not enough to dent his (not too toned) abs. Just a poke.

He laughs and puts his arm around my shoulders so I am swung to face the others. And with his other hand, he slaps my face.

Had he poked me back in my stomach, I would have laughed. Had he smacked my ass, I would have grinned. Like my poke in the stomach, those would have been playful.

He slapped. my. face.

Everyone went suddenly silent. Local friend was dumbfounded. Out-of-town friend was uncertain. My groom was shocked. I don't know how the jerk was feeling. Triumphant? If I didn't want an Incident to mar the very closing moments of my wedding, I had to react carefully. I didn't want this to be The Thing that everyone remembered. I didn't want this bizarre event to taint the whole day for my sensitive husband. Further, if he comprehended the depth of my rage, he'd do something dramatic in defense of me. The way things were going at the moment, an incautious response from me could have this ridiculous Thing devolving into a fistfight between these two men. Further violence would taint the day for me even further.

So I swallowed my rage and humiliation, and smiled. Just as I had swallowed it so many times in my first marriage. Swallowed hard, smiled, said something - I forget what - light and flip and casual. Swallowed very, very hard, and moved across the circle to join hands with my beloved. My warm, kind, courageous, firm, sensitive beloved. Within moments the out-of-town friend is on her way, and my in-town friend is walking home with Matthew and me. She reads my mood well, and we talk lightly about how wonderful the afternoon had been. Which it had, all but that surreal 90 seconds.

Out-of-town friend called a couple of hours later on her cell phone, "just to check in", but in reality to probe about my response to the slap. She was in the car with him, so I didn't feel free to really get into it with her and besides, I was still recovering and not ready to talk about it. I said as much. As she hung up the phone, I heard her telling him I was "all right".

And I am, once again, shocked. On the two occasions in ten years when I've felt Matthew has treated someone inappropriately, I have responded clearly. Once, in private, "That was unkind. I think you need to apologize." Or once, in the presence of the offended person, just a shocked, "Matthew!" In the first case, he did not agree with my assessment of the situation, but the discussion that followed was respectful and helpful. In the second instance, he immediately realized what he'd done, and his apology to the offended party was immediate and sincere.

My 'friend' did no such thing. No shocked exclamation. Not even a dismayed murmur. No drawing him aside. Nothing. Though evidently distressed at the time of the incident, she drove away without a word, and then made the call for him. Is she abused? Not physically, I'm fairly certain. Is she emotionally abused? We've had that conversation. She says not. I'm not so clear. There's something "off" about that relationship, something that makes me uncomfortable every time I'm near it. But she won't hear it. I've tried to be there for her, for the time when she sees the nastiness in their dynamic, but that's over. A line has been crossed, and there's no going back.

This phone call, which he had not the integrity to make for himself, was for his own reassurance. He was not seeking to know how I felt - only that he was in the clear. He did not speak directly to me, and he did not apologize. He did not apologize!

Apparently, he thinks it's okay to slap the bride at her wedding.

Bizarre.

2007-09-11T11:57:00.000-04:00

A pretty twenty-year-old woman suddenly loses her composure. Sobs shake her slender body. An uncle spots her, hastens to her side and drops his arm around her shoulders. He gives her a squeeze of comfort and encouragement.

"Now, now. It's all right. Dry those tears. He wouldn't want that."

"He" being the dearly departed.

You know, at every funeral I've ever been to, someone has said that. It's a truism. The mother, the uncle, the brother, the friend who has just been lost wouldn't want to see his/her loved ones so full of sorrow.

Well, true enough, if he were alive. But, since we are all gathered at his funeral, this is clearly not the case.

A friend of mine recently admitted to having avoided a co-worker's funeral. "They're just so sad," he said. "Someone always cries, and I just hate that. I see someone crying, then I cry."

To which I responded, "Well, of course. You're supposed to be sad. That's what funerals are for: to mourn the person together, to gain support from the presence of others who care."

Grief can be a very isolating experience. It's nice - well, it's comforting, at any rate - and healthy, to be able to grieve together.

I don't object to the idea of a wake, I don't object to the notion of celebrating someone's life with a rollicking party. I don't think it's wrong to laugh at a visitation, or at the reception following the funeral (though it's probably best not to break into hysterical laughter during the ceremony). After all, if you cared for the deceased, you will have happy memories. So, yes, you can celebrate their life, remember the good times, laugh with others who share those happy memories. I would hope that, when my time comes, people can laugh with each other in fond remembrance of my more loveable eccentricities.

But there will also - should also - be sorrow. Which may just be expressed through tears.

I just want to say, for the record, so my expectations are clear and unequivocal: I will be seriously pissed off if at least a few tears aren't shed at some point during or after my departure commemorations.

Really.

I would like to think that my death will leave a sizeable hole in one or two peoples' lives. I would like to think that someone will genuinely grieve my passing. I would NOT like to think that, after mixing it up at the visitation, after listening to a few solemn proclamations at a funeral, each and every one of them would then proceed blithely onto the rest of their lives without a single backward glance, the occasional tear, a wistful glance, a sense of loss.

Come on, now.

I'm not demanding that every single person who ever knew me, no matter how slightly, be devastated. I'm not demanding a full two years' formal mourning from my family. I don't expect, or even desire, that people never recover from their grief.

But, for a few people, the people I care most about?

Yes, I would like some tears at my funeral.

Sheesh.

2007-09-10T07:21:00.000-04:00

I won't be producing a Fun Monday post after all.

My kind deed will be attending the memorial service of a friend who died Thursday night. Not a young man, but not an old one, either. He should have had years ahead. From cancer.

I will be reading your posts later, though: I'm sure they will lift my spirits.

2007-09-01T18:27:00.000-04:00

You scored as Hot, You are Hot, you scream and are wild,
people love doing anything sexual with you.

Hot

94%

Soft

88%

Exciting

75%

Violent

44%

Sweet

25%

Wet

25%

Awkward

Shy

What is your sexual style?
created with QuizFarm.com

Aw, gee. I'm blushing. (Because I'm just so shy...)

(44% Violent? Okay, so I'm not averse to a few friendly swats between lovers, but 44% seems a bit, er, enthusiastic.)

2007-08-26T07:36:00.000-04:00

FUN MONDAY is being brought to you a day early here at Irreverent Mama, as IM (aka Laura) will be out of town and possibly unable to blog for most of next week.

Lisa wants to know why we blog.

I’d like to know more about you, what makes you tick. I’d like to know how you started blogging. Did you keep a diary under lock and key safely hidden as a child? Do you still? Do you share the same things on your blog that you would have, or do, in your diary? Why did you start blogging and why do you continue? May as well throw in any roadblocks you have run into while blogging. If you still have your old diaries we’d love to see them.

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, I had another blog. It was a great little blog, a fun little read; I had a decent readership and a steady email correspondence with enough of them to keep me busy.

But it wasn't about me, not really. My readers tended to think that was me, and projected all sorts of (generally very flattering) things upon me. Flattering, but limiting, too. It was a work blog, and, as such, showed only a small part of my character, and essentially none of my 'real' life. The person speaking on the blog was a persona.

I wanted to have a place where my real voice could be spoke. One night, when I should have been sleeping, the perfect-for-me blog name popped into my head - and I leaped out of bed to claim it before someone else did. (Geeky, I know. But hell, I don't need to feel foolish for this; you're all bloggers.)

And thus IrreverentMama was born. Here, I do what I want. I don't feel compelled to post daily. I don't feel compelled to interact with my readers. (Though, obviously, I do so - because I feel like it.)

And I say what I want. Oh, there are still things I don't say here - those things go in the password-protected hidden file on my computer. But everything you see here is genuine.

Lisa asks about journalling, which I have done since I could write a sentence (and long before I could spell). For various reasons, I don't have any of my old paper-and-pen journals, but for me, journalling is qualitatively different than blogging, anyway.

So why do I blog? It's a forum for expressing more - but by no means all! - of the genuine me. I enjoy the fact that it's public; I appreciate the possibility of interaction. Blogging is like bumping into congenial strangers at a bus stop or your local pub or in the park - only with blogging, you can come back again and again - or not at all - and maybe some of those congenial strangers evolve into something like friends.

It's a fascinating world, out there in the internets.

:-)

2007-08-23T20:05:00.000-04:00

"Where did this come from?"

Matthew stands in the entry, holding a clear plastic bag.

"It was going out with the garbage. It should have been leaning up against the bin. Why?"

"That's where I found it. I mean, where did it come from?"

The item in question, inside the bag, is a crocheted blanket. My grandmother would have called it an afghan (I'm not sure why). It's a hideous affair, huge granny squares made of something thick and scratchy, more twine than wool, in a visual assault of orange, brown, green, and yellow. I found it in the back of a storage area in the basement, where it's sat for a least three years, and am sending it to its just reward.

"It came from the storage room. You know I'm decluttering down there." He pauses. I can tell he's waiting for something more from me, but lord only knows what it might be. Communication is a tricky thing. I'm saying words, he's saying words, pretty simple words in this case. We each know what the other's words mean, but somehow, I can tell, meaning is not attached to the words we're tossing at each other.

We pause in befuddlement.

Then he says the words that make the whole thing clear.

"This is the blanket that my granny made for me when she was dying."

Oh.

Good Lord.

And he found it propped up against a garbage tin in the drive. The blanket his granny crocheted for him as she lay dying. Oh. I feel a little sick.

"Good heavens. I didn't know that. Well, I guess we won't be throwing that out then, will we?"

And I take it from him and give him a hug. We have a cup of coffee, we chat of this and that. A couple of hours later, he heads up to bed.

Leaving me staring at this thing.

Which his granny made for him on her deathbed. We can't throw it out. (Damn, I wish he hadn't spotted it!)

But it's still ugly. Really, really ugly. (Utterly out of the question to toss it out now.)

And scratchy. And heavy. (How could she lift the damned thing on her deathbed? Maybe she smothered to death? Oh, good god. How crass of me. I am should be ashamed. No, I am. Sheepish, anyway.)

Oh, dear. (If he hadn't spotted it, it would be gone before breakfast, and no one would have been any the wiser.)

Oh, dear. (Because, after all, it's been in a basement storage room for three years now, and I had not a clue what it was. Nor did he know where it was. Or miss it, apparently.)

I return it to the storage room.

Where it will stay.

Sigh.

2007-08-20T10:21:00.000-04:00

Fun Monday this week is brought to you by the letter U, and the number... limitless.

Uncaringbear wants to know:

Share with us a little white lie that you may, or may not, have gotten away with. Perhaps it's something more sinister than a little white lie - maybe even a deep dark secret that you've kept buried for years! All the better! Now's your chance to get it off your chest and confess: "Yes, I did eat that last slice of cheese cake", "No, I wasn't washing my hair that Saturday", "Those pants do make you look fat"!

So, do "little white lies" include faked orgasms? Yes, yes, I know. We independent, confident women-of-the-new-millennium aren't supposed to. And, since my first marriage bit the dust, I've never faked it just to bolster some bumbler's pathetic ego. But sometimes, you know, it's been just lovely, really, it has, but you're very tired now and you really don't care if you 'get there' or not, and what you really, really want to do now is snuggle up and go to sleep, but the fellow you're with, he Just WON'T Quit until you do... so you do. Fake it. Really.

Every woman has done that a time or two. Whether she admits it or not.

Not that that's necessary with Matthew, sensitive and aware man that he is. Besides, he's a canny sort, and has long since discovered that if I'm left to sleep and simmer, I wake up ready to burst into flames in the morning. No fool he.

The rest of the time? I sometimes indulge in little white lies because I'm lazy. It's easier to say the kind and comforting thing than get into the Big Discussion over something that doesn't really matter - or won't matter tomorrow.

"I'm sorry. I'm not much company today. I'm worried about X."
REAL ANSWER: YES. You are being a complete blight on my evening, and I wish you'd just SUCK IT UP or go somewhere else.
LWL: Oh, I noticed you were a little quiet, but that's okay. I'm sure you'll feel better tomorrow. (And, if I'm feeling particularly saintly, "Would you like a backrub?")

But by far the majority of my LWL's are sins of omission than comission. It's not what I say, but what I don't say.

"That was an impulse purchase that I truly regret now. What a waste of money!"
REAL ANSWER: Damned right, woman. And it's not the first time, either. How much money will you pour down the drain before you grasp this?
Little White Evasion: I'll bet if you put an add in the paper, you can sell it in a few days!

"I guess I didn't give him the benefit of the doubt."
REAL ANSWER: No you didn't. Like you didn't last time, and you won't next time, and frankly, I don't know why he puts up with you.
Little White Evasion: Being in relationships is hard, isn't it?

"And everyone was staring at my child. Why can't people cut a three-year-old a little slack?"
REAL ANSWER: Because most people's three-year-olds do not stand on tables and scream in coffee shops. You're not asking for 'slack', you're asking for license to riot.
LWE: Guess it'll be a while before you go back to that place!

"I guess I was a bit rude to that other driver."
Laura pretends to have dropped into a sudden, unexpected coma.

Yes, I can and do get into tough conversations. In fact, I often quite enjoy them. But they aren't always necessary, they certainly aren't always welcome, and sometimes? Sometimes it's just none of my damned business. And for those occasions?

I just loooove me some Little White Lies...

2007-08-19T18:20:00.000-04:00

John wants to see my mantlepiece. I can see why. Mantlepieces are interesting - and can be as revealing of the person as their bookshelves. Wonder what mine says of me?

Funny, it looks a lot more spartan here than in does in real life. Perhaps because I can see the dust? (Which tells you I am not the World's Best Housekeeper.)

From left to right, you have Angel Christmas Tree topper. Yes, technically she's on a speaker, not the mantle, but close enough. I keep her out year-round because she has more than a touch of Faery in her, this angel.

Then the mantle proper: at either end, a hurricane lamp. These do get used from time to time when the power goes out. One of them has matches tucked behind it. No scrambling around in the dark for Laura. (Unless she's in the mood.)

Next from left: a card from our wedding. None of the others have been deemed worthy of preservation from the reycling bin. (No, can't say I'm particularly sentimental. Can't afford to be in this small house!) This card, though, I particularly love.

The little white square is in fact a box containing a medal my brilliant sweetie won for maintaining an A+ average during university. (His second degree, received just a few years ago.)

Centre: Our wedding picture, which is leaning up against a piece of Real Art. Which is probably not good for the Artwork, but the photograph will stay there until after I've finished painting the living room - the persnickety among you will note that I have not yet started, and you can just hush yourselves - and it can be hung properly.

And here are some items from the mantlepiece in the bedroom upstairs, because we do in fact have TWO fireplaces in this house, not that either of them work. They were sealed years and years before we bought it.

Because both fireplaces are very similar, I'm just showing you a few items from the upstair mantle.

Georgia O'Keefe. Unfortunately, not "real", like the one in the living room.
But still appropriate for a bedroom, somehow...

More lamps. :-)

A good sentiment for a marriage, no?

There. The mantlepieces in Laura's house. Care to share yours? If you post pictures, drop John a line and let us know to come look!

2007-08-13T07:17:00.000-04:00

HA! Here I am, writing a Fun Monday post ON THE TUESDAY BEFORE.

I am so organized...

And, thanks to Beckie, it's an easy one, as well as a fun one!

What is my favourite treat? With some details. When she posts her instructions, her examples are all food, so I guess you won't be hearing about a ~~non-edible~~ favourite treat Matthew shared with me only an hour or two ago.

My favourite treat is Miss Vicki's potato chips, in one of two flavours: Sea Salt and Malt Vinegar, or Lime and Black Pepper.

These are the best chips bar none. The flavours are intense and authentic. Yes, I may simply be ingesting a complicated concoction of chemicals, but it TASTES like vinegar and lime and jalapeno peppers, or whatever. And the texture? Perfect. Crisp, with enough thickness to give you a satisfying CRUNCH between your teeth when you bite down. No wussy "oomph" of disintegrating starch, no! Instead, a robust explosion that renders you incapable of maintaining a conversation. "Sorry, dear, I can't hear you over the chips."

I'd provide a picture, but I don't have these things in the house. Recipe for complete caloric disaster. I'm losing weight, remember? I allow myself a small bag every couple of weeks. Which I eat outside the house.

Strangely, I can't even find a picture on the internet. So maybe I'll pop over to the 7-Eleven and be the weird woman taking pictures of the bags of chips on the shelves.

Or perhaps that would just be too, too sad...

2007-08-08T07:06:00.000-04:00

"Did you miss me?"

Matthew has gone camping with the kids for a few days. He's taken all of our conjoint lot who do not have summer jobs. They'll be gone till the end of the week. And when he comes home, he will ask me. "Did you miss me?"

With Matthew, I have the relationship I've always dreamed of. Intimacy that I've always craved. (Yes, sex, of course sex, but sex is the easiest and most straighforward form of intimacy, in my experience.) But the talking! Long conversations. Easy conversation. Deep conversations. Conversation that flows like a thread through our lives, the bedrock upon which the relationship is built.

For the next few days, though, I will be alone.

Some women don't like being alone. Most who don't will say they don't sleep so well. Some say they miss this or that that their fellow does for them. A few will say they miss the conversations. (Strangely, they never say they miss the sex. Isn't that odd? Do they not miss it? Perhaps they're even relieved at its absence? Or do they miss it and don't want to say? This question stirs a mild curiousity in me.)

Me, I love being alone.

I love being able to come and go without a second's thought or hesitation. No need to check in with someone, let him know what's up. I love being able to sit in bed with a book or my laptop till ridiculous hours. I love being able to sleep diagonally in the bed. I love being able to set my social calendar without balancing competing needs. I love that the only mess in the house is the one I create. And the silence. I love, love, love the silence.

I love it all.

Matthew misses me when he goes away. He will certainly miss me this time: he is getting the short end of this stick, and we both know it. Yes, I'm working, but camping with four teens is not a holiday. (The kids don't know this, and we don't tell them, but parents know the truth of this.) It is particularly not a holiday for a quiet introvert type who needs his alone-time.

But even when he's had a great time - like his last trip, a few weeks ago. A conference on a topic of great interest to him, with interesting sessions and lots of free time to explore a city he'd never before visited. Just the right mix of mental stimulation, social interaction, and blocks of time on his own. A perfect few days away. A holiday, really.

Yet, still, when he returns, he will hold me long, tell me he missed me, and ask, "Did you miss me?"

And I won't have. I used to feel guilty about this. It seemed a sign that my emotional tanks were flawed, that, even in this perfect-for-me reationship, I was unable to fully invest. Obviously, he loves me more.

In the decade or so I've had to consider this, my perception has altered. This is not because he loves me more. I think it's simply another expression of our fundamental difference in temperaments. I am a natural optimist; he's more depressive. My glass is always half-full; his is half-empty. We see this difference over and over again; this is merely another manifestation of the old, familiar pattern.

He enjoys his few days away - and he does enjoy them - but one part of his mind is always aware there is something he doesn't have that he wants (me! Isn't that sweet?), and it is that on which he focusses. Because that's how his psyche works. Me, I enjoy my time alone. While I'm aware that he's somewhere else, and with him are some good things I can't have right now, my focus remains on the good things I have in his absence - because of his absence. Because that's how my psyche works.

"Did you miss me?"

He'll ask this as he draws me into his arms, and I will sink into our welcome-home kiss, and I will revel in his return, in the solidity of his hug, in his smell, in the comfort of how well we fit together. I will look forward to the long conversation that I know will follow, going over the events of our days apart, our responses to them, our thoughts and ideas. I look forward to later that evening, and some intimacy of a different sort. All those good things I couldn't have when he was gone are back! Here in my arms!

And as the kiss breaks, I will look up at him and say, "Yes, I missed you."

2007-07-30T21:07:00.000-04:00

I have a confession. Few people know this of me - Matthew, my kids, Sophie. That's about it. Nothing I'm ashamed of, but I fear the reaction. But now I'm about to tell you all...

I joined Weight Watchers.

Almost three months ago.

I'm self-conscious about it because I am not fat. Never have been. I fear the ridicule. In fact, I got it, indirectly, when a neighbour heard from one of my kids (thanks, kiddo) that I'd joined. Then the neighbour told a friend. The friend, apparently, said,

"WHAT? She's a STICK!"

Which, given that I was, at 154 pounds on my 5'5" frame, juuust barely into the 'overweight' category, is simply not true. That I carry my weight well is not in question: I know how to dress and I have decent posture. But "stick"? When I'm a 34D (lately, 36D), and hips to match? Um, no...

(Said friend is gay. Perhaps he doesn't look at women overmuch?)

But I've never been heavily overweight. Most of my life I've been slim.

And that's just it. Most of my life I've been slim. Most of my life, without any effort at all, I have maintained an easy 120 - 123 pounds. Most of my life, I have had a body mass index of 20-ish. Without any effort, without any thought.

When, about 10 years ago, I noticed a few pounds sliding on, I didn't worry overmuch. I was in my late thirties, a little weight gain is to be expected, and I was far from overweight. Except that the weight just kept slipping on. And on. And on some more.

Until I kinda wanted it to stop, you know?

I may have mentioned my family before, but every last one of'em is fat. Not just fat, obese. Most of them are not just obese, they're morbidly obese.

Morbidly. As in, so overweight it's a serious threat to their health. My sister cannot walk across a room without wheezing, and, at only 45, has arthritis in her poor overburdened knees. My brother has to sleep with a CPAP machine lest he stop breathing entirely in the night, entirely due to excessive weight pressing on airways. My mother has had two heart attacks, my uncle has had one. My grandmother suffered high blood pressure for years before her death.

It's not pretty, this kind of obesity.

And the pounds kept sliding on to me, despite my efforts to prevent it. Until, at 154 pounds, a mere 3 or so pounds into the official 'overweight', I had to do something.

And just as I'd reached that decision, a neighbour told me she'd begun attending Weight Watchers - and that the meetings were held only three or four blocks from my house.

I recognize Destiny when it hits me on the head with a brick.

Off I went. In three months, I have lost close to 15 pounds. I want to lose another 10 or so. I'll be heavier than I was at 24, but that's okay. Because I'm not 24 any more. But neither will I be following the rest of my gene pool, submerged at the bottom of the deep end and wondering why they're having trouble breathing...

What this program has done is give me a liveable framework by which to evaluate and structure my eating. I want that glass of wine? Sure - but not those cookies, too. I don't wonder, I know how much is too much. It takes a little more thought than in my thoughtless youth, but not a whole lot. It takes a little self-discipline, and I'm discovering I had more than I thought.

I am, once again, just about the size and shape I like to be. And I know that in another couple of months, I'll be there. And I'll stay there.

Phew.

2007-07-23T11:28:00.000-04:00

My best friend.

I have two. Matthew is my first and foremost best friend. I don't say that just because he's my husband (finally), and I have this misguided notion that just because he's my husband he is obliged to be my best friend.

I say it because he is. Matthew has loved me for longer than I've loved him. He's supported me through stuff that would send most men skittering for the hills faster than you can say "tampon". Which he also buys for me, without a second's squeamishness. (While he does the weekly grocery shopping. From the weekly menus he's created. Yes, indeed.)

Matthew listens. Really listens. Matthew shares. Really shares. We talk for hours. HOURS. Every summer weekend, we go for an hour's walk, have a coffee, walk an hour home. And we talk the.whole.way.

He is kind, but he's also honest. He's courageous, but not macho. He doesn't confuse manliness with vulgarity. Burps and farts are unfortunate physical realities, no more, not great accomplishments warranting admiration and attention.

There is nothing I can't tell him. I am never afraid of his response. He has a brilliant mind. A brilliant mind of great integrity. He doesn't shy from realities just because they're uncomfortable or put him in a bad light.

He thinks I'm beautiful, smart, kind, creative, sexy, a phenomenal mother, a terrific writer; he thinks that my mind is much quicker than his, and that any man of sense is jealous of him when we walk down the street hand-in-hand.

With all that wonderfulness, who needs a second best friend? But I have one. Because I'm lucky that way.

My other best friend is Sophie.

On the surface, you'd wonder why we work so well together. Sophie's idea of heavy reading is Cosmo. I read voraciously 10 or 20 books a month. Sophie's kids are...well... Her son is into vandalism and petty theft; her daughter seems to have "tart" as a life-goal. (And Sophie's response is to cover up for the son. I heartily disapprove.) My kids are decent citizens, all in all. Sophie's love life is a mess: she specializes in unattainable men. She's bounced from an alcoholic (a man whose first love is the booze) to a gay guy, (how's that for unattainable?), and a string of others along the way. Much of her men woes stem from the fact that 'brains' take a distant second place to 'buff' (and 'young') in Sophie's list of attractive male features. Me, I like men with a bit of gray at the temples and some physical and mental substance. Unlike Sophie, I would not see it as a compliment were my teens to invite me clubbing with them, "because you're so much like the rest of us!!"

So, with all those differences, why do we enjoy each other's company so? Well, for starters, I give Sophie the dignity of her own life and choices. I'll give input if she wants, but never unsolicited. I feel no need to burden her with my advice and opinions. She's a grown woman, been heading her own life for two or three decades now, and is largely happy with her life. I accept her for who she is, and I don't judge her for having different choices/attitudes/values from me.

What we share is a sense of mischief. We've listened to each other's woes about the various men in our lives (Sophie dates from pre-Matthew days), and suggest often savage retaliation for insults suffered. We never do them: the imagining is enough fun.

We empathize with each other. She's cried on my shoulder about her kids; I've cried on hers about my ex.

We both know what it's like to worry about money. We love being with someone who never complains of being 'broke', while somehow managing a family trip to the Carribbean in March.

We are both annoyed by prudery. We love being with someone with whom we can chat about anything without pulling our punches: vibrators, oral sex, good sex, bad sex, group sex. Sex, sex, sex.

Sophie is spontaneous. Sophie's a party girl. Sophie's a bit wicked. Sophie is a bit of a bitch, frankly, though never with me. She's not squeamish - about sex, about morality, about her own foibles.

Sophie brings some much-needed frivolity into my life.

Between the two of them, I get just about everything I need in the way of human interaction: deep, mind-stretching conversations; shrieking, wine-fuelled gigglefests, and with both I share reciprocal, unconditional acceptance.

I am a lucky woman.

2007-07-18T08:58:00.001-04:00

He roars with laughter. "That's great!"

"What's so funny?" his wife wanders across the yard, wine glass in hand, smile on face.

"Tell her the joke, Laura."

Twice in a row? Oh, why not? It's one of my favourites, and it seems he won't mind the repeat, so I launch into it again.

A Scotsman is being annoyed by an American tourist. The fellow is titillated by the tales and rumours he's heard about kilts and their contents, and keeps badgering the Scot, oblivious to the fellow's attempts to preserve some dignity.

"So, is it true? Huh, is it??"

Silence.

"Oh, come on, now. What do you wear under your kilt?"

The Scot fixes him with a steely glare, and through tight, thin lips, spits out his answer. "Yer wife's lipstick."

"Isn't that great, honey? 'Yer wife's lipstick!'" Husband falls about laughing all over again. Wife purses her lips, gives a tight smile, turns away. Yes, well.

"Come and see the garden," she directs us. Obvious change of topic. "I've been doing a lot of work in it lately." She points to a small shrub with blue-ish foliage. "See my bush?"

Husband and I make brief eye contact, and break out into simultaneous coughing fits. With another wee smile, this one a bit puzzled, wife moves on to greet other, more comfortable, partiers.

Later, chatting with Matthew as we prepare for bed, he muses on my tale. "Some men love a woman with a it of bawdiness in her; others are scared to death of her." He gives me an affectionate squeeze. "I'm one of the former."

"He is too, no doubt about it."

We look at each other. "So what is he doing with her?"

2007-07-11T13:31:00.001-04:00

My kids gave me this Wise Woman Starter Kit for Mother's Day. It contains a tub of "Regenerating Day Cream", one of "Regenerating Night Cream", and a spray bottle of "Vitality Serum".

Pretty, no?

Now, I've not been the type of woman to fuss much with my face. I like feeling pretty as much as the next woman, I shave my legs (and other bits), I love flowy skirts, plunging necklines, moderate amounts of perfume, and I keep my hair a burnished auburn, despite the steady encroachment of gray.

But a "beauty regime"? Seems an oxymoron, really. Anything that calls itself a 'regime' lacks a certain, oh, gaity, joie de vivre, spontenaeity. More to do with drill sergeants, drudgery and drab than beauty.

But you know what? Time is pretty regimental. It marches inexorably on, taking pity on no woman.

So, though I didn't request this particular gift (are the kids trying to tell me something?), I was pleased enough with it. (And of course, I made out I was deee-lighted! Because, wrinkled crone though I may be, I am a Good Mother.) Besides, I've always been little Polly Perfect when it came to assignments. I actively enjoyed worksheets in school, liked lining up my facts in neat columns, liked ticking items off a list. There is a part of the discipline of a 'regime' that does appeal, I confess.

So I opened the package with interest, seeking the Instruction Sheet. (Because that's what we Polly Perfects do, you know: we RTFM*s. Religiously. Because we like to.)

And boy, did I hit paydirt with this one. A very long, accordian-folded leaflet on flimsy paper - in fourteen different languages! Fourteen! But all I learned as I scanned it was how wonderful this product was, and what wholesome ingredients were contained within its creamy essence.

So much for the insert. Where were the directions for use? Not on the tubs, not on the spray bottle, not on the box. There were no more bits of paper hiding within the box. Mystified, I returned to the leaflet.

Because the day and night cream I could pretty much figure. But "Vitality Serum"? What, exactly, does one do with a "Vitality Serum"? It was housed in a pump bottle, so I'm guessing it's not to be ingested. Undoubtedly it's to be smeared on the skin, but when? How? (Why?)

And a second, more thorough read of the insert, and there they are! Directions for Use!! (Not that they were identified as such, but they are there!)

See them? Two short sentences at the end of each paragraph of promotional sludge. Oh, come on. Surely you can find them! After all Wise Woman does want you to actually use its product.

Doesn't it?

I'm not entirely sure. That picture is life-size. That is how big the pages were, that is how big the font is. Teeny, isn't it? My real-life version is probably a little clearer than this scanned version, but the font is no bigger.

Now, I am 46 - probably smack in the middle of the target audience for this product. Like most people my age - that is, like most people in the product's TARGET AUDIENCE - my eyesight isn't what it once was. Nor, what with all this perimenopausal hormonal shit I have going on, am I as patient as I once was. Not with the flim-flam-flummery of self-congratulational sales puffing, certainly. And then to place useful information at the tale end of all that ~~crap~~ verbiage? In micro-font?

How much awareness of (and respect for) their TARGET AUDIENCE does this show?

And then? When you finally unearth the information? You get these little nuggets:

For the Day Cream: "Apply to face and neck. Use with Regenerating Night Cream."
For the Night Cream: "Apply to face and neck. Use with Regenerating Day Cream."
For the Vitality Serum: "Use AM and PM before applying your Wise Woman day and night moisturisers."

Useful, no?

No?

Not particularly, huh...

So many questions left unanswered... Does one use Day and Night cream together, both products applied morning and evening? It sure seems to say as much! And, now that I've found the "instructions", how do I apply the Vitality Serum? Direct to my skin? To my hands, and then rub in? To a cotton ball? Do I cleanse my face first, or do the products do it all?

Okay, so I know better than to apply moisturizer without first cleaning - oops, I mean cleansing - my skin. I also know that Day Cream is for the daytime and Night Cream is for the nighttime. Not too tricky, that. An adherent of a Beauty Regime I may not be, but a complete feminine-culture idiot I am not. However, I didn't get any of this awareness from the insert, where one might reasonably expect to find it.

All is not lost! Being of that Certain Age, I am a resourceful woman. I now know how to use my Products, most notably the mysterious Vitality Serum. How, you ask? How, given the company clearly has no interest in giving me the goods once I own them?

Because I googled it. No kidding. I ended up googling, and found a very useful instructional video at Wise Woman dot net! Wise Woman dot net - imagine that!! There is one! But I had to hunt it out! The insert didn't include information about their very informative website, either. Imagine that...

So, I now have these Beauty Products, which I am using, oh, four times a week. (Not quite Perfect, but I'm trying!) And I'm enjoying them. I'm not sure if it's the feeling that I've joined the Woman Club at long last, or if it's because they're making a difference. I do like how they smell...

But if it were up to Wise Woman and the Beauty Shoppe, I'd still be squinting at the labels.

*RTFM: Read the Fucking Manual. What you should do before you call tech. support**.

**Not, I admit, that the manuals are generally any use to anyone who isn't technically inclined, which is to say, anyone who isn't tech. support...

*** Oooo, look! Footnotes in teeny, tiny font!!! Feel free to sneer at the inconsistency.****

**** But not this pre-menstrual, perimenopausal week. Could be bad for your health.

2007-07-09T07:50:00.001-04:00

"LAURA!!! Laura, Geek Boy spat on your bra!"

Damn. I should have known that would happen. As you know, the girls are substantial. The cheap bras from Zellers are just not up to the job. Nope, I need the expensive (and, such a happy coincidence, very pretty) ones from La Vie. (See that beige one? I own that one. I also have the same one in black.) One does not toss such confections into the laundry with the sweatsocks and blue jeans. One coddles them. One lavishes TLC and Forever New upon them, and soaks them delicately in the bathroom sink, prior to pressing the water out gently and hanging them to dry over the bathroom rail.

And then one's youngest stepson spits frothy toothpaste foam onto them. Guess he didn't notice that sinkful of bubbles and lace an inch in front of his navel. Guess it didn't occur to his empty head to launch that gobful of sputum into the toilet rather than onto a hundred and some odd dollars' worth of lingerie.

Ugh.

Welcome to my summer.

Five extra children pile into our home for four out of the first six weeks of summer. Lazy summer days are a dream.

It's getting better, year by year. My eldest lives on her own now, and the next two children - my son, and Matthew's eldest - have jobs and are very autonomous. Matthew's daughter, Drama Girl, has lived up to her cognomen very well this year, and in a passionate flurry of "I HATE having parents and I'm NOT a child" (a very childish flurry, I might add), she has, at the age of 17, pretty much flounced out of both her parents' lives, and lives mostly with her boyfriend. Gawd help him.

(I keep out of these things. But do I miss her? Does her absence leave a gaping hole in the fabric of our lives? Not so's you'd notice. Even at her best, her energy level is well-described by the DSM, under "manic". The house is much calmer without her.)

Still, that leaves four teens in full-time residence, with another two who live here officially and make regular appearances.

Six. Teens. (Nineteen, eighteen, sixteen, fourteen, fourteen, and thirteen.)

For the most part, they are cheerful, easy-going, biddable. They don't party, they don't play music at ear-shattering levels (thank GOD for MP-3 players; if any ears are being shattered, at least they're being shattered privately), they don't drink, they don't do anything more illicit. (Or if they do, they're very, very discreet.)

So, I have little to complain about, right? No petty crime, no horrific rebellion, and, apart from Drama Girl, no significant conflict.

Just six teens. Which means 27 pairs of ENORMOUS shoes cluttering the small entry way at every moment of every day. We have a shoe rack that would fit about 21 pair. The shoe rack currently holds three pairs: my sandals, my runners, and Matthew's runners.

It means socks littering the house. (Yes, they're still doing that.) This weekend, setting a new record in sock-strewing, we even managed to leave a balled-up pair of dirty sweat socks on the NEIGHBOUR'S lawn.

Thankfully, I spotted them before the neighbour (I hope), and sent the offender out to collect them.

But, Ugh.

It means enormous amounts of food consumed. Which means food, food containers, and food consumption mechanisms also litter much of the house. (I might add here that my children keep food consumption to the dining room.)

It means six people in the house who can and do stay up far, far later than Matthew or me.

Which meant that last night we were woken at sometime after 11 - a good hour and a half after I went to bed - by a tap at the door, and a teen telling us there were ants in his bedroom.

No! Ants?!? In your BEDROOM? Could this have anything to do, anything at all, do you think, with the plates still littered with crumbs under your bed? The plates that I have repeatedly asked you NOT to bring into your room - because you'll get bugs???

And now, at eleven-something, he wants someone to leap out of bed and fix it for him? NOW?

Ugh.

It means no space to sit. This is a small house. I wander the house with a book and a cup of tea, looking for a spot to have a quiet read... two teens fill the two love seats in the living room to capacity. Two more lounge at the dining table. One is on the front porch. One is in the (sole) bathroom. I find myself holed out in my room for much of July and August...

Ugh.

I do love summers, really, I do. And I'll love them even more five years from now.

2007-06-24T09:19:00.001-04:00

Long weekend walks are a summer tradition for Matthew and me. Down the path by the canal through the centre of the city, to our favourite coffee shop, there to imbibe our favourite iced coffee. The path is reasonably wide, paved, and even has a yellow line down the centre.

Ah, the decadence of urban life!

The path along the canal is increasingly popular, though, which means that the glories of the path are shared with other pedestrians, cyclists, and roller bladers.

"Shared" being a generous term for some.

People stroll in clusters. They meandre in clumps. No harm in that, so long as the path is clear. Common courtesy, of course, dictates that when someone approaches you, the clumps and clusters must dissolve into something approaching single file. Or at least, they should shrink their amoebic form so as to fit on their side of the line.

Common courtesy, however, as we have all had cause to lament, isn't so common any more. And don't be thinking this kind of oblivion is restricted to groups of teens. Nuh-uh. Chattering groups of middle-aged women are awful for this. Awful! (I'm 46. Why?) As are clusters of steaming, hard-bodied thirty-something men, pounding by on their daily "aerobic workout". Decorative as the latter may be, they are less than pleasing when one is watching their passage from the bushes at the side of the path where one has leapt, gazelle-like, in sheerest self-defense.

I am at an age and level of ornery-ness where I am unwilling to swish to one side to allow a cluster of five to pass in a clump, completely oblivious to my presence.

I HAVE a presence, dammit, and you WILL take heed!

So I simply don't cede the space. With the teens and the women, I square my shoulders and continue in my course. Mostly, they leap out of MY way moments before impact. Which has a certain amount of satisfaction. But - and this will tell you something unfortunate about my character, I'm sure - I rather prefer it when there's an impact.

I am prepared for it, you see. They are expecting mild-mannered me to leap aside. When I don't, they thud into my unyielding shoulder. They careen off to one side. They have a look of shock on their faces. They are astonished.

"Oops!" I say, with a cheerful, kindly, middle-aged-lady smile. "Ignore ME, would you!" shrieks my blood-thirsty, vengeance-driven Inner Crone.

With the hard-bodied steamers, to continue walking into their sweaty midst would be little short of suicidal. Instead, I stand utterly still. It's best if you can make firm eye contact with the alpha-male in the group, but not always possible. It takes some courage to stand your ground as the steaming horde approaches, but I've never been mowed down yet. The group splits and they steam on around me. Some have been known to stumble a little in the shock of having a body suddenly loom into their oblivion. A few drops of man-sweat spattered on my arm are a small price to pay for claiming my right to my half of the damned path.

No more will this polite woman be held hostage by the rude of the world. Or at least the oblivious of the canal path.

I am here, and YOU can get off MY side of the damned path.

2007-06-12T20:53:00.000-04:00

Stolen from John.

FAVOURITE...

1: DRINK: Irish cream ales. In the summer, margaritas, Mike's hard lemonade, and sangria, though not all at once.

2: FOOD: Thai wet coconut curries.

3: FILM: Sense and Sensibility

4: BOOK: I have absolutely NO IDEA where to start. I read at a ferocious rate. Ten to twenty or more books a month, usually.

5: SPORT: Not much interested in 'em. Did watch some of the Stanley Cup playoffs, because the local team was in in, thus making it inescapable!

6:BLOGGER: Oh, goodness... That would be playing favourites.

7:MUSIC: Blues. Or chamber music. Depends on my mood.

8: BIRD: Cardinal

9: ANIMAL: For appearance? Cats, wild and domestic. Nothing as sleek, strong, and elegant as a cat. But for personality? Orangutang. (Hey! Beauty is only skin deep, you know. Orangs are smart and funny in their cumbersome way. I like 'em.)

10: HERO: ~~John, of course...~~. Someone who doesn't think I'm a creep.

2007-05-31T13:10:00.000-04:00

Lovely tall, slim, handsome European dad down the street gives me a warm smile. How nice! He's new on the street, and so far, a bit reserved. Ah, well. He's probably warming to me because I've been nice to their family.

Earlier this week, you see, I invited their a three-year-old to trail about my house for a morning. I figure they could use a bit of a break, what with the move and all. She's a cheerful and chatty little thing, and, apart from her complete lack of personal space, was no trouble at all.

We did everything together, Small Girl and me. We ate, we 'coloured' (she with crayons on multi-coloured paper, me with pens on lined paper), we played on the computer (I on my laptop, she on one of those noxious talking 'educational' toys with a touch-screen, provided by mum). We listened to my music, we listened to hers. I peed, she peed. I peed in company. I'm fine with this, and I'm quite sure her mother, a died-in-the-wool Attachment Parent (yes, you actually hear the capitals when she says it) will have no problem with it, either. Besides, mum is European, and we all know how ~~loosy-goosy~~ sensible those people over there are about privacy and nudity and sexuality and all manner of things that give North Americans (particularly my neighbours to the south) conniptions.

So. I have my pee, and Small Girl decides she will have one, too. We wash hands and head downstairs again, well pleased with our accomplishments. Shortly thereafter, mum comes for Small Girl.

The next evening, as I sit on my porch with a relaxing beverage, mum drops by to say thanks and let me know how much Small Girl had enjoyed her time with me. And how much Small Girl had learned, too.

Yes?

Oh, indeed. Mum explains. "Out of the blue, she says to me, 'Why you gots hair on your 'gina, mummy?'"

I know where we're going here. I have, after all, recently gotten married. My marital bits have been especially cleaned and tidied for the event and subsequent celebration.

"All ladies have hair there, sweetie."

"NOoooOOOo!! Laura doesn't got any hair there at all."

Ah, yes. Body hair. Another European-North American difference.

And when did this conversation occur? While Small Girl was going potty? During bathtime, generally taken with mummy? At bedtime, also taken in company of the parents? At some time when people's nether regions might reasonably be expected to come into conversation?

Noooo... at the dinner table, with two older brothers, daddy, and the lovely couple next door in attendance.

Which may explain dad's particular and unexpected warmth this morning. Ooo... am I now the exotic focus of his naughtier daydreams?

I must babysit that child more often.

2007-05-26T21:14:00.000-04:00

There! It's done! I'm Mrs. Matthew.

I'll fill you in on the details later.

Right now I'm off to enjoy my newly-wedded bliss.

2007-05-22T21:59:00.000-04:00

I check my email account. I see I have a new spam. (Yes, only the one: the filters work well.)

Do you know how much I enjoy the fact that my obnoxious service provider sends its very own promotional emails straight to its very own spam file???

2007-05-18T09:14:00.000-04:00

Phone calls in the small hours are never a good thing.

My mother has been admitted to hospital due to a possible heart attack. She had one last year, following surgery. Another is always a possiblity.

At first all seemed well. Tests indicated that no, there'd been no attack. The chemical they look for was absent. Bloodwork was perfectly normal. Everyone breathes a collective sigh of relief. Mum will probably be home later that day.

More bloodwork that afternoon, however, showed signs that a heart attack might be immanent. Suddenly, the heart attack chemical, whatever it might be, was there. Not a lot, but there'd been none before. Mum would stay in overnight for observation. Everyone moves into a state of mild alert.

That evening, her blood presssure starts popping up and down. This is the thing that had me up in the small hours, worrying. When vital signs aren't stable, nothing can be relied upon. I am now in a state of red alert.

You all recall that I'm getting married soon?

With the first call, we wondered if mum could attend the wedding. With the second call, we decided she wouldn't. "That's okay," says mum. "I'll come and visit as soon as I can afterwards." I'm disappointed, but we're within days, now. The deed is almost done.

But now, in the small, dark hours of the morning, my mind is filled with dire possibilities. If she doesn't stabilize? If they can't control the blood pressure? If this attack is worse than the last one? The decision is clear: if mum is in serious danger, I will cancel the wedding. Obviously.

The wedding that was years in the making. The wedding that was so very difficult for me to accept without panic.

But my mother could be dying. There is no question.

By dawn, I am resolute. Calm, decided. I will call the hospital, speak to the nurse in charge of my mother's case.

I have to wait till after the morning shift change. I rehearse in my mind the words. I am clear. I am at peace. I will seek the information I need to make the decision.

"Hello, this is LauraA, Mrs. V's daughter. I was wondering how she's doing this morning?"

I can picture the woman behind the voice. She's of average height, broad and soft. She's mostly grey, there are wrinkles around her eyes which speak of motherly compassion. Her voice has a warm, friendly down-east twang. Cape Breton, perhaps? If she's from The Rock, she's been in Ontario a lot of years. But it's homely and comforting, her voice.

The voice is reassuring. Mum has had a good night. Her blood pressure has stabilized, the blood tests are now all normal. She's alert and in good spirits, moving about comfortably. Relief washes through me. Nonetheless, I need to ask the question. I have my script, I know what I will say, with compassionate and calm resolution.

"That's good to hear. Here's my situation: I'm supposed to be getting married this weekend, and I was wondering if -"

and suddenly my voice is out of control, soaring skyward, as sobs shake me -

"I should cancel the we-eh-eh-eh-eh-ding?"

You understand that it is not the possibility of cancelling the wedding that is causing my distress. It is the fact that I am making concrete plans that pivot on the possibility of my mother's immanent demise. If this woman says I should cancel, it means I may realistically lose my mother in a matter of days. All my rehearsing and resolution melt in a pool of tears.

The nurse's response is immediate and patently sincere.

"Oh, NO! You mustn't do that! It would be terribly upsetting to your mother!"

'Probably give her a heart attack' almost pops out of my mouth. I bite back a hysterical giggle.

Later, my sister confirms the nurse's words. "Mum was saying yesterday, 'Goodness, I hope Laura doesn't do something silly like cancel the wedding'."

So, we're all settled. I will have my wedding this weekend, which mum will not be able to attend. Nor my sister, who will stay close, just in case. They will visit me as soon as mum is able to travel.

Physically tired from my sleepless nights and wearily worn to my last frayed nerve, I decide to take a restoring evening walk by the river. I've always loved to walk by the path, see the river in its moods and colours. In the evening, you're likely to see muskrats, be serenaded by peeps and croaks. It's therapy.

Bekah asks to join me. She's generally a companionable little thing, so we set off together. We chat quietly, idly, then she begins to worry about the state of her face. She's thirteen, and her complexion is becoming a focus of concern. There are tears in her eyes. It's things like this that confirm the solidly "child" status of a teen. The poor girl is in true distress. Nothing like having a child around to pull an adult's mind out of the grubby adult world and into the small concerns of daily life. One could argue the therapeutic value of this conversation, too.

And so I say, with loving affection.

"Sweetie, it's been a very difficult couple of days, and you know what? I simply cannot find it in my heart right now to care about pimples."

Good mothering involves giving your child the Larger Picture. We can call it Reality Therapy.

2007-05-16T03:17:00.000-04:00

We threw a surprise party for Daniel's eighteenth birthday last week.

Daniel is in the 'gifted' stream at his high school, as are his friends, with only one exception. When I was offered the option of having Daniel apply to gifted, I was only partially convinced of the merits of the programme, but decided he'd enjoy the extra intellectual stimulation. He's academically lazy (sigh), but he's very bright.

What I didn't understand at first was just how grouping these bright kids together would change the social dynamic of high school for him.

These kids? They are so accepting of so many idiosyncracies. They shriek and yell and indulge in brainless mayhem, as all teens do, but they also converse. They think, and, more important, they don't have to hide this from their friends.

Here are some snippets:

(No, I didn't stay and party with the children. I figure that puts me in one of two camps: the pathetic forty-something trying desperately to be cool and with it, or the parent who trusts her children so little she can't afford to leave them alone for a second. I was around for the first hour, while guests arrived and before Daniel showed up, and then for the last hour, to ensure they left on schedule. A reasonable compromise, I figure.)

So, the snippets:

One of the girls came wearing a tutu skirt and carrying a magic wand. No one gave it a second's thought. ("Julia's in drama. They all do stuff like that.")

Discussing a scene in the cafeteria earlier in the week:
"She just uses indignation to get her way."
"Yeah. Pre-emptive outrage."
"Well, more like proactive outrage, because she's manipulating the outcome by going all hysterical."

Twenty minutes of computer talk which went completely over my head. They weren't talking about computer games, but about motherboards and processors and various other inner workings of the machines. (Daniel's long-time friend who isn't in the programme sits on the end of the couch with his girlfriend. "Do you know what they're talking about?" she asks him. "Nah." he says with his easy-going grin. "You get used to it.")

"Have you finished your presentation for [science teacher]?"
"I thought I was done, but then I found out about some research they're doing at McGill that takes it in a whole new direction, and he's given me an extension so I can try to contact the research team."

"Ian! Hey, Ian, I didn't know you'd be coming!"
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Hey, man, you know you don't come to half these things."
"Nothing wrong with being anti-social."
"He's a misanthrope."
"Misanthropy rules, dude!"

[Catch this? Words of more than two syllables - and they ALL know what they mean.]

One girl, who's in a theatre troup that gives sex and sexuality presentations in junior and senior high schools, was telling the group how a certain principal had not allowed them to present part of their show. "It was 'too mature a subject' for his students."

"How old were the students?" I asked.
"Grade nine."
Someone else wanted to know which part had been prohibited. She suggested they guess.

"Abortion?"
nope.
"Homosexuality?"
nope
"Sexual assault?"
nope

Ummm... so what was it?

"Masturbation."

"WHAT?" One boy shouts out. "The one aspect of the whole presentation that they have the most experience with??"

General roar of laughter.

[So sensible. No tittering, no squeamishness, but not prurience, either. Such a great bunch.]

And the movie they chose to watch? Monty Python's Holy Grail. Heh. In other circles, they'd be the geeks and the outcasts. Here, 'geek' is normal -- "normal" is boring.

I love these kids.

2007-05-12T09:37:00.000-04:00

But I'm much, MUCH smarter...

Your Celebrity Boob Twin:

Jessica Simpson

Who's Your Celebrity Boob Twin?

2007-05-10T07:34:00.000-04:00

My first husband was a packrat. Stuff, stuff, stuff. He just liked owning stuff. I like my stuff, too, but I like it because it has some use, some emotional resonance, and/or some beauty. My stuff ia chosen carefully. If it doesn't meet those criteria, it doesn't get into the house. If it gets into the house, but hasn't any of those criteria six months later, it's out. I hate clutter. (Which is not to give you the impression that I live in a clutter-free home. But it is my Constant Goal.) He liked his stuff because... um... it Existed? Collected dust? Got underfoot? Owning things proved his significance?

I once suggested we get rid of five years worth of a photography magazine to which we no longer subscribed. Because he was no longer taking pictures. Though we still had the camera and all associated gear. In a box. Which was...he wasn't sure where.

I knew where it was. I did the housework. I was the one tripping over all his stuff in our two-bedroom apartment. A smallish two-bedroom apartment. The photography mags. were filling three good-sized (and outrageously heavy) boxes, and I wanted them OUT. Space and light. All my life I have craved space and light. As Anastasia Krupnik's mother says on the family's weekly cleaning day, "SURFACES! I want to see surfaces!"

I know exactly what she means.

NO, I could not throw them out! He NEEDED them. Not that he could remember the last time he'd needed them, nor what he might need them for. Not, for that matter, that he even knew where they were.

I knew that direct action would only serve to entrench him in that position. He'd probably start to read the damned things, just to spite me. I couldn't be direct, but I could be indirect. I could also be patient.

I moved those three heavy boxes to a less-obvious spot. Six months later, I moved them to an even less obvious one. Six months after that, I gave them to the library.

You're all waiting for me to say "The next day, he needed something from one of those boxes." Pfft! He never noticed.

But if he had, I had a strategy. I was going to wave my hand vaguely and say "they must be around somewhere". (Which, of course, they WERE. Not my job to tell him where.) And if he got persistent about it, I was going to get annoyed. "They're YOURS, not MINE, and..." - wait for it; I was very proud of this twist - "...if it were up to me, I'd have thrown them out years ago. YOU find them."

Not a word of a lie. Entirely factual. Very little actual truth in it, but utterly effective.

I am brilliant. Almost too bad I never had to use it...

2007-05-04T19:09:00.000-04:00

"Let's do something different tonight."

Matthew's smile is coaxing. Which is funny, really, since if there have been any spontaneity-predictability tussles in our relationship, he's been firmly at the 'predictable' end of the spectrum. But we do seem to have established some pretty predictable routines for our weekly date night.

Dinner, or, if money's tight, just drinks; or, if money's flush, dinner AND drinks, at one of two local pubs/restaurants. There are some variables, but, now that his question prods me to consider a bit, not many.

If we go to the pub (Patty's), we're likely just going for a pint (Kilkenny for me; a black and tan for him). If we go to the restaurant (Mexicali Rosa's), we're probably going to eat. If we're going to eat, I will have the Mexicali salad, the one with the chicken in the tortilla bowl, and, on a particularly flush night, one of their excellent lime slushy margaritas for dessert. He will have nachos with beef and either a tonic water or, in the summer, a Corona.

We chat as we walk over, we chat as we eat and/or drink, we chat as we walk home. It's very companionable, but, excluding the hot sauce on the nachos, notably lacking in spice and excitement.

"Different? Like, a different restaurant?"

"No. This is the last week for the Mueck exhibit at the National Gallery. I thought we might do that."

Ooo. That is different. There is one Mueck piece in the gallery's permanent collection: an enormous baby head, so large it would fill my entire (admittedly small) living room. I find it a little unsettling, frankly, but it's interesting. The figure on all the posters you see everywhere throughout town show the seated nude you saw in the link. (Because you followed that link, right?) Thus, this exhibit is known locally as "the giant naked fat man exhibit". And what we all want to know is "and are his naughty bits equally huge?"

I suspect the answer to this could be even more unsettling than the giant baby head, but still - when one gets a chance to peek under the fig leaf...

We arrange that I will bus and he will bike over after work. Whoever gets there first will buy the tickets and wait for the other guy.

I get there first. Whereas normally I've been able to walk straight in, this evening there is a line extending 20 metres out the front door. Hmmm... Once in the line, I'm relieved to see that it's moving at a pretty efficient clip. It's only three or four minutes before I'm through the doors. But instead of an airy lobby with four cheerful bilingual gallery employees manning their respective lines at the ticket desk on the other side of the lobby, I see a mass of people.

A seething mass of people, an immensely long snake of people, one hairpin bend after another, filling the entire lobby area. It's unfortunate that claustrophobic me is the first to arrive, but the lovely glass walls and the steady forward motion of the line keeps panic at bay. I call Matthew and apprise him of the situation.

"Well, it's your call. I'm at the bike racks outside. Shall I lock the bike, or do you want to come out and meet me?"

I hesitate. I look to my right: there are six employees at the desk, and the line continues to hum right along. Maaaybeee... I look to my left: the long, wide, gracious ramp that slopes up to the rotunda and the galleries beyond is completely filled with people. Completely. Eight, ten, twelve abreast, all the way up the very long - lordy, how long is that thing? 100 metres? 200? - ramp. Even if we do get to the exhibit before midnight, there will be no pausing, no time to observe, consider and look some more. No obvious gawping at enormous manliness.

"I'm coming out."

"That's fine." Matthew is a flexible man. "We're in The Market. There's all manner of stuff to do here."

"Well, I'm hungry. I didn't have time for dinner, so I'll need to eat. What do you fancy?"

"How about nachos?"

Nachos. When we get to the Mexican restaurant I had in mind - nice, but a wee bit pricey for impecunious we - there, up the street is another restaurant, also Mexican, but cheaper. It wasn't there last time we were in The Market. Cool!

And when we get there, I have the Mexicali salad with a lime slushy margarita, and he has nachos and a tonic water.

And it was lovely.

2007-04-16T09:42:00.000-04:00

There is a curtain in my mind. It didn't used to be there. For years, I was curtain-free, but of latter years, the curtain has become more and more an unwelcome reality in my life.

When the curtain is lowered, all experience is muted; I trudge through a viscous slough all day long. Activities as simple as making a soup-and-sandwich meal are arduous

Other days, miraculously, it lifts, and I have energy, enthusiasm. Tasks are easy. Laughter comes readily. I flow through my day on a wave of eager expectation.

When the curtain is lowered, I often don't notice initially. Some days, I don't really notice until it lifts, and I feel the difference between the effort everything took the day before. A matter of hours can clear the fog. It's quite striking.

It's largely hormonal. A quick glance at the calendar suffices to explain most of the murkiness.

Any wonder I'm looking forward to menopause?

2007-04-09T07:48:00.000-04:00

I do not understand my husband's ex.

She's ultra-religious. To church twice on a Sunday, and in various church groups through the week. Most of her friends are church folk. Now, no faith-bashing, Christian-mocking here. I consider myself a Christian. I was even 'born again' as a teenager, though my beliefs have changed a helluva lot since then.

The ex-wife is what Andrew Sullivan terms a 'Christianist'. She doesn't have much in the way of a genuine, vibrant, giving faith; she seems to have no Christian principles at all, certainly not in her dealing with people she doesn't like. (I am counted among that number.)

What she does have are a lot of Rules. (Rules which only really count when someone whose opinion she values is watching, mind you. Which does not include her ex, and certainly not me. However, it seems not to God either, who, one would think, is always watching...)

So. The Rules say, "No sex before marriage."

Which had been no problem for the eight or nine or so years following her divorce, because there were no takers for Her Bitchiness. Meantime, her ex (my sweetie) and I were shacked up without the blessings of Holy Matrimony. The self-righteousness that came our way via the children and various comments and emails for the first year or so were sickening in their moral superiority.

And then - wonder of wonders! - she found herself a boyfriend.

After two or three years of steady dating, they are still not having sex! We know, because the children assure us of this fact. Their mother has told them so. They are not having sex. Even when they go away for weekends together. Even though they spent an entire week at his cottage last summer. Imagine the self-control! Even though mom's boyfriend not a Christianist, even though they each have their own home, even though they have every other weekend child-free -- the relationship is platonic.

We don't argue, obviously. One doesn't undermine a parent to the children, and there'd be no point in it, anyway. They wouldn't believe us.

However, the mother does believe that sex before marriage is wrong. (Which justifies lying about it to one's children, because of course, lying isn't a sin...)

So, when her children get to be sexually mature, ready for dating, she of course impresses upon them the importance of modesty, caution, self-restraint.

Well, no. Those are Principles, and this is the Rule Lady.

I must explain for those who've just popped in for this one post. I am not opposed to adolescent, pre-marital sex, providing it's respectful, loving, and they take appropriate precautions. It makes me a bit nervous, of course, because teens are young and make stupid mistakes. But I don't think it's a sin. I don't think it's a moral evil. It's just sex.

So, the Rule Lady tells her kids:

1. Pre-marital sex is wrong.
2. Don't ever come home telling me you're pregnant, or the girlfriend is.

That's about it. Useful guidance for a teen who's sure he/she has met the love of their life, but is under legal marrying age, don't you think?

I understand all that, though. Despite the hypcrisy of her position, it's consistent with a life lived guided by Rules and other's opinions rather than by principles and internal integrity. I've seen lots and lots of people like her.

But here's the part I don't understand.

Her just-turned-seventeen-year-old daughter has a boyfriend. They've been going out three weeks or so. He's nineteen, a university student. With his own apartment. When she was out with him earlier this weekend, she phoned an hour after she was expected home, asking if she could spend the night. We said no.

(We refused because:
- we had hardly seen her all weekend, and a sleepover means we wouldn't see her till early afternoon the next day.
- we have not had a serious sex talk with her, and have no idea where she is on the subject.)

We've talked about sex and birth control with all our teens, of course, his and mine, but it hasn't gotten personal with this one yet. It's all been theoretical information, and she's poo-pooh'ed the possibility. Her expressed intention was to "save it for marriage". (Just like her mother!!!) Naive girls who think they "aren't that kind" are thus unprepared for the eventuality are the ones who end up pregnant. Duh. So, before she's allowed an overnight at the boyfriend's, we need to know she's prepared for the eventuality.

In the ensuing conversation, we discovered:

1. The girl has no curfew on weekends at mom's house. (We're not stupid; we double-checked this claim with the girl's mother.) The girl has NO curfew.

2. The girl has already spent at least one night at the boyfriend's house during a weekend with her mother. (We double-checked this one, too.) She has indeed spent an entire night with him.

So, we have a mother who believes pre-marital sex is wrong, who would offer no support if a pregnancy occured, who has not provided sex education, but who allows her teenage daughter to spend the night at her boyfriend.

What the HELL is she thinking?

2007-04-04T11:48:00.000-04:00

Last summer, Daniel had a bit of a personal crisis. Though I got the bare bones of it, he didn't want to talk about it with His Mother. Could he please go see Dr. D, the psychologist his older sister had seen for a few months after the separation? (Who his sister still chats with once in a while.)

The sessions cost $155 an hour. This is not small change for me. However, my children's well-being... And maybe the boy will learn some useful emotional and life skills.

After a couple of months, I asked how it was going. The crisis was over. $155 every week...

Well, he said, I like talking to her. It's nice.

("It's nice?" Um, no. NOT worth $155/week.) Okay, son. Can you give me some idea what you're talking about?

Well, mostly about communication.

COMMUNICATION!!!!! My son was discussing COMMUNICATION! My son, my cheerful, easy-going, largely cooperative son, who can and will talk your ear off about a quirky cartoon or a computer game, becomes completely mute when conversation threatens to become personal. My boy is getting an hour a week's tutorial in COMMUNICATING??

Worth every penny. Every single penny. Worth it even more when, by dint of a doctor's prescription for psychotherapy, our insurance started paying the lion's share.

However, I'm still forking out a chunk of money every month. Six months now. Time to check in with the boy.

Me: How are your sessions with Dr. D going?
Daniel: Fiiine. (Tones of mild suspicion.)
Me: Are you enjoying them?
Daniel: Yes. (Suspicion rising.)
Me: Are you getting anything out of them?
Daniel: Yeees. (Hint of defensive, self-protective edge to the voice.)

Longish pause. Will he divulge?
Pause continues. Apparently not.

Me: So, what do you think you’re getting out of them?
Pause.
Daniel: Well, that’s hard to say, really.

Ah, yes. Money well spent, wouldn't you say?