The Potholes of Memory Lane

After months of struggling over snowbanks and slipping on ice patches, it's finally spring! I just love this time of year. Everything suddenly takes on a new brightness. The flowers are starting to sprout, the trees are beginning to bud and the air smells fresh and clean.

Everytime we reach this point in the year, a sense memory is triggered for me. I am catapulted back in time to my early adolescent days. Don't ask me why. Maybe it's because spring always makes one feel younger and this was the jumping off point for youth. Or maybe it's because those were the first years that I distinctly remember actually acknowledging the spring air and equating it with feelings of hope.

As I was driving around today, with the radio blaring and my windows wide open (yeah, I probably looked like some old rocker of a hound), I suddenly thought of my first kiss. It happened at the beginning of spring at my first real "cool kids" party, the year I turned thirteen. I attended wearing an awful pink wool sweater ... I still shudder in embarassment over my ensemble. Is it weird that I still remember all the details?

It was a pretty straightforward chaste kiss, albeit on the lips, by one of the coolest, cutest guy at the big local high school. To him, it meant nothing. In fact, days later when I called him on the phone (after finagling his number from a mutual friend), he hadn't the foggiest who I even was. (He was a total player, even at fourteen). To me, it opened up a whole can of worms. He didn't just bestow a kiss upon my lips, he opened up a whole new range of possibilities to me that I'd never even considered. Thus began my whole journey into a world known as "rebellion" (also obsessive puppy love, as I carried a torch for this guy for about three or four years).

Now, adolescent rebellion is a distasteful subject to any parent, but to an Asian one, it is considered the root of all evil and must be quashed immediately. The very shameful thought of enduring even a single day with a rebellious teenager is enough to drive any respectable Asian to commit hari kiri on their front lawn. So naturally, my foray into that emotional jungle caused a huge chain reaction on the home front.

In any event, I came through it alive and very much kicking, although not without many great struggles and battles fought. Remember Tom Stoppard's play (and subsequent brilliantly translated film) "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead"? The final scene has the title characters hanging from the gallows with their last words being "There must have been a point ..."

I think April 11th, 1981 was my point. I can't help but wonder what would have happened if I hadn't been the lucky recipient of that kiss. Would I have taken the roads that eventually led me to where I am today? Or would I instead have become the Asian parent's wet dream of a child?

Whatever the answer is, all I can say is this:

Wherever you may now be, Michael Hawthorne, thank you for having felt enough pity (or had enough alcohol in your system) to initiate and introduce a scrawny, underdeveloped, geeky and socially inept girl into the rites of normalcy and adolescence (two words that should probably never be spoken in the same breath).

To Be Buff or Not To Be Buff ...

I am such a procrastinator. That, and a total lazy ass.

I woke up this morning and thought that after my early meeting, I would head over to the gym. (I was on a roll about a month ago, going to the gym every day, until I got hit with some kind of virus and that put a screeching halt to my workouts. Have been resolving ever since I recovered to get back into the whole routine). Put in a call to my soul sister to see if she wanted to join me for a workout. Unfortunately, she declined with the excuse that she had some work to do, followed by her piano lesson.

Dropped the kids off at school and headed over to my meeting. When that was done, got in the car and waffled for a brief minute before turning my car towards the gym. The thought was that even though I didn't want to go, I had to force myself and my body would then crave the exercise tomorrow, like some kind of heroin addict. And ta dah! Before you knew it, I'd be hitting the gym regularly and would be a hard body in no time.

Moments after setting the wheels in motion (i.e. driving in the general direction of the gym), I realised I had to go to the washroom. Big decision. Should I go home and use the facilities (which was closer), or wait and get to the gym? Even then, I knew I was searching for excuses. Put in a call to a friend of mine to get moral support and encouragement from him. He of course, told me that I should deep six the idea of sneaking home for a catnap, and proceed directly to the gym.

Was somewhat disappointed because what I really wanted was for him to somehow psychically tap into and sanction my secret desire of going home, parking myself in front of the telly so I could watch the first season of The O.C. on DVD whilst eating Ruffle potato chips. Somehow, he just didn't get that. Of course, I should add, that he is on the same workout schedule as I am (once every couple of months, and twice during an election month), and is secretly hoping that I will become some workout crazed fiend and then drag his sorry ass to the gym with me. Clearly, he has an agenda of his own.

Once I realised this, I pulled a U-turn and headed home, all the while telling myself that I had plenty of time before having to pick up my kids from school, and that I could still work in a trip to the gym later this afternoon. I could have my catnap and work out. In fact, it might be good for me to rest up before such a difficult and rigorous round of exercise.

Well, as some of you fellow procrastinators might have guessed ... inertia rules. Once ensconced within the comfortable confines of my own home, the thought of going to a gym has all but vanished from my mind. Right now, I'm gazing longingly at my DVD player (which incidentally, has The O.C. tape in there cued up and ready to go), all the while chastising myself for even contemplating such thoughts.

I'm avoiding the mirrors, of course, because every time I pass them, they bring home the frightening reality that I am getting my mother's body.

Easter and Why It Isn't All About Pain and Suffering ... or Chocolate Either

Spent all day and most of the night yesterday at my mother-in-law's place in St. Catharines. For those of you who are all too familiar with my MIL during her extended winter visits, you might choose to dispute the title of this entry.

I have to admit, I spent the days preceding my visit gritting my teeth, and feeling generally irritated. The thought of getting my children ready, packing up the car and driving for a prolonged period of time only to arrive to my nervous Nelly of a mother-in-law really didn't thrill me. There's always so much stress and pressure involved in these visits because my mother-in-law wants everything to be perfect. This means that all the family members must be loving and wonderful with each other at all times (you'd think she'd have learned after all these years).

The night before D-Day, my MIL phones, wanting to know if we'd been out of town because she hadn't talked to us for several days, and "goodness, I would have thought you'd have called me at least". Then follows the whole Q and A on what our ETA the following day will be, and "why can't you just wake up and come here right away so we can have a proper visit?" Now, my mother-in-law has this special talent of being able to have a conversation all by herself. You are never a participant, just a listener. Seriously she doesn't take a breath so you never get an opportune moment to interject and give your opinion on the matter at hand. So I had to listen to her private debate regarding a batch of cabbage rolls. It went something like this:

"Well, I made cabbage rolls, but I froze them. I'm not going to cook them and put them out tomorrow 'cos we got turkey, ham, sausage ... oh, and for vegetables, I'm just going to make corn for the children and some turnips. Is that okay? I hope it's okay. Because, if it's not, I don't know what I'm going to make on top of that, so it has to be okay. Well, I know R. likes cabbage rolls, and he wasn't too happy at Christmas when I didn't make them, so maybe I should cook them up. No, I don't think I will because then they will get all eaten up, and I made them for you guys. Well, maybe I should cook them up because he likes to have them with the sausage and eggs. But then, I don't know if I made enough for everybody. Yeah, so maybe I'll make them. No, actually I won't. You guys don't mind if I don't, do ya? No maybe I'd better. Oh, I don't know. But don't you think ham and turkey is enough? I mean, there's going to be stuffing and mashed potatoes and salad, too. That's a lot of food, don't you think? I don't know. I guess I won't make them after all. Do ya think R. will be really upset? But then I also made those noodles with applesauce that the kids like. Actually, it's J. that likes those noodles, so maybe I should make the cabbage rolls for R. But that's so much food. No, I don't think I will after all. So, what time did you guys say you're coming?"

It shouldn't surprise you that by the time I hung up the phone, I was exhausted and really irritable. And when I get this irritable, it makes me immature. I started fantasizing about showing up really late the next day, eating like a pig, letting my kids trash the place, and then leaving immediately thereafter.

Instead, we got there before my brother-in-law and his family arrived, I helped cook and serve up the food and then cleaned up after the fact, and we did have a really nice little visit, as my MIL likes to say. In fact, there were a few moments when we actually had some bonding time, and my MIL really made an effort to acknowledge how much she appreciated me.

During the car ride home, I realised that the reason I often get so irritable when we go to my MIL's (apart from the fact that she can singlehandedly drive a saint to drink) had more to do with the fact that I envy R. for his family. No matter what he's done or been, they look forward to seeing him and welcome him with open arms. My mother-in-law probably lay awake the night before worrying about her decision to omit cabbage rolls from the menu and fretting about Richard's reaction thereto. Sure, she drove me crazy in the process, and there were moments on Sunday when I had to tell her to just serve the food and "shut up about the cabbage rolls, already" (she took this all in stride) but it is pretty touching that she cares so much about making things perfect for us all (as if you can please a crowd of twenty people simultaenously).

I came away from my Easter weekend feeling grateful that I am part of a family that is so supportive and loving, even when they are being a downright pain in the ass. Oh, I also came away about five pounds heavier because my MIL forced me to eat about five servings of each of her delectable desserts and then brought out chocolate, knowing full well that I have zero willpower when sweets are dangled before me.

Of course, this doesn't mean that the next time I am due for an invasion by my MIL, I won't be dreading it. Those warm and fuzzy feelings I experienced on Sunday could well have been induced by chocolate. But, I will bear in mind, at some level, that I am lucky to have an extended family that will always be there for me and my kids should we need them (something along the lines of Toula's epiphany from my Big Fat Greek Wedding).

A Woman's Prerogative

I am obsessed with the human form. More particularly, I am obsessed with the human female form.

For the record, I am not a lesbian (not that there's anything wrong with it), but I do enjoy beauty, and I find women more particularly alluring, at least physically (if not on all levels) than I do men.

I used to sneak peeks at attractive women in public places. Now I openly stare and admire, and where applicable, give praise where praise is due. If I were male and a couple of decades older, I'd probably be dubbed an ogler or a D.O.M.

I suppose it's a case of envy. I spent most of my prepubscent and adolescent years being unattractive, geeky and awkward (not to mention a carpenter's wet dream). The only thing I had going for me was that I never suffered from acne. I think I would have gladly accepted a few zits for a few curves. When boys called me, it wasn't to ask me out on a date, but to seek out math help. I truly lived on the sidelines.

Remember the Judy Blume book "Dear God, It's Me Margaret"? To some extent, that was me. The underdeveloped, conflicted and confused girl who longed for and competed with her friends for early womanhood. Yeah, so after reading that, I think I spent the better part of a few years on my knees, praying to God to let me develop breasts. Must have prayed really hard (or eaten lots of hormone infused chicken) because I started growing at an alarming rate. Eventually, I started praying to God to stop the insanity.

Be careful what you wish for. During university, I think I became enormously popular not because of my sparkling wit, but chiefly because I had a "great pair of acting abilities" (verbatim according to one of my residence mates). I actually don't think they were that fabulous, but they were somewhat on the larger side, especially for an Asian (as was always pointed out to me). I'm surprised anyone even knew I was Asian actually, because most of the time guys talked to my chest.

Over the years, my entire body has undergone all sorts of changes, some positive, and some just ... well ... different. During the time when I worked out heavily, the transformation was quite pleasing. Overall though, after three rounds of pregnancy, childbirth and many years of breastfeeding, I would have to say that my body is probably confused.

I try not to be vain, because as was pointed out to me once long ago, a woman's body is amazing for being able to carry and nourish our children, and that in and of itself is miraculous and therefore, beautiful. Yeah, okay ... so I'm clearly not buying it. I figured that was code for "you're fat and out of shape, so here's the consolation prize".

Now that I'm in my late thirties, something has gone horribly awry with my body. I'm finding that I suddenly have extra padding in places I'd sooner not. It's somewhat distressing. Hence, my current obsession with the female form.

One of these days, I might actually get motivated enough to get off my ass and exercise instead of watching those beautiful women who so obviously work for what they flaunt. Until then, I'll just sit around and eat a few chocolates while bemoaning the unfairness of my love handles.

The Meaning of Blog

I've been asked by a number of people whom I e-mailed to announce my arrival upon the blog scene, exactly what a blog is. I'm not sure I even know the answer. (Care to step in, Snooze?) I don't even know if there is a correct protocol when writing up blog entries, and if so, whether or not I'm in code violation. (Mine seem to be lengthier than those I've seen, but I guess I'm just a long-winded person).

My best guess was that a blog was sort of an online journal, a place to write down anything and everything, somewhere friends and family could visit so as to feel somehow connected. It's a weird thing the internet though ... we all manage to stay "connected" in a very disassociative way. Talk about erecting (fire)walls.

It's ironic because, for years, I kept a paper journal. It all started when I was a gangly, awkward and bespectacled pre-teen in grade 7. My homeroom and English teacher at the time (the wonderful and inspiring Mrs. Vineberg -- we all should have teachers like that at some point in our lives) made us begin a journal. Each day during class, we were given about ten minutes to scribble in an entry. At first, we all did so reluctantly. She never read our journals, but when it came time to marking us, she would flip through it quickly to make sure we'd actually written something. Being a keener (I had a 99% and 100% for two of my English courses), I would stress out at times when I knew she would be checking my journal, and I would fill it in with nonsense just so that it would look as though I'd done the proper assignment. As the year progressed, I started actually writing in it. I think this was a common experience, because other kids soon began getting very protective over their journals.

After the academic year ended, I kept up with my journal, writing in it fairly often. I found myself turning to it when I needed to work out emotional issues and couldn't confide in others. I poured out my heart and soul into it. (In more recent years, I reread some of the journals I'd kept during my high school years. They were incredibly difficult to get through, not just due to my illegible handwriting, but because it was evident, when reading some of the entries, that I'd been in a lot of pain at the time. I'd felt incredibly depressed and alone for several years).

There were a few instances during my adolescence when I found out that my privacy had been violated by both my mother and my brother. My mother, read my journals on a regular basis, to make sure that I wasn't indulging in a life filled with carefree rampant sex and/or recreational drugs. My brother, read it out of curiosity because my mom had made a huge federal case out of a few things she'd discovered during her trespassing expeditions (not rampant sex or drugs though -- that came later).

Many years later, when I was in university and on the verge of breaking up with what I thought then was the love of my life, he confessed that he'd gone into my desk and read my journals. I guess it was some kind of desperate act in a long line of last ditch efforts to prevent our final breakup.

In all instances, I felt as though I'd been raped, and that a part of me had been irretrievably and irrevocably stolen. My journals contained my innermost thoughts and emotions. I'd never written with the intention of it being available for others' pleasure. Consequently, there was absolutely no censorship on any level contained within the pages.

I stopped writing in a paper journal many years ago. I don't know exactly why. Maybe at some level I was worried that it would fall into the wrong hands? (A friend told me recently that after completing each journal, he destroys it before moving onto the next. I commented that that somehow seemed sacrilegious, but I suppose it depends upon the reason for which one writes).

When I was pregnant with my eldest child, I got it into my head that it would be a nice idea to have a journal for my baby. Something in which I could write about my experiences as a mom and then later pass onto my child once he or she reached adulthood. I now have three journals, one for each child, in which I write so seldom that they may never reach completion. I've somehow felt for years as though I've been suffering from writer's block. (Can you call it writer's block if you're not truly a writer?)

It's ironic that I now keep a journal of sorts, which is accessible to the world at large, so that each entry can be read, judged and commented upon. I have to wonder what this signals. Am I an exhibitionist at heart? Or have I moved on and reached some kind of maturity?

Theory of Relatively Boring

I love March Break. Not only does it often signal the beginning of spring and hopefully, spring weather, but it gives me a much needed respite from the dreariness of my activities.

It's funny how once you have kids, you start marking your time in a much different way. I honestly can't quite remember life before I had my brood. How scary is that?

I remember when I first had my eldest son, J. He was a colicky baby, although at the time, I thought all babies were like that, despite what their mothers were telling me. (I was a bit psychotic at the time. In retrospect, I realise that I suffered from postpartum depression on a much more serious level than I had thought at the time). In any event, because J's feet never touched the ground for the first six months of his life, I consequently would count down each minute of my day until his scheduled sleeping times. Within moments of waking up in the morning, the mantra would begin -- "only three more hours until he goes down for his morning nap" -- and it would go from there. I literally marked my day by morning and afternoon naptimes and the evening bedtime. Everything else in between was pretty much a blur.

As my kids got older, I started counting days in terms of accomplishments. Summer would come when my daughter was ready to walk, or winter would be over when my youngest son was ready to start eating solids, etc. I'm amazed that people managed to put up with me. What vomitous company I must have been!

Not, of course, that I'm much better company now, since clearly, I mark my time through breaks in routine. Christmas and summer holidays, March Break, Easter (damn the school board for combining those two this year), etc.

Soon, I'll be looking at when my kids graduate from university (i.e. when I might expect to be debt free) or when they will get married and have their own kids. And then of course, I can begin the whole process over again, only this time from the comforts of the nursing home, at which point hopefully I will still be in possession of my mental faculties.

Such is my life ...

Memories of U.C.

Yesterday, I was invited to two little gatherings, both hosted by university friends.

I have kept in touch with only four friends from university, three of whom I lived in residence with -- which means that we all saw each other in various compromising states of inebriation and undress.

The first party was held by a friend of mine whom I'd met within hours of registering for Frosh Week. Our relationship has had its ups and downs (there were a couple of years during our undergrad career in which our communication consisted of him saying "hello" and me responding with "fuck off") but we've managed to stay good friends throughout the years. It's hard to believe that we've known each other for almost eighteen years -- which comprises half of our lives and our entire adulthood. During the party, it struck me that we should be applauded for maintaining a friendship during years in which we've changed so much. On the surface, perhaps it looks as though we've done the same things; we've both gotten married and had three kids each, purchased homes, cars, etc., but beyond the banal commonality of our lives, our experiences and ultimate journeys have been so vastly different from each other's. Fortunately, we've both learned to value and embrace the relationships that we have. Such is the price for old age and the aches and pains and grey hairs that accompany it.

The second party I attended was held by my dear friend, Snooze. Ostensibly, the invitation read that it was to be a tea party, but when I arrived, everyone was bearing champagne flutes or wine glasses, with no tea in evidence. (My thinking was that it was like the code used in some restaurants in China Town -- you go in after hours and ask for "cold tea" and they bring you a teapot full of beer). I knew not a single person at Snooze's party and they were all such a tight group with each other. It brought home the fact that Snooze and I lead such parallel existences in some ways, and that even though we talk occasionally and see each other even less occasionally, we really don't know that much about each other.

It begs the question of what makes a friendship truly a strong and lasting one. In all four cases of my university friends, I see them on a sporadic and occasional basis, yet I count them as good friends. Am I wrong to do so?

When I was much younger, I used to be like some kind of jealous, insecure wife; my friends needed to call me and see me on a very regular basis, or else I would start accusing them of being undevoted to our relationship. Now that I'm older, lazier and, hopefully, wiser (and very definitely busier), I've just come to appreciate the times that my friends do pick up the phone and call me, or take a moment from their day to meet me for coffee/tea/lunch/dinner/drinks. I count myself really lucky that I have such a wonderful circle of supportive friends which, incredibly enough, continues to grow.

Last year while at Starbucks with my daughter, I met a woman with a baby. Well, okay ... I was literally dragged there by my daughter J. who has a thing for babies of the female variety. She was too shy to go and gaze at the baby on her own, so she made me go with her. Bless her little heart though because, while I huffed and puffed at the time, I ended up meeting someone who is my soul sister. We connected immediately and were both somewhat taken aback by it, I think. You hear stories, often, of two people who see each other across a crowded room, and just know that they are meant for one another. Well, this is what happened to my "sister" and I, but on a friendship level. The interesting thing is that we'd been circling each other for some time. We had actually known each other in university (lived in the same residence) although we'd never exchanged a single word during that time. We have lived a stone's throw away from each other for the past five years, and have been avid patrons of the same hair salon for years. We were clearly meant at some point to meet, but only when we were truly ready and able to appreciate what the other represented. Had we initiated a friendship years ago in university, I'm quite convinced that we would not now be friends.

It's comforting to know that I have friends whom I can call upon after a lengthy passage of time, and that we can chat as though we had never left off.

He was my North, my South, my East and West ...

I am in mourning. My faithful, dependable companion with whom I've spent the last three years, departed for parts unknown somewhere between Friday afternoon and Saturday morning. I'm completely lost and bereft. I have no idea whether I am coming or going. But the world still continues to spin.

We were inseparable. Very rarely was I seen without my beloved. We spent hours together in bed at night, playing games and reviewing our day. I shall sorely miss those times.

The saddest part is that I bear the brunt of responsibility for the demise of my faithful friend. I held S.C., or Sony Clie, as was his full name, in my hands, I believe on Saturday morning, when I consulted him as to the time of my son's hockey game. S.C., reliable as ever, informed me in short order as to the details of my day. After that, I draw a complete blank. I have no recollection if I returned S.C. to his usual place of rest (my purse) or if in my haste, I put him somewhere else. In any event, he does not emerge from his hiding place when I call which leads me to suspect he met with a terrible fate.

For those cynics out there who think I cherished S.C. only for what he could do for me, I must add that I have reluctantly brought into my life a Zire which performs the same functions as did S.C. and I still feel as though a large chunk of me is missing.

I am definitely in mourning.

In lieu of flowers, please take a moment to share a memory which you may have of S.C.

Thank you.

Caveat Emptor

Spent the better part of yesterday at an institution clearly concocted by some 21st century brainiac -- Costco's. For those of you who have never ventured into the hallowed halls of hell, allow me to introduce you to the whole concept of buying crap you don't necessarily need, and in massive quantities, no less.

And because I was raised to go the extra mile, I actually joined full force and am an Executive Member. Apparently, this means that I am way more gullible than the average Joe Schmuck and, therefore, get a special card announcing my stupidity to the world at large.

I have yet to pay a visit to any of these discount club shopping places without spending at least $500. The irony is that I seldom get what I came for, but I certainly exit with a whole lot more than I originally bargained for. (Sounds like a few dates I've been on).

An expedition to Costco's reminds me of a university pub crawl. You go into the whole night with a clear head, and emerge with only vague and hazy recollections of what happened. Okay, so I've actually only ever been on one bona fide pub crawl during Frosh Week at U of T, but that was enough. What I remembered from that night was virtually nothing -- a couple of days later, while strolling across the quad to residence, I saw someone that I thought I should know, but couldn't remember for certain. Turned out I'd talked his ear off for what probably seemed like an eternity to him. I haven't the faintest idea what I said to him that night, but he spent the rest of our undergrad career (four long years) giving me the Cheshire Cat grin every time we ran into each other, so I gather I must have made a complete ass of myself that night.

Which brings me to the phenomena of Costco's. Its irresistibility factor must have something to do with its exclusivity: you have to be a member to actually even enter into the damn place. So of course, you just have to join, right? Remember when your mom would say "You absolutely can't eat your vegetables. I won't allow it", so naturally, you proceed to show her she isn't the boss of you and hoover the entire lima bean, turnip and brussel sprout concoction. Yep, you're never too old for a good dose of reverse psychology.

I just don't get it. First of all, shopping is my least favourite activity, and second, if I were to take up shopping as a hobby, it certainly wouldn't be at Costco's. I mean, c'mon ... I practically got into a fist fight with some elderly lady over empty cardboard boxes in which to put my purchases. Exactly how glamourous and desirable an experience is that? (Oh did I neglect to mention that even Executive Members don't get their many purchases bagged?) So why did I feel compelled to join up? Why did I wind up leaving many hundreds of dollars poorer, toting boxes of stuff that I thought were so fabulous, which I cannot even now itemize? Whoever is on the Costco's marketing/hypnosis team should be paid big bucks, because it sure is effective!

I'm almost too embarassed to admit that I am already planning my next expedition there. So if anyone comes calling for me, let them know that I am at the club.

The Day of Rest a.k.a. Attack of Blogger Block

As predicted, my brief stint of blog writing has been felled by a nasty bug commonly known as Writer's Block. Timely though, since it is Sunday. Not sure if I'm suffering from the 24 hour variety, or if the virus is planning on setting up camp for a lengthier stint.

In the interim, may I take this moment to introduce everyone to the feature known as "Posting Comments". For those of you who are unfamiliar with it, please take note of the hyperlink below each blog posting entitled "Comments". (Take further note that it is preceded by the number zero). This is so that those few of you who visit my site can enter in any comments, thoughts, etc. in an effort to create an interesting discussion. Not that I don't appreciate the flooding of my inbox but ... if I'm going to put myself out there for all to read, maybe you could reciprocate in kind.

Let the discourse begin!

Ode to Daniel

Yesterday, I spent several sinfully enjoyable hours in the company of one of my most favourite men ... my hairstylist.

Up until several years ago, I was the salon whore. I hopped around from one stylist to another, pitting one salon off against the other, stringing each one along and making each think that he or she was the one. The end results were often hit and miss. More often than not, I got the generic cut, one that fifty percent of the female population might sport. Sure it might have been well done, but I never had anything that elicited the "wow" reaction.

Then quite by chance, I hopped right into the chair of my friend, Daniel. For some reasons, through all the years that I'd known him, I'd never actually sat in his chair even though I, more or less regularly, frequented his salon. (And to think, all it took was for him to drop his pants at a civilised wine tasting party to catch my attention and patronage).

So what can I say about Daniel? He's a true artist. An hour in his presence is magical. No more of the pret-a-porter approach that had been my past experience. He actually makes me more me. Truly, it's haut couture custom hair. Completely unique, designed wholly for and created especially for me, and me alone.

The whole Daniel hour transcends the simple superficiality of a new hairstyle ... somehow Daniel looks beyond the exterior of a person and highlights her essence. Of course, it's always wildly complimentary. In my case, he played around with my hair for a few minutes, then escorted me to the back of the salon so he could wash my hair, at which point, he announced that I was a goddess.

"Wowee," I thought to myself, "Isn't he just the most perceptive man that ever lived?"

(Well, okay, I have to confess, he'd probably been primed for this moment since after all, I'd sent him a little email introducing him to my blogger. But life as I've said before, is all about choices, and at this particular point in time, I chose to ignore reality and to revel in the shameless flattery).

When a woman acts against her better judgement, it's game over. Never mind the fact that maybe he says this to all of his clients, or that tomorrow, I might walk into a roomful of women sporting the same cut and colour as I have. The only thing I'm certain of is that Daniel is a magician extraordinaire. I entered Daniel's salon a mere mortal, but exited a Goddess.

I'm convinced that there is a greater likelihood of infidelity vis-a-vis Richard, than there is with regards to Daniel. My whoring days are clearly over.

Balancing Act

This morning I was stopped in the hallway of my kids' school by a mom with whom I have a friendly acquaintance. My good morning greeting was met with the increduluous question: "You have time for blogging?!"

I should elaborate further -- this is no ordinary mom. Indeed, she is the quintessential uber mom, the one who unknowingly kicks all the other moms' asses in the playground. Not only does she have four great kids (any one of whom I would gladly like to come back to life as because they are so unconditionally loved), but she is probably the single, most physically perfect specimen you might ever hope to meet. She is actually so gorgeous that you do a double take to make sure she's human, and here's the kicker, folks -- it's all natural. Add to that, that she is a multi-faceted, gregarious, intelligent person who is super organized, super involved in her kids' activities and always manages to keep her cool. (For those of you who have multiple kids, you have to realise how nearly impossible that last one is). Who else but super duper uber mom would actually cheerfully wake up at some ungodly hour on a regular basis so as to have the pleasure of freezing her butt off at the hockey rink?

Yeah, so to recap -- in a Shakespearan play, she would be cast as my foil. Unlike her, I struggle through each day, grumbling all the while; my house, car and life are in a perpetual state of chaos; my kids are probably steps away from ratting me out to Children's Aid, or at the very minimum, future candidates of long-term therapy for the many hours they've endured listening to me shriek at them like some kind of steroid charged lunatic; I devote more effort into trying to talk my children out of extra-curricular activities than I do escorting them there. My long range plan is to teach my kids' by counter example. "When you have your own family, just do the opposite of everything you grew up with".

My one comfort -- the only thing I have over uber mom is that I can find time to blog. Gee, what a surprise ... given that I don't do any of the other uber mom related activities.

What I've learned in my old age is that life is all about choices. (This is something that I have tried to pound into my kids' heads to no avail; my daughter is currently resisting learning this concept. When faced with choice A or B, she chooses C, which apparently is to flop face down onto the floor and imitate a rock).

Anyway, my point is that uber mom obviously chose to be the way she is (although she has no control over the disgustingly gorgeous and exceptionally, abnormally youthful exterior she projects on a daily basis) and I chose to be the uninvolved mom. I freely admit it. In fact, while I sit here composing this, my two older children are currently amusing themselves with a stapler and a pair of scissors. (I plan on intervening when there's the imminent threat of bloodshed).

My mother recently published a book entitled "Full-Time Mother". That's the only part I was able to read, as she wrote it in her mother tongue which unfortunately, is not one of the languages I am well versed in. From what I understand, it's a collection of personal essays somewhat along the style of a memoir. Apparently, a great number of the essays contained therein are about none other than yours truly. During the writing of said book, it became evident that my mom ran the full gamut of emotions; in the throes of incredibly cathartically induced guilt, she would phone me, quite out of the blue, full of apologies for not having spent significant time with my brother and I during our childhood. Invariably her monologue would be followed up with the defensive statement: "Well, back then, I didn't have a choice".

The most painful part of my life came long ago when I realised that in fact, we all have choices. Sure, more often than not, we are choosing between two less than desirable alternatives. (Hence, my daughter's innovative and brilliant move of opting for Plan C). But nevertheless, we still have a choice. You therefore own all of your mistakes.

When I chose to stay home following the birth of my first child, I realised that I was giving up a lot. Much of my identity was wrapped up in what I did and how successfully I did it. So I threw myself enthusiastically into newfound motherhood and embraced all the responsibilities and joys that accompanied it. As my brood grew, I started looking for other diversions. I guess, maybe I'm somewhat of a dilettante, because I felt I'd sort of reached the threshold of my abilities as a mother. Also, I think I'd shed some of my neurotic fear of what others might think of me.

The truth of the matter is: were I to choose the uber mom route, I still don't think I could pull it off with even a modicum of success.

So here I am ... electing to blog rather than to parent actively. I console myself with the lie that I'm teaching my children to be resourceful and independent, when the fact is that I just don't feel like playing right now. Maybe I should get a t-shirt made "Bug off ... I'm blogging"?

A Commoner By Any Other Name ...

Most of you are probably wondering about my blog title. I realise it sounds somewhat lofty and ambitious, but hey, I was always told by my mother to dream big and reach beyond even the stars. Sort of a perverse and somewhat sadistic recipe for disaster, I realise now in retrospect, because in nine instances out of ten, you are guaranteed to fall short of the mark.

The origin of my title finds its roots during my CEGEP days (those long lost halcyon days when you could go out clubbing and cram all in one night, and still look like a million bucks the next day when, hopefully, you passed your exam with flying colours). A friend, who shall remain nameless, (hint: once described himself as a cross between Dom Deluise and Michael J. Fox), during a wild card game -- well at least I'm assuming it was during a card game because that's how I spent the majority of my CEGEP days, when not cramming for exams or clubbing -- coined the term "Leather Goddess" in reference to me. Somehow, the name stuck and voila, a goddess (or, as he now likes to call me "Godd asse") was born. So okay, maybe it was something like an apprentice Goddess or a Goddess-in-waiting because truly, if I'd had to pick a Goddess to be, I wouldn't have picked a leather one. However, mortals can't be choosers ...

I'm still perplexed as to how Dom Fox came up with that name because the instances during which I've donned leather are far and few. In any event, within short order, the CEGEP crowd was paying homage to the Leather Goddess, and I settled quite nicely into my status, apprentice or otherwise.

As the years passed, there were very few people remaining in my life who remembered that I had once been a Goddess (guess my feet of clay gave it away). Certainly, none of the university profs who gave me shockingly low marks, realised nor cared that they were wrecking the Grade Point Average of a would-be deity.

Not very long ago, when signing up for a game site, I spontaneously typed in GoddessOfExotica as my username. Remember my earlier post entitled "The Morning After? Yup, so I lived to regret that one. Who knew the internet was rife with so many desperate and lonely heterosexual men and lesbian women? The brief shining moment of being referred to as "Goddess" by a seemingly adoring crowd was tarnished somewhat by the questions that often followed (Are you into golden showers? Do you want to come to Arkansas and have sex with me and a few of my incestuous brothers and sisters?)

It struck me then and there that maybe I was rolling a boulder uphill. Maybe Goddesses are born, and not made. And if made, certainly not self-made. I felt like the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz probably did, upon his discovery that that the Wizard was a complete sham, and the ensuing painful realisation that he wasn't ever going to get a real brain. I always thought he must have felt ripped off when the Wizard awarded him with the consolation prize -- a university diploma. As if a mere piece of paper could rival the very real attribute of intelligence! (This despite the fact that I proudly tout B.Sc. on my business card so people will think that I am smart).

I realise now that my quest for Goddess-hood was a misguided one. It's not enough to have people call you a Goddess if the reality suggests otherwise. And you haven't really obtained true Goddess status if you're a self-dubbed one.

As my profile suggests, I am developmentally retarded in some respects. It took me thirty-seven years to figure out something that most of the Western hemisphere (with the exception of Madonna/Esther) knew all along.

So now all I have to do is find out which powers-that-be are in charge of bestowing Goddesshood upon people, and I'm good to go. As my father used to say, some businesses are tough to break into, unless you have the right connections.

The Morning After

As with so many of my impulsive actions, I inevitably encounter the dreaded morning after. Hopefully most of you know what I'm talking about: you do something in the heat of the moment, convinced it's entirely the best thing you've ever done, then wake up the next day sane and sober and wonder to yourself what the hell it was you were thinking the previous night. Maybe you brought someone questionable home with you during an inebriated (read, judgement challenged) moment, or maybe you purchased something wildly extravagant with the monthly rent money. Regardless of the action, there is always that panic that sets in the next day within the first thirty seconds of waking.

I can't count the amount of times I've had this feeling, but I can remember some of the more key ones. Creating this blogger may well end up being lumped into that group.

Sometimes though, taking the risk and acting completely in the moment (i.e. wildly out of character) may have its benefits. The day after I met my husband, I woke up with that all too familiar "Oh my God ... what have I done feeling" in the pit of my stomach. No, it wasn't anything as sordid as you may think. Richard was the agent and managing partner of a rental unit. In typical R. fashion, it took us quite some time to get into the apartment (he chased me down the street twice) and by the time we'd burst through the front door, in my excitement at having found something clean and presentable, I heard myself making arrangements to rent the place.

The next morning, I woke up, looked around my apartment and found myself questioning why I was even moving in the first place since I loved where I was living. I spent the day full of anxiety and misgivings over my rash decision to move. When a more experienced, and somewhat callous, friend suggested that I simply call R. up, inform him that I'd made a grave error in judgment and then proceed in short order to place a stop pay on my deposit cheque, I balked in horror.

"But he was so kind and nice," I protested, "How can I possibly do that? No, no, I'll just move in. If I don't like it, I can always move again". (In retrospect, I can't believe that I was that stupid that I'd put myself out rather than just eat crow and call the man. I chalk it up to my overly authoritarian and terribly unforgiving background which didn't allow for second chances or mistakes).

The good news is that it all worked out in the end. I did move and the apartment was lovely and six months after that fact, R. and I had our first date, and the rest, as they say, is history. Thirteen years, three kids and a whacking big mortgage later, I am happily ensconced (or entrenched, depending upon my mood) in my present situation.

Don't get me wrong ... the positive experiences still haven't cured me of the recurring 'morning after' moments, following major decision making. I guess I'm just not far enough along on the therapy spectrum to be that neuroses free!!!

But until then, I'll keep blogging away.

Joining the Ranks or How Peer Pressure Doesn't Just End in High School

Okay ... so I've joined the elite ranks of the bloggers. I figure, as with so many things in my life, I may well be the loser amongst the group ... the try hard who never quite pulls it off. (Yes, I bought into my parents' sensible -- read too cheap and practical to understand -- advice that your non-designer/label whatevers look just like everyone else's authentic whatevers). So here I am, trying to keep up with the Jones'.

Actually, the real reason why I'm doing this is because my dear friend has been blogging for quite some time and I have been visiting her site like some kind of a voyeuristic stalker. Constantly reading the posted items and the ensuing comments. I feel as though I'm old chums with Clumber Boy and Epicurean et al. But when I felt compelled to add in my own comment today on a matter near and dear to my heart (sex), I found out that I couldn't just hang out on the fringes any longer. I had to create a whole blogger username and title. I was exhausted from just thinking about that! Just shows you that I have zero ability when it comes to be being wildly creative and interesting. I also have no writing ability whatsoever. Well, that's not strictly true. I'm a master at putting together bitchy but overly polite technical letters for arbitration committees and the like. My days slugging away at a law firm during fourth year university were definitely not a complete waste. Or at least this is what I try to believe since the alternative is that I sold out to a bunch of soul sucking pack of scummy lawyers. (Sorry ... was that last descriptive comment an overly redundant one?)

Anyway, I digress. I admit I had a choice. After having created my blogger identity, I could have posted my comment and then just walked away and exercised my option of visiting my friend's site from time to time and posting the occasional comment. I guess, the immature and underdeveloped part of me (i.e. the majority of my "me-ness") would rather play the part of hapless powerless victim, so as to save face when I inevitably encounter blogger block and churn out meaningless incoherent and badly written crap.


Because boys and girls, the real truth is that I haven't grown up in any sense of the word. I just really want to jump into the ongoing game and play with all the other kids!