Think Pink

I've been invited by some friends and clients to this charitable event tonight. I went a couple of years ago (as guests of the same friends/clients) and it was a hoot. Never seen so many drag queens and tuxedoed corporate types in the same room all at once.

I'm too pooped right now to get myself ready, so here I sit in my little pink undies debating what to wear. Any of my usual little black dresses simply will not do tonight. Since the event is to raise money for breast cancer research, I'm told that I should show up wearing something pink and fabulous. I own about three pink articles of clothing -- all t-shirts -- so I'm sort of screwed. I'm seriously considering throwing a trench coat on top of my pink unmentionables and calling it an ensemble.

Actually the last time I went to this event, I was strong armed by my friend into bidding on an item during the silent auction portion of the evening. It was a pink dress (the designer was there modelling one as well) which no one had placed a bid on. I got it at the bargain basement price of $85.00. Of course, there was a reason that no one had bid on it: it isn't something you can wear very often (if at all) or which can be worn by many people. I'm pretty sure I'm not among the few who can pull it off. So I've been staring at this slutty little pink number wondering how I can tone it down to an acceptable level. Unfortunately, my brain has still not caught up with my new gym work out schedule and I'm not coming up with any feasible solutions.

That trench coat is looking better by the minute.

From Flab to Fab

Tired, so tired today ... must get sleep ...

My body is in a state of shock, I think. I've gone back to the gym again and gone full tilt no less (never do anything half-assed is my motto). I have this love-hate relationship with the gym. Actually, with exercise in general, I think. Many moons ago when I used to be on the school track and field team and ran long distances every day, I swore I actually hated running. And yet, I would find myself itching to go for that long run at the end of the day. Bizarre.

Now that I don't run every day, or work out obsessively like I used to, I have those rare days when my body will remember what it used to feel like to be in good shape, and will then crave some form of exercise (sex and lifting the arm for drinking or eating don't count). In response, I decided to try and go back to a workout schedule that may fit into my life. After one week of this, my body is utterly confused. My brain is struggling to keep up with the body during waking hours (I'm having trouble stringing coherent thoughts together). My muscles have called an emergency meeting to decide whether their status is as a working out group or a couch potato group. Hopefully, they'll keep me posted as to their decision. In the meantime, I'm going to collapse on the couch briefly.

Move Over Dr. Atkins ...

I just read an article in the newspaper about the latest diet craze. No, it's not Atkins, The Zone or South Beach. People have suddenly discovered that the best way to lose weight is to cut down on unhealthy junk food while increasing their intake of fruits, vegetables and whole grains as well as adding exercise to their weekly routine. Wow, quelle discovery! As my kids would say ... duh!

According to the article, health practitioners are confident that this latest craze might catch on. Yes, so people can only put into practice what they've known all along once it becomes fashionable?

Maybe I'm being overly bitchy and insensitive. I've been blessed with a great metabolism and have been thin to average build all my life. Even though I now bemoan the fact that I need to lose a few pounds and get into shape, I realise that I'm nowhere near being morbidly obese, and that my need for change arises from personal preferences rather than from health threatening issues. But also, I was raised by parents who never ate nor served processed foods. We were taught to snack on fruits or nuts. We ate a lot of tofu before it ever became fashionable. We went for walks after dinner. We rode our bikes to school. We limited our intake of cholesterol rich foods.

And I suspect that we weren't an anamoly. It's not as though only my parents were possessed with the knowledge that healthy living came from healthy eating. So why suddenly is it like a huge revelation that we should eschew en masses the fad low carb diets and ephedra-free pills in favour of the lifestyle we are meant to lead? Are we a society that can only do what is trendy?

Uh ... excuse me sir ... will this be on tomorrow's test?

I was watching television on Friday night with my step-daughter. She's home from university for the first time for a day-and-a-half visit. We'd just returned from a three hour bubble tea and shopping expedition and, neither of us wanting to end the wonderful moment of togetherness, decided to crash out on the couch and find a cheesy movie to pick apart.

We ended up doing a lot of chatting while we channel surfed. As we bounced around from one bad show to the next, we conversed about all kinds of topics serious and funny alike -- from her fears and insecurities about losing her virginity (she hasn't yet) to oral sex, genital herpes, drinking and recreational drugs, to the virtues of spending your days draped completely in sweats (her preference).

At one point, while we scanned the TV menu, we chanced upon Wife Swap, which is a seriously bad reality show (but then again, find me one that isn't) involving two families, often polar opposites, who have beefs with the moms. The premise of the show is to switch matriarchs for a two week period of time. During the first week, the mom has to live by the rules of the adopted family, but during the second, she imposes her rules upon them.

We were busy discussing the hilarity of how anyone would survive in our household when C. suddenly turned to me and asked me which of her personality traits might bother someone. I tossed off a breezy "Nothing darling, you're absolute perfection" but then realised she was quite serious. I gave it some thought briefly, but couldn't come up with anything appropriate at the moment, so I simply told her it was more a question of good fit versus bad fit, and that since we obviously were a good match, it was hard for me to think outside the box.

The next night my step-daughter was getting ready to leave. Her best friend who was also home for the weekend, was picking her up, so she was hurriedly packing her belongings. Once finished, she then started tearing her room apart looking for a specific CD case. She told me that she'd borrowed the CD from her best friend's sister a long time ago, but then had misplaced the CD case. She'd returned the CD in a plain plastic jacket, but apparently the sister, being an obsessive-compulsive according to my step-daughter, kept haranguing her to return the original case.

C. then showed me a pair of grey sweat pants which also belonged to her friend's sister. and which had been in C.'s possession for many months. She said that the sister had phoned and specifically asked that C. bring them back with the CD case. C. went on to say that she didn't understand why this girl was making such a federal case out of an ordinary pair of sweat pants and a CD case, neither of which was a big deal.

The answer to the question that had been posed to me the night before suddenly came in a flash. My step-daughter lacks an ability to see the big picture. In this particular case, she couldn't comprehend the fact that while neither the sweats nor the CD case were important to her, they might be significant to someone else.

I was reminded of the fact that my step-daughter is pretty careless when it comes to belongings, whether it's her own or others, and that she has little insight into how this might bother someone who exercises more care. Once very long ago, she borrowed one of my vintage hair clips (I had a set of two), lost it and then submitted its twin when asked to return the clip. Needless to say, it took me all of about thirty seconds to realise what had transpired once I went to put the clip back in my jewelry box and noticed the other was missing. Although I was somewhat upset about losing something that had been so beautiful, I got over its loss fairly quickly as the clip had no sentimental value (I'd purchased it for myself). What lingered beyond the mourning period, was a bit of mistrust though. The whole incident caused me to look back on each of the times that my step-daughter had borrowed something of mine. I realised then that each time I would lend her one of my belongings, she would say "I'll give it back", which is a given in the world of borrowing, and therefore a redundant and unnecessary promise. It occurred to me that the reassurance was more for herself than it was for me because she knew she was so careless with things. It also occurred to me that in every instance when she'd borrowed something from me, I'd had to go and either lobby for its return or find it myself after unsuccessful and repeated requests.

I remember telling my step-daughter at the time, that when you borrowed someone's belongings, regardless of what the item was, you were really trading on their trust, and that failure to take care of said item and return it in a timely manner and in its original state was really showing a flagrant disregard for that person's feelings, and therefore chipped away at the trust. I found myself reiterating this once again to C. on Saturday night after her comment that she didn't understand why this girl was freaking out over trivial material goods.

I realise that the inability to see the big picture is something C. will grow out of with the passage of time. She's an amazing girl for an eighteen-year-old, with an astonishingly mature insight and honesty. It's only a matter of time before the realisation that there exists an accompanying subtext to seemingly inane or incomprehensible actions, find its way onto her radar.

I couldn't help but think about my parents, or more specifically my mother. She would often set us up so as to teach us a lesson. Everything was seen as essentially a test of character (or lack thereof). It was tough growing up with the realisation that you'd failed miserably. I do sort of get her point though; if I'd loaned C. something as a test to see how she'd behave, it wouldn't do to tell her that it was an experiment, now would it? My mother's view was that the test should be conducted as a blind study and that therefore, the participants (my brother and I) would act completely in character, instead of attempting to perform to expectations. It's sort of the same logic our high school teachers employed when they'd pop quiz us to see if we really did absorb what they taught us, or if we just crammed for tests.

I differ somewhat from my mother though; I don't think it's necessary to set up all these little field experiments and then stand by with clipboard in hand to mark our children. I think that it's the little experiences which are really the pop quizzes in life. I have faith that when C. has to go back and tell her friend's sister that she's lost her CD case (and then have to endure the ensuing freakout and consequences), she may learn something about both herself and her friends

I have faith that hopefully, eventually I'll learn from the pop quizzes that are thrown my way. Better learn quickly though, before my family signs me up as an ideal candidate for Wife Swap.

Sleep is Highly Overrated

I've been sharing my bed this past week with two beautiful babies.

Each night their mother comes over and tucks them in. It's quite sweet to watch -- she soothes them, sings them a song, then finally lays them down and strokes their heads for a few minutes before giving them a loving kiss good-night. Once the bedtime ritual is over, she promptly leaves but not before reading me the riot act and giving me a thousand and one instructions about what to do and what not to do. Like, I've never been a mother before?

Each night, I vow to myself that I'm going to put my foot down and have a word with the mom, because I just can't sleep very well with a couple of extra bodies in my bed. (Oh AND their mom insists that they need to have their plushy teddy bears with them for emotional security purposes, making even less room there for me). Some nights I swear under my breath and resist the incredible urge to pitch them onto the floor and plead sleepwalking or night terrors when their mom comes to collect them the next day. The worst was the night their mom told me that one of them had been puking up a storm that day, and that she needed to be watched carefully during the night in case she gave any indications of further vomiting.

I need to be firmer and assert my rights to my own time and my own bed. I already had three kids; I've had my fair share of giving up space in my life and my bed for small babies. I've had enough sleepless nights to last me a lifetime; I shouldn't have to put myself out for someone else, now should I?

So tonight, I've decided I'm going to do it. I'm going to just take a deep breath and say to my daughter "Honey, Mummy just can't babysit your dolls anymore. Besides which, I think they're probaby old enough that they can sleep in their very own crib".

Hopefully, she'll understand and won't call Children's Aid on me.

P.S. I actually ended up with yet another baby in my end last night. Yesterday, a friend of mine gave my daughter a small doll as a belated birthday gift. The doll looked exactly like my daughter had as a baby (big rosy cheeks, rosebud lips, inky black hair and Asian eyes), so it became difficult to refuse its right to be in my bed. I actually found myself kissing it good-night when my daughter did, too!

To Wear is Human ...

Okay, so maybe I'm old-fashioned, but isn't there some kind of tacit agreement regarding the taboo of cavorting around in summer white attire (white pants, shorts, shoes, etc.) after Labour Day? I realise that there are some days where we have summer-like weather, but should one don white capris and white shoes on that basis?

These last few weeks, I've been seeing a profusion of white clothing that supposedly constitute a fashion faux pas according to what I was brought up with. Have I missed something? Did some fashion guru recently pronounce white (and not winter white either, mind you) acceptable to wear during the fall months? I know it's stupid (because exactly who makes up these rules in the first place, and who cares anyway), but for whatever reason, that whole no-white-summer-clothing-until-after-Victoria Day-and-only-up-until-Labour-Day rule has stuck with me all my life.

See, now I know why during my university years I always stuck to black clothing. It's just so much easier.

Flashback

I'm having a really bad day and feeling like a five-year-old child.

It all started with this misunderstanding over something very small and insignificant that got blown way out of proportion. The inner logical rational person with the Psych. degree tells the outer hurt child in me that she should just understand that the person who freaked out and got all psychotic for something that didn't warrant a reaction anywhere close to the proportions it did, obviously had more going on that had nothing to do with me. Got it? Yes, I know ... it's very vague and convoluted, but then ... I wouldn't want to be accused of being indiscreet online and recounting the whole incident.

My point is that I am amazed that a woman in her thirties could get reduced to weeping child status over someone's displaced (and ill-placed) anger. I know that there's obviously a subtext behind what happened, as is often the case, and that said subtext may have little, if anything, to do with me. But still ... it hurts to have someone go off on me like that. It's caused me to question if I'm an insensitive, selfish and clued out person, and I hate having that doubt because of course, it just feeds into childhood fears. (My mom always accused me of being self-centred and selfish, among other things).

So now I hate the fact that I'm sitting here playing everything in my life back and wondering if it's all true. Crap, I thought I was way more mature than that!

If the Shoe Fits a.k.a. Getting in Touch with My Feminine Side

One of my best girlfriends told me that she'd recently had the talk with her nine-year-old daughter. It began something like this:

"Okay honey, I'm going to tell you this once and only once, and then we will never speak of it again".

She went on to explain that it didn't matter how good your outfit was; so long as your shoes clashed, all that would be remembered by others was how awful your footwear was.

During the conversation, I found myself actually nodding my head vigorously in agreement. "She's just so wise. Truer words were never spoken", I thought to myself.

Within the last four years, I've become quite the shoe afficionado. My motto has become: You can never be too rich, too thin or possess enough shoes. My footwear collection has increased exponentially since turning thirty.

I come from a family that is super practical. Growing up, I never had more than one pair of shoes (unless you counted running shoes for gym class) because, as my parents used to point out, it just didn't make sense to spend the money unnecessarily since my feet were not fully grown. It made sense to me, even though it didn't help me when I was longing for something a little prettier than my serviceable pair of loafers.

As I got older, I always refrained from buying shoes. I'm not sure why. I think it was because I was always on a limited budget and could only afford either the clothing or the shoes, so I always opted for the clothing (you can buy way more clothes for the price tag of a single pair of good shoes). On those rare occasions when I did go shoe shopping, I'd buy a pair of classic basic black pumps -- versatile and matches everything, right? Hence, no need to have anything else. Those pumps became the grown-up version of my childhood loafers.

Truly though, I never really understood the impact that a good pair of shoes can have. You can wear the same little black dress every day of the week and somehow make everyone forget that they've seen it already, if you just vary the spectacular shoes accompanying the dress. Well, that and a few minor accessory changes like scarves and/or jewelery. This was a complete reversal to my other way of dressing/thinking, which was to vary the outfit every day but to keep the black pumps.

Now, I don't think that I'm really a very girly girl kind of chick in many respects. I abhor shopping (except for books), I'm not so into makeup and I like playing sports. I have a plethora of platonic male friends, way more than most of my other female friends have. I think the reason for this is that guys like me because I have a lot of male attitudes, and they can talk about things with me that they can't normally speak of with other women (comes from having an older brother, I think). I also can't stand the cattiness and evasiveness of some women. I'm pretty forthright, open and to the point and I despise playing games.

But on the shoe front, I am all female. I'm somewhat embarassed to admit this. Last year, when a good male friend of mine was bemoaning the vastness (or what he considered to be vast, poor innocent man) of his fiancee's shoe collection, I was notably silent. Of course, that would have been my cue to break down and confess that I actually owned way more shoes than his lady love. Instead, I chickened out and changed topics quickly, because the possibility that my revelation might precipitate the evaporation of a long-earned respect was just too frightening. But seriously, just how stupid and obtuse was the man? He would always pay me a compliment about how good I looked whenever we met -- how the hell did he think I accomplished that feat ... smoke and mirrors??!! Duh ...

The reason for this post? I just bought another pair of shoes today quite by chance (I had just bought my eldest son some much needed fallwear and was passing by). Hey, they were on sale (couldn't even get a t-shirt for as much as these cost) and they were absolutely hot. Did I need them? Of course I did, silly!

Recently, I had lunch with a good friend whom I don't see often enough. Her restaurant suggestion was located in this absolutely swanky mall. Not being acquainted with this mall in the least (I'd passed through it once about ten years ago to see a movie), my friend suggested that we walk around after our meal. At one point, we ended up in a shoe store. She is a self-professed lover of shoes, so we ambled through the store, picking up various slides, mules, pumps and boots, and kept up a running commentary. At one point, I asked my friend how many pairs of shoes she owned, to which she replied "forty". A woman next to us snorted and laughed and made some kind of comment like "Oh my God, I wish". My friend looked up and said "What? You think that's shocking?" to which the woman replied "No, I own a hundred pairs of shoes. And yet I'm in here still looking and buying. It's an illness, God help me, but I simply love shoes".

Okay, so I'm coming out of the closet now. The truth is that I absolutely adore shoes. I own a ton of them (although nowhere near one hundred). And I'm still always on the prowl. And it's not just for myself either; when my daughter was two months old, I was at a sample sale for a clothing line made in France. I came across these two pairs of girl's shoes that were totally stunning and completely unique, so of course, I just had to buy them. The fact that she wouldn't be able to wear them until she was about nine or ten was irrelevant. I finally had a daughter and I was going to make sure she damn well had fabulous footwear. (As it turns out, she is a true fashionista well beyond her years and her peers, and she is absolutely frothing at the mouth for the day that she can wear those shoes).

Recently, I took my step-daughter out shopping. She needed some new underthings before she left for university, and she asked if I'd take her. We ended up at the Bay where, for whatever reason, the shoe department is located right next to the lingerie section. So of course, after she'd made her choices, we had to walk past the shoes to get to the escalator. This was just too much for me. They were having a blow-out sale and we just had to stop and look. I ended up buying a pair of fabulous fuschia Pucci-esque slides for a mere $20. As we stood in line to pay, my step-daughter started in on her familiar rant about the injustices of life. More specifically, the fact that my feet were a full two sizes smaller than hers thereby making any expropriation of my phenomenal footwear impossible. I stopped right then and there, and gave her my friend's version of the talk, throughout which she nodded her head vigorously. I ended with the advice that she should emulate me and buy shoes when on sale. She countered this with the feeble argument that shoes only go on sale at the end of the season, and she would therefore have to wait through three seasons before being able to wear them. I told her that shoe shopping was like buying fine wine and that good shoes were well worth the wait if you were going to get them for three-quarters of the premium cost. She politely and reluctantly agreed with me, but I think she secretly thought I was cracked. Poor soul, she has so much to learn!

Rain, Rain, Go Away

It rained almost all day long here, and when it wasn't raining, it was threatening to rain.

While I am really a sunshine-aholic, I do actually like rainy days sometimes -- certain kinds of rainy days and certain things about it. I love spring and summer showers, when the air is warm, and the rain falls softly. I love when the sky gets a certain greyness to it when it's raining; when I had my first apartment, I used to leave the front door open, so I could look at the sky and watch the rain falling through my screen door. It really does evoke such a peaceful feeling for me. I love the smell of rain (I guess, it's more the freshness of the earth that I'm smelling, right?) I love the coziness that a rainy day brings; it's great to curl up in an armchair with my cat and a cup of homemade soup in hand, reading a good book. I love summer thunderstorms when the lightening streaks across the sky, the thunder booms ominously and the rain comes down in hard lines. I love the sounds of the rain drumming rhythmically on a rooftop -- my parents used to have this corrugated plastic roof over our back porch and the sound of the rain pelting down on it was just so hypnotic, reassuring and soothing all at once. I like having sex when it rains and curling up afterwards, watching the water form rivulets down the window panes.

Almost two years ago, a friend and colleague committed suicide. The morning that the terrible news was delivered to me. was a beautiful sunny fall one; the sort when the sky is clear blue and the air feels crisp. I remember sitting on sun-warmed concrete steps outside a neighbouring office in utter shock for what seemed like an eternity.

Later that night, I went out to meet some good friends who felt that I shouldn't be alone. By that point, the perfect autumn weather had come to an end, and the skies had opened up and delivered the most massive rainfall we'd had in months. While I drove to my meeting place, I had my windshield wipers on completely, and I tried to focus on the combined sounds of the rain hitting my windows at full force and the wipers squeaking as they cleared the water, rather than on my own thoughts.

The rain continued all that night. It was as though the world was joining me in my gigantic tear fest, wailing its grief alongside mine. I was strangely grateful that Mother Nature had sent along such a big storm to drown out the sound of my crying.

The next morning which was the day of M's funeral, the sky was overcast and grey, reflecting the general sombre moods of all the funeral goers. As we drove away from the service, it began to gently rain. I couldn't help but think back to my childhood when I thought that one could request certain kinds of weather. Surely, someone had ordered this -- it was completely synchronous with my emotions. If anyone had asked me how I was feeling at the time, I would have had to simply point to the window.

It took me a little over a month to screw up the courage to return to my office after M's death, and even then, I stopped going with the same frequency as I had been up until that point. In the almost two years since his death, I've probably stepped foot in there a little over a dozen times only. I think after M died, I stopped wanting to be an agent. Not that I'd ever been wildly passionate about it, but I'd lost my taste for hunting down new business and the ensuing satisfaction of a job well done.

This morning, I woke up, took one look at the sky and felt inexplicably blue. I slept-walked through my usual morning tasks (breakfast, packing lunches, dropping off the kids, etc.) and then surveyed my very long to-do list, wondering what to tackle first. Should I get domestic stuff done (there was a ton), or work-related items? My phone rang as I was still mentally debating; it was a good friend of mine (he always seems to call me at these kind of key moments) to tell me that he had a free hour or so, and asked if I would like to meet up with him. We always have a blast together, so I gave my list a guilty look before I stuffed it under some papers on my desk.

At some point during our meeting, I burst into tears quite unexpectedly (again, not PMS induced). My friend quietly hugged me as I blubbered, sobbed and snorked on his shoulder. After the crying storm had passed, I realised M. had been on my mind these past few days. Today's weather just brought back all the memories of the one rainfall that wasn't accompanied by my usual delight.

Missing you M.

Set Theory

Remember that line from My Big Fat Greek Wedding? The father tells his daughter that there are two kinds of people in this world -- "Those that are Greek, and those that want to be Greek". I have been thinking about everybody's sorting rules. We are by nature, programmed to compartmentalise events, places, numbers, objects, etc. to help us process and comprehend the vast amounts of stimuli to which we are subjected. It seems obvious that we have extrapolated our chunking rules over into the people domain.

Think about it ... often people tend to oversimplify and divide the world up into several categories. Here are a few that I've noticed amongst some of the people in my life:

My husband -- athletically coordinated people and spastics
My parents -- professionals and bums
My brother -- people that agree with him and people who are just plain stupid
My mother-in-law -- either one of two ways: Polish and everyone else or, God fearing creatures and heathens (come to think of it, in her book I think they're one and the same thing)
My youngest son -- those who think he is cute and those who don't and are therefore crazy
My neighbours -- Jewish and anti-Semites
A male friend of mine who shall remain nameless -- those that give head and those that don't
Another male friend who is single and desperately dating -- hot, good-looking and doable vs. frumps
Me -- I tend to perform a couple of different rules simultaneously -- those with a joie de vivre and those who are uptight, bookworms and illiterates, secure and insecure

Wow, and I thought I was more complex a person than that ...

All I Need to Know, I Learned Through Blood, Sweat and Tears

Some little nuggets ...

1. When contemplating bearing a man's children, take a moment to measure the size of his head (the one between his shoulders). Also find out what his birth weight was (anything over eight pounds is cause for concern).

2. When contemplating marrying a man (or moving in with him), consider it prudent to pose the following simple questions:

Are you an orphan? (right answer: yes -- proceed to altar)

But if no, then:
Do your parents live far away? (score extra points if their hometown is 1,000 miles away or more)

If no to that, then:
Would you consider your parents to be meddling, controlling people with a keen ability to pull the manipulative guilt card? (N.B. nervous hesitation before answering in the negative should be considered a "yes")

If the above was answered in the affirmative, then:
Can we move a gazillion miles away from your parents?

If no, then "See you Charlie" is often a good line to use. Most effective when the melody Hit the Road Jack is heard in the background.

3. When faced with someone who has got their knickers in a knot over something you've supposedly done, smile serenely throughout and then hit them with "Oh, I'm sorry. My ears just unplugged. What was that you were just saying?" A great way to send them completely over the edge and also an excellent way to get your jollies on those boring rainy days. (N.B. Don't try this if you don't have fast reflexes).

4. If you want to score a seat on a crowded bus or subway, cough, sneeze and make general snuffly noises following by wiping your hand under your nose as you hover over someone. Then feign losing your balance due to jolting of bus so that germy hand comes dangerously close to seated person's jacket and face. Keep edging closer as you continue to hack and blow nose between your fingers. If you do it properly, you can often gain a couple of seats -- more room to spread out and rest your knapsack or purse comfortably.

5. If you've been unlucky enough to answer the phone and find a consumer surveyor or telemarketer on the other end, let them begin their monotonous spiel and then start counting aloud in non-sequential order throughout (five, eighteen, one thousand, two, three, one hundred and one, etc.) After each question, say "I'm sorry? I missed that ..." When they begin again, interrupt them and ask them an inane question (eg. How's the weather your way? Your health good?) It may take a little bit longer to torture them than it would to just hang up on them (which would be just so rude), or answer their questions (which would be just so boring), but it's a lot more fun. Also, I think eventually the word spreads about you because I haven't had a phone call in ages now. (Have to find another form of entertainment ...)

6. If hosting a gathering where you end up with an uninvited straggler (more than thirty minutes minutes after the last person has left is considered rude, I think), put some bad porn on the TV, undo the top button of your pants, put your feet up on the coffeetable while you announce loudly how wonderful that everyone has left because you can now relax and let go since you've had a wicked case of gas and the trots all night long. Then say "I feel so comfortable with you" while you feign preparations for a giant session of flatulence. (NB. Be a good hostess and open the front door for them as they rush out into the night. Remember good manners are so important).

7. Consider using baking soda for all your household cleaning needs. (Okay, so I felt I should put something in there that was quasi useful on a day-to-day basis).

8. Smile and have fun even if it's sometimes at others' expense (NB. I am not advocating cruelty to others -- just general shit disturbing)

Thank You Dah-ling

Today, quite by chance, I met up with someone whom I absolutely adore. He used to work at the salon-spa owned by a mutual friend until about four or five months ago. I haven't seen him since he left, and miss him desperately. He was just about the world's bitchiest and best girlfriend -- we spent hours sitting together, privately cutting the spa clientele up and giggling over our catty comments. How on earth could I fail to love this man? He would paint each of his fingernails a different colour and then wiggle them in front of me so that I could select the colour that best suited me. That and the fact that to date, he is the only person who has told me me that I simply must get myself a pair of Manolo Blahniks or Christian Louboutin (actually, I think he used the words "you absolutely need them"). Oh and he used to drool appreciatively over some of my sexier shoes. Who could ask for anything more?

Here was the one and only compliment I received today:

Fab friend: You look good. You've lost some weight, haven't you? (which made me think "Did you think I needed to?)

Seeing me shake my head as he spoke, he went on without missing a beat,

Fab Friend: Oh ... well then you must have been working out lately?

Again, more head shaking

Fab Friend: Oh ... well uh ... you're um ... very tanned, aren't you? That's it, isn't it?

It's Not Always Hormonal

One of the things most women, myself included, hate to hear is someone ask "Is it that time of the month again, dear?" or some such variation thereof, which essentially translates to "You're a psychotic bitch today, aren't you?"

A couple of people emailed me with regards to my last entry. I guess it was somewhat more bitter than my standard fare of bitchiness, but it didn't stem from a massive influx of female hormones.

I hate how people so often dismiss a woman's feelings by chalking it up to PMS. Yes, for sure, our hormones do wreak havoc with our emotions. I can definitely attest to that. During parts of my pregnancies and in the post-partum months, I was definitely a bit of a mess and somewhat irrational at times. It wasn't a pretty sight. What bugged me the most though was when I was upset and venting about something that really bothered me, certain people (my husband included) would pat my hand and say "There, there. It's just your hormones". If ever I wanted to rip someone's face off, it was then. Because I felt as though I was being told that what I was experiencing emotionally wasn't reality based. And sure, maybe I was over-reacting to something, but hormonally driven passion or not, doesn't mitigate the fact that I was obviously bothered by something. What apparently seldom, if ever, occurs to most people is that maybe we women are just masters at keeping our negative emotions in check, so that even though we may get ticked off, we are socialised to repress it rather than express it. And that maybe when we are having one of our "lady moments" (as one of those stupid men I was venting about likes to call them), we are not overreacting, but are simply low on our unnatural and usual ability to hold back.

Men with Big Heads

I clearly have a long way to go on the maturity spectrum.

Some people really get under my skin and I have to stop myself from trying to just slap them down. I'm thinking in particular, of the egotistical, self-assured males who speak in patronising and know-it-all tones. The males who are actually, not that bright, but in true ignorance-is-bliss fashion, fancy themselves as being more brilliant than a one-carat zircon Home Shopping Network ring.

Instead of just wanting to walk away with the satisfaction that I am a better person than they are (my mother's voice in my head again), I find myself tempted to linger and lure them into a conversation so I can just take them down a peg or two. Perverse and silly, no? Yes, I know.

I don't actually know why it is that men like this get my goat. And it is the men, not the women, who bug me. Some Freudian meaning there?

For the most part, in life, I'm happy to just go my own way and let others do and be whatever pleases them. In the case of these irritatingly smug and stupid men, I find myself wanting to prove to them just how dumb they really are. Of course, this will never be the case because my experience has been that truly stupid people are somehow secure in their delusions that they are the sharpest tack in the box. And why suddenly, do I have this sadistic desire to make them feel less than best about themselves?

Frosh Week Revisited

Nostalgia is in the air this week.

Last weekend, I took C., my step-daughter to university to get her settled in for her first year. As we drove into the campus, the energy there was palpable and exciting. The music was blaring, the orientation leaders were handing out t-shirts and getting everyone to cheer. It was hard not to respond to the youthful atmosphere. I couldn't help but reflect back to my own frosh orientation week so many years ago (can't believe it's been that long). What a wonderfully exciting week that had been (and alcohol filled).

Later this week, I ended up on campus at U of T (my alma mater) to take part in a study. I was in a building right across the street from my old residence. It was somewhat weird to be walking down St. George amidst all the young undergrads with my youngest child in tow. I showed my son where I used to live (pointed out my old room window from street level) and he found it fascinating that I'd had a life before him. Truly, it is hard for me to imagine as well.

It's funny when you take into account all the experiences one has had throughout one's life. Every twist and turn in the path contributes to the end result, until it becomes impossible to untangle the events and assign blame or credit to each happening. It's why I have learned to just sit back and experience it all, rather than regret some things that have happened to me in the past.

All It Takes is One Rotten Apple

I've changed my settings and made it so only bloggers can post, because I've suddenly been the victim of comment spam. There's only some many times I can read about Viagra and car advertisements before I start getting ticked off. For those of you who have posted comments anonymously, I do apologise, but then again, this is exactly how I became a blogger!

Good Girls Don't

I watched Sex: The Annabel Chong Story the other day. For those who aren't familiar with this particular documentary, Annabel Chong was the first person to participate in the world's biggest gang bang (251 men in 10 hours which although it seems like a lot has since been topped several times over; the current record is now 620 -- I'd like to know exactly which organisation keeps track of these things??).

For whatever reason, I was simultaneously fascinated and horrified by Annabel Chong's accomplishments. Fascinated, I think, because she is a surprisingly intelligent, erudite and educated woman who elected to enter into the world of pornography to challenge the boundaries of society's perceptions of female sexuality. Or so she says. The documentary does make room for the fact that she might just be a fucked up individual who was raised in a sexually conservative and constricting society (Singapore), later the victim of a gang rape at the age of 21, and at the time of her sexual conquests, simply a lost girl looking for shock value and the ensuing attention.

Being Asian, and having been raised in what can only be called a sexually repressed or stifling household, I empathised with Annabel for her position. It was heart wrenching to watch the scenes of the documentary involving her mother, who at the outset of the film had no idea as to her daughter's activites overseas, and spoke proudly of her childhood accomplishments. I kept remembering how hard it had been for my parents to have to face and accept the fact that I wasn't going to be a virgin on my wedding night. I couldn't help but think what Annabel's mom must have felt when her daughter revealed what she had been up to in the good ole U.S. of A. Because of course, Asian girls simply don't have sex with anyone before marriage, and certainly not 251 men within a ten hour span.

I thought of a discussion I had recently with an old university friend over lunch. We didn't actually arrange to meet for lunch, but then it turned into a three hour affair, so we willingly worked food (and lovely luscious desserts) into our time together.

Anyway, our conversation turned at some point to sex, chiefly because we were discussing our big brothers who screwed us up with their twisted version of Sex Ed 101 and our parents, all of whom are similarly uptight and repressed about sex and sexuality. Interestingly enough, both she and I have much the same views on different aspects of sex which leads me to believe that we are either both morally bankrupt, or completely comfortable with our own sexuality and therefore totally together people. Of course, I prefer the latter explanation.

Essentially, she and I agreed that while we might not necessarily partake in certain acts, neither did we pass judgement on those who did. We both felt that anything that happened between two (or more) consenting adults was A-okay so long as it didn't involve children or animals. Pleasure is in the eye of the beholder, and far be it for us to impose our values and views upon others.

What I admired about Annabel Chong a.k.a Grace Quek, was the fact that she claimed to have chosen porn as a profession, rather than having been forced into it for lack of alternatives. In the documentary, colleagues described her as being a chick clearly into having sex without having to go through the whole arduous dating process. The question of course, was whether in fact this was an apt portrayal. Did she really exercise freewill in becoming a porn star, or was her judgement coloured by other factors? While I can't see myself participating in a gang bang of such gargantuan proportions (in terms of numbers and 'equipment'), if that was what turned her on, then who am I to pass judgement upon her?

One thing I've never grasped is that whole double standard with regards to sex. Both my friend and I were raised by parents who advocated a strict no-sex rule with regards to their daughters. (In my case, it was even stricter as my parents didn't want to go anywhere close to the slippery slope, so no-sex extended to anything that might lead to sex -- kissing, dating, touch dancing, talking on the phone, etc.) But our parents' sons could go out and conquer to their hearts' content, and were even at some level, encouraged to do so. As my step-daughter so eloquently puts it ... WTF??! If good girls don't and only big sluts do, then who exactly are your sons sleeping with? I mean, does it bring you pride to know that your boy is screwing around with a total tart?

During the sex talk luncheon, one the things that my friend bemoaned wqs her mother's stock line: "Why buy the cow if you can have the milk for free?" It completely infuriated both of us. While my mother didn't put it in those exact terms, those were her sentiments to a T. We both took it as an implication that our intrinsic value was measured solely in terms of our physical purity and intactedness. Any action that might bring about a reduction in that state was therefore deemed inappropriate. A man couldn't possibly be interested because he was face-to-face with a fascinating, intelligent person, but because he was trying to be the first to break the barrier, so to speak. According to our mothers, the only surefire way to get a man to marry you was to hold out. Your virginity was considered to be leverage to that end.

The interesting thing I discovered later in life is that my parents must have thought about sex an awful lot while they led what appeared to be completely moral lives. However, the human psyche being what it is, repression seldom works. Think of the priests -- their monogamous relationship is with God and therefore there are no allowances made for sexual contact with others. Unfortunately if you stifle that part of yourself, it does ooze out in other ways, and probably more inappropriately so.

Whenever I think about my parents' perspective on sex and sexuality, I always think about the Victorians. I mean, there was an era filled with intensely sexually curious people, who simultaneously declared the act to be evil and sick, while longing to explore all the forbidden acts. Quite clearly, they thought of sex all the time (and reviled themselves for doing so) -- I mean, who has covers specifically designed for piano legs because they believe that a mere glance at them could cause sexual frenzy? Who looks at furniture legs and gets sexually excited? Only those that are perpetually horny and in utter denial of their state.

Unfortunately, my parents had no experience with their own sexuality and therefore, a lot of unanswered questions and a burning curiosity. (They had some interesting literature stashed away). Consequently anything that had a remote connection to sex and one's sexual organs was taboo and deemed "dirty". They came from a culture and a generation that didn't encourage any kind of openness with regards to sexuality. So to them, I guess I am somewhat of an Annabel Chong.

I remember my mom asking me with horror what I was planning to do when I finally met my future husband. Was I going to pretend I was a virgin? It would have been quite funny except for the fact that she was dead serious. In her mind, I'd ruined my chances of snagging a good husband because of my sexual misconduct. So naturally years later, when I announced that I was in love and that the man I was going to marry was older, divorced and had a child (all considered to be negative traits for my mom), it only reinforced her belief that my drastically reduced market value had left me with only the undesirables, the slim pickings. It never once occurred to her that a man might actually like a woman who was experienced and comfortable with expressing herself sexually.

I would love to one day relate to my mom a story that another friend had shared with me recently. This particular friend is in a profession somewhat related to counselling. His speciality deals with people who are in the midst of or on the verge of divorce. After having given a speech somewhere, he was approached by a woman who intimated that she might like to retain his services.

Over coffee, she confided the details of her life to him. Apparently, she'd married a man who had been throughout elementary and high school years, the nerd of all nerds. Possibly as a consequence of having spent his formative years ill-treated by others, he could only get aroused if his wife would first beat him with a leather belt. Although the wife was somewhat shocked by this requirement, she participated as the dominant sadist because she loved her husband and wanted to please him. Unfortunately, hubby had to raise the ante to achieve his Nirvana (desensitization is such a bitch) and found that he got turned on by beating wifey before the loving act. While wifey had been a reluctant participant in the former act of S and M, she was not too keen on being the recipient of the strap. At this juncture in the story, I had to interrupt my friend with a diatribe advocating pre-marital sex, if only to determine whether your drives, needs and predilections are compatible.

I hope that the attitudes I pass on to my children with regards to their bodies, sex and sexuality are healthy ones. My husband always says that I'm the liberal one in the family because I don't care if my kids are hetero, gay, trans-sexuals, transvestites or any combination thereof so long as they are capable of having healthy and loving relationships with people, and are happy with the choices they make.


As I get older, I find myself consistently amazed by the amount of time that people devote universally through the ages to sex, the pursuit of sex, or just plain thinking and talking about sex. Why is that?

Granted, sex sells. We've all had that drummed into us from time immemorial, but is it a biological drive, or is it just sensationalistic crap?
Seriously though, it is amazing how much time and energy is invested into thinking about sex. More time thinking about it than actually carrying out the deed itself. It seems that if one isn't actually doing the nasty, than they're either in pursuit of it or just plain thinking about it. My take on it is that people should just get it over with so that they can then just get on with the rest of their lives.

But then again, I am a scientist's daughter -- I believe in going to the lab and testing out one's hypotheses. Ironic that my parents instilled that belief in me. I'm sure they'd be shocked to know the ways in which I applied it!

Taking Back the House

First day of school for my kids today, first day of no domestic help for me.

I reluctantly hired a nanny about two years ago when my husband started pleading with me to get extra help. At the time I was working part-time, driving my kids to and from school and all of their extra-curricular activities, doing two loads of laundry a day every day, constantly ironing (that damn pile never shrunk), cooking all meals, keeping up with my volunteer activities at my kids' school and with a non-profit organisation that I've been involved with for years, and trying to help out my husband with all of his stuff. I also refused to let go of my social life since that is what helped keep me balanced, so somehow managed to squeeze in time with friends, book club, etc. At the end of the day, I was pretty much exhausted and bitchy. Hence the reason why my husband suggested we get some help.

For awhile, it was good having an extra pair of hands around. It meant that I could spend more time with my kids, rather than having to constantly ask them to wait while I folded laundry, or made dinner. It also meant that I didn't have to constantly rudely rouse the baby from his nap in order to go and pick up his siblings from school. Most importantly, it meant that I could sometimes have time to myself to grocery shop or just go for a walk if I wanted to.

Unfortunately, the nanny, although a very nice person, quickly got on our nerves to some extent. It wasn't deliberate, but it's something of a cultural thing. She's from the Philippines and has this whole passive-aggressive thing going on that I've seen in so many of her countrymen (I hate to stereotype ...), and this weird mistrust of anyone, despite the fact that we bent over backwards to do everything and anything for her. It started to drive me nuts that I had to give specific instructions each and every time; she wasn't able to generalise and extrapolate when necessary. After awhile, we also realised that she was singlehandedly responsible for making us even more disorganised than we'd been before she began working for us.

When I used to work for others, I always tried my hardest to never slack off. I also tried to take initiative whenever possible, and didn't assume that because I did so entitled me to special privileges. It bothers me to see people who start taking advantage of their employers' goodness. I'm not one to nickel and dime and make anyone punch in and out, so I always paid generously and erred on the nanny's side. Suddenly, she started taking liberties and would leave hours early without asking or telling me, when she thought I wouldn't be around to notice. She started using our telephone to call her family long distance without asking permission, or advising us. The thing that most bothered me about the telephone calls wasn't the money, but more the fact that I noticed that she made these phone calls when I wasn't around, and she was supposed to be looking after my kids. There were countless other things that irritated me, all of them probably fairly small things, but when taken together really did add up.

It got to the point where we started really looking forward to her last day. When she left last Friday which was officially her final day under our employ, my husband was ecstatic; when I cooked dinner that night and he was able to enjoy it (she had this annoying habit of cleaning up almost as soon as the dinner was made, which meant that he often didn't have any food waiting for him when he got home), he turned to me and said how much he had missed my cooking. This, despite the fact that I'd been cooking the entire two years of her employ!

On the weekend, I did the laundry for the first time in ages, and it felt so damn good. Don't get me wrong ... I don't really like laundry (in fact I hate it), but there was a certain happiness in reclaiming my territorym re-establishing my routine and doing things my way.

I know I'll miss certain things that she did to make our lives easier, and I'll certainly long for the on-call babysitting services that we were able to enjoy whenever we wanted to go out at night, but I feel as though there is a certain order restored to my life that has been missing these past couple of years.

Girls Night Out

My Friday night out on the town with my fellow Montrealers:

First off, a little background on one of the woman ... J and I have been friends since we were ten years old in the fifth grade. The history we share is fairly astounding in its sheer volume. We've bonded through all the rituals of growing up -- first kisses, first time getting drunk, first time puking from getting drunk, first time smoking pot together, first time going out to a nightclub together (at the tender age of fourteen), first time having sex ... the list is endless. We were co-conspirators in our lies to parents and teachers alike, we logged in many hours of being generally goofy and silly, we've gone on countless shopping expeditions and swapped clothing, we've gone to rock concerts together (after lining up for hours to buy the tickets) and screamed ourselves silly, we've passed each other endless notes during class and in the school hallway, we've spent half a dozen summers at the neighbourhood pool trying to catch glimpses of our respective crushes in their half-naked glory. We cut classes together, we helped each other put on makeup and select appropriate clothing, we've got albums full of silly pictures we've taken of each other. We've gone biking, swimming and skiing together year after year. We've taken dance and exercise classes together and joined our first gym together. We were friends for long enough to be able to communicate just by giving each other certain looks.

In keeping with our past, J. proposed that we go downtown and party like we used to when we were teenagers. (Since Montreal's age of majority is eighteen, and the general atmosphere there is far more relaxed -- i.e. no carding -- we used to go clubbing every weekend during grades 10 and 11 -- our last two years of highschool). Of course, downtown Toronto pales by and far in comparison to that of Montreal, but we knew we could have a good time anywhere.

We had dinner at a bar/restaurant which turned out to be quite the meat market. Shortly after we sat down and ordered our food, a waitress showed up bearing a chocolate martini and a man's business card, both of which she placed in front of me and proceeded to sing the praises of the "gentleman" who'd sent them over with his compliments (he was sitting somewhere out of view so we weren't able to check him out). Later, the guy came over and introduced himself. Well, actually, he was quite forward so it was hardly your conventional introduction. He was very cocksure of himself and even went so far as to suggest sex on the tabletop or bar.

Herein lies my constant dilemma. Having always struggled with self-identity, I've thought long and hard about how I should be describing myself to others. Don't forget I've grown up in the shadow of being Dr. E's daughter through many of my formative years, or D's little sister. So I've had to take a good hard look at myself and figure out who I am quite apart from these distinctions. When I used to co-lead a support group, I always found it interesting how people often described themselves in peripheral terms of age, partner, family, profession, etc. To simply tell someone your name and allow that person to draw conclusions about yourself based on what he can see and feel, apparently, is considered unconventional and perhaps unacceptable. I've never been one to say "Hi. My name is C and I'm so-and-so's friend, girlfriend, wife, etc.". Generally, I just say "Hi. I'm C". I figure that if someone wants to, they can ask questions about what is important to them. Usually, they're the conventional questions like "How old are you? What do you do for a living? Where do you live? Where are you from?" I've never been approached with "What's your favourite book? What kind of music do you like to listen to? What are your feelings on religion, politics, poverty, world peace, feminism, etc.?" But I suppose we all have our own sorting rules.

In any event, I've always wondered if when approached by a member of the opposite sex, I should immediately announce my marital status. I've always considered it rude, presumptious and conceited on my part to assume that a man was speaking to me because he was only romantically (or sexually) interested. I've been told that I am naive and stupid, or worse, a tease. But since I have a large number of long-term male friends with whom I haven't exchanged anything more than a chaste kiss on the cheek (of our faces), I can't help thinking they're wrong.

So the question is, at what point should I be telling someone I'm not on the market? In this particular case, the subject came up quick on the heels of the man's introduction/proposition (he wanted a good three hours with me, during which time he claimed he would take my breath away). However, the fact that I was married with three kids and very obviously quite a bit older than him didn't seem to be much of a deterrent. I guess nothing matters horizontally and with the lights out ...

After dinner, we proceeded to a club which had a very long line-up outside. Now, when J. and I were sixteen and at the height of our clubbing days, we actually had courtesy cards for a number of the popular nightclubs. I knew most of the code names for the doormen and bartenders at some of the hottest clubs. Therefore, we never waited in line to get into a club, because of course, only losers stand shivering out in the cold for long periods of time. So queuing up now that we were older, wiser and didn't need to stuff our bra to emulate cleavage was definitely not an option. We sent in G., our tall, slim, blonde and gorgeous friend to oil our way into the door without having to grease the palms of the bouncer (the unspoken rule being that if you have to pay to get in, then you're just as much, if not more of a loser as those in line). Two minutes later, we entered into the packed club with the music pulsing at an ear splitting level.

It was very remniscent in some ways of our younger days. We danced for hours, took turns buying rounds and just tried to keep the wolves at bay. At times I felt as though we were extras from the movie A Night at the Roxbury, because the general M.O. of the guys present, after having scoped out a girl they thought might be interesting, appeared to be to stand close by on the dance floor and basically bump and rub their body repeatedly against hers, occasionally putting their hands on her various body parts as though to steady themselves.

One guy spiced his bump and grind routine up with inane comments like "You're a really good dancer" shouted into my ear. He then pulled me aside and suggested that we go out for a drink sometime, and by the way my name is Joe Schmuck, what's yours? Does this routine ever work?

Then before I'd even had a chance to respond, he pulled out his cell phone from his pocket, flipped it open and stood there waiting for me to furnish him with my number. After several unsuccessful attempts to get rid of him (clearly, he had different criteria for dating -- the girl's disinterest not being one of them), I finally said that I didn't give out my number because I'd too many run-ins with psychopaths and while he seemed like a genuinely wonderful person, one just never knew. He assured me that he wasn't a whackjob, that he would only call once, leave a voice mail and wouldn't harass me if I chose not to call him back. Interesting logic -- the fact that I'm not interested in going out with you now isn't enough to stop you from persistently asking for my number, but after I've given you said number, I can then decline to go out with you. It seemed mighty inefficient to me personally; why wait to tell you to go screw yourself when I could do so on the spot? Apparently, he thought I was being witty and commented that I had a great sense of humour.

In the end, I got rid of him by entering his number into my cellphone. I felt mildly guilty doing this because I knew I had no intention of ever calling him and I hate being anything less than forthright and honest. But then again, he was really interfering with my enjoyment level and wouldn't take a hint, so I figured my bad behaviour was somewhat provoked. (Much later when I went to delete his number, I discovered that I must have pressed the wrong buttons or something because he never even made it into my phone book).

It's funny because the general assumption is that everyone at bars and clubs is there solely to meet someone. The concept of a group of women out just to have a few drinks and dance to some really great music in a place that had ambience and atmosphere was inconceivable. At one point, I idly scanned the room and observed all the twenty-something chicks. It was clear that their every action and article of clothing was designed to try and capture a man's attention. I vaguely remembered going out with friends many years ago with the chief goal being an opportunity to flirt with cute guys. I think I was never able to relax and enjoy myself fully because I was always aware of the image I was trying to project to the room at large (fairly unsuccessfully, too, I might add). I wouldn't give anything to go back to those times (although, having the figure and energy of my former twenty-something self might be nice).

All in all we had a blast. Even running into my niece and her friends didn't bother me. I took it as an opportunity to bond with her and bought a round of drinks. Made a mental note though to go to a different club next time so she wouldn't be able to gather any blackmail material.

Square Pegs in Round Holes?

At what point is it time to start acting one's age?

Last night I went out for dinner and drinks with a few friends from Montreal. I'll post an entry next detailing all the events of the night, but for now I just want to cut to the chase.

We ended up at a club which I've discovered is my nineteen year old niece's favourite hangout. How do I know this little fact? While dancing wildly away with my friends, I looked over at the group of girls standing next to me and realised that one of them looked all too familiar. The expression on her face when she realised the slightly inebriated lady next to her was in fact her aunt, was priceless.

I couldn't help but wonder if some of the guys that had hit on my friends and I were classmates of hers. Shades of Mrs. Robinson?

The whole thing reminded me of a comment a university friend once made about a group of alumni that frequented the student pubs. He scathingly referred to them as "losers" because they continued to hang out at their undergrad pub almost a decade post-graduation. Having dated one of them, I'll admit that although they were certainly a bright and talented group, they seemed not to have been unable to move on from their university undergrad days.

I often joke around about being in the throes of mid-life crisis, but the truth of the matter is that I don't even consider myself as being remotely middle-aged. The words "mid-life crisis" always bring to mind a forty something man with a paunch, dressed in some ill-fitting suit and white shoes (don't ask me why ... I don't know) and driving a convertible sports car. Mid-life crisis suggests to me one who is trying to get back to his or her youth after having put in years of sensible adult responsibility. I therefore assumed that I'm not really a victim of mid-life crisis because I've pretty much carried on in the same vein as I have for years now. I don't ever think of myself as behaving in a manner that befits my age. But then again, I've gotten married and had three kids. I've purchased a home, cars, pets. All the hallmarks of adulthood. And last night, found myself in the midst of a much younger crowd without any recognition that I didn't belong there. Should I be worried?

I'm Back

God, I feel loved!

I've been off blogging for awhile now mainly because I've been busy enjoying the last days of summer (donning my white pants almost daily since I have less than a week before they have to be retired until next June). Actually I'm in somewhat of denial mode that it will all come to a crashing halt soon and that I will be immersed in the never-ending frenetic routine that is imposed upon me by work, school and my kids' extra-curricular activities. Ugh.

Anyway, getting off that tangent ... I received a couple of emails, MSN messages and phone calls from friends wondering if everything was okay in my life because they've noticed that I haven't posted in awhile. Their concern for me was touching. I was also reassured by the fact that if I died unexpectedly while my husband and children were away, someone would send the police over (hopefully before the awful stench set in) just based on the inactivity level of my blog. Good to know that blogging is good for something other than just an outlet for my venting.

Thanks everyone for caring! Love you all!