My post from last week re. my old boyfriend elicited, among many things, a phone call from a close male friend. I've been friends with A. for many years now but we'd always had this weird chemistry between the two of us. So yes, inevitably we did become lovers for a short period of time (I know, I know ... I seem to have an abundance of friends-turned-lovers-turned-friends-again) before deciding for many reasons to confine our relationship to friendship (or at least, the pretense of one during the early years while we let the embers die).
The reason that prompted A. to pick up the phone and call was my disclaimer that the only person other than my husband with whom I'd been head over heels in love was my old boyfriend. He was somewhat hurt by this comment. Specifically, was I denying that there had been anything between the two of us? Tough question and the answer was equally difficult.
We had somewhat of an interesting conversation during which we more or less conducted an archaelogical dig and unearthed some of our memories. Mostly we reminsced about the more troubled times of our friendship. A. recalled a moment in which he had turned up after a long period of absence in my life in an attempt to pick up where we had left off. Despite my nearly photographic memory, I had surprisingly buried that incident completely, probably because of my shoddy and immature conduct; mercilessly, A. recounted how he'd felt when I triumphantly threw it up in his face that I was seeing someone else. We also discussed our respective perspectives regarding his unexpected appearance months later at a housewarming party. He made his exit after twenty uncomfortably polite minutes during which neither one of us voiced what we were truly feeling or thinking.
It was funny dissecting what had been going through each of our minds at the time of both incidents, because we certainly didn't act on our instincts. Instead, we both held back and then reacted to the other person's actions (or inactions) which fed further into our insecurities and feelings of resentment. Both of us were too proud and too immature to apologise to the other for our appalling behaviour and we were definitely not even in the ballpark at that time at attempting to repair our friendship.
At the end of our conversation, I felt closer to A. but also inexplicably sad. We both expressed some regret for how we had treated the other in the past, and of course, we wondered aloud how things might have ended up had we instead been smarter and kinder. The ironic thing is that these regrets exist despite the fact that both of us are happy in our current situations. I wouldn't give up my relationship with my husband or with my kids for the world. A. is also in a long-term stable relationship, very established in his life and deliriously happy with it as well. It was hard for us come to terms with the fact that regret for what might have been didn't negate the happiness and satisfaction with what we have now.
I have this firm belief that we are the sum total of our experiences. Therefore, if I hadn't had a relationship with A., would I be who and where I am now? Would I have been able to appreciate all that I have with my husband and my family? Certainly, I am sorry that I didn't take the opportunity years ago to tell A. all that I was feeling; in failing to take some chances and be honest, we doomed our relationship to what was essentially a six month one-night stand. But my regret stems less from the failure of our relationship, and more from the fact that I wasn't being true to myself, that I held back so much to the point where I felt like I was giving nothing. I'm not sorry that things didn't work out on a different level with A. though. I'm happy and grateful that despite all that has come to pass, we are now able to enjoy a friendship. I think my recent sadness grew out of a belated mourning. Although our romantic relationship died years ago, neither one of us really grieved about it at that time because we were both too pigheaded and stupid to let on to the other that it might have meant something.
Once a few years ago, a very bright and talented man with whom I am acquainted showed me a poem he had written. The subject matter dealt with a missed opportunity, a longed-for relationship that never took place. The object of the man's desire is not named directly, but is instead cleverly referred to as "Should Have Been" or "Never Was". I wish I could post the poem here, but unfortunately, I lost my copy of it when my computer crashed sometime ago. It would serve as a good eulogy for my relationship with A.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Taking a Mental Health Break
I've started up about half a dozen posts in the last few days, but have been unable to actually complete them.
I've been feeling fairly blue, probably because of the weather and because of the imminent anniversary of a friend's suicide. My lengthy and dreary to-do list in the face of feeling immobilised doesn't help matters either. The fact that I feel that I should be blogging, but can't seem to string a coherent or interesting sentence together further exacerbates my feeling like a complete loser.
I'm officially taking a bit of a breather from blogging, but will be checking into each and everyone of your blogs for my amusement. Keep posting and stay warm!
I've been feeling fairly blue, probably because of the weather and because of the imminent anniversary of a friend's suicide. My lengthy and dreary to-do list in the face of feeling immobilised doesn't help matters either. The fact that I feel that I should be blogging, but can't seem to string a coherent or interesting sentence together further exacerbates my feeling like a complete loser.
I'm officially taking a bit of a breather from blogging, but will be checking into each and everyone of your blogs for my amusement. Keep posting and stay warm!
Sunday, November 20, 2005
If only we'd named our last child Manolo ...
When I was young(er), my brother sometimes used to abuse me. If I complained about it, the blame would be deposited back onto me. That is, if I hadn't been behaving in such an irritating manner, he wouldn't have been forced to beat the crap out of me. It wasn't until many years later that I actually began to question the rationale of his logic; it meant that I was responsible not only for my own bad behaviour, but for his as well. How could one possibly cite another person's behaviour as a reasonable excuse for one's own poor conduct? It never made sense to me ... well ... until today that is.
After taking our kids to see the new Harry Potter movie this afternoon, we paid a visit to a nearby outlet mall. We had a little bit of time to kill before our son's hockey game, and my husband suggested that we take a look at some of the stores. Reluctant to spend a beautiful afternoon shopping, but realising that he was in desperate need of some shirts, I agreed. Unfortunately, we both had different motives for our mall visit; I was under the impression that we were going to select some clothes for him (he's lost weight over the past year or so and his clothes look dreadful on him) while he wanted to buy me a new winter coat (the one that I wear is fifteen years old and has never done a good job keeping me warm). It was a fairly irritating and unproductive visit as both of us refused to cooperate with the other.
As we were walking around pleading with each other to see reason, I came to a screeching halt in front of the Brown Shoes Outlet Store. Having a mild shoe addiction, I just had to go in and have a tiny peek. Hubby and kids had a quick look of their own and then deposited themselves onto the comfy leather sofa while I felt compelled to walk around and touch all the merchandise. Then suddenly, I spied a fabulously sexy and fun number and picked it up to take a closer look.
Oh my God, I thought, suddenly unable to breathe, I'm hallucinating. It just can't be.
I rushed back to the sofa and wordlessly dangled my precious find under my husband's nose.
"That's neat," he said "Are you going to try it on?"
"Hhhh-ow much does the label say it is?" I stuttered as I flipped the shoe over so that the price sticker affixed to the sole was visible.
"$99.50," hubby read and then repeated "Are you going to try them on?"
Stunned, I sat down and then turned suddenly towards my husband.
"They're Manolo's," I whispered reverentially "And they're only a hundred bucks?"
"What is Manolo?", enquired my poor sweet ignoramus.
"You're kidding me, right?" I said looking up in surprise. The blank stare that met my gaze was clearly not kidding.
"Maaaaaaahhhhhhh-NO-low," I bleated, raising my eyebrows significantly. Another blank stare followed.
"Maaaaaaahhhhhhh-NO-low," I repeated as though speaking to a child. "Maaaaaaahhhhhhh-NO-low as in Blahnik," thinking that last hint should jog his memory. We did after all, watch Sex and the City religiously. Just what the hell had he been focussing on during that show, if not for Sarah Jessica Parker's great shoe collection and the women's repeated references to the reknown Mr. Blahnik?
"Oh, for the love of God!," I screeched as the realisation sunk in that he'd quite obviously been distracted by Kim Cattrall's breasts. "Who the hell doesn't know Manolo Blahnik?!!"
"Um, what is that? Is that the style of shoe?"
Too exasperated and irritated to continue speaking, I grabbed a passing salesperson's arm and asked for the shoe's mate. The salesman arrived and deposited the box into my lap before rushing off to help another customer. It was at that point that my husband cottoned onto the idea that Manolo might actually be a term worth knowing, because, printed on the side of the box was the pre-sale price.
"A thousand? Dollars??!!" he exclaimed.
"No, pesos," I thought dryly.
"Of course dollars, you nimbus. They're Manolos ... I told you! And actually it's eleven hundred and fifty dollars ... not including tax".
As I slipped my feet into the shoes, a beatific smile slowly spread over my face. My God, they fit wonderfully and felt absolutely heavenly. No wonder all those women raved about the genius of Manolo.
I stood up and pranced around the store feeling like an absolute goddess. A passing customer looked down at my feet, smiled and said "Those look amazingly sexy on you", to which I replied "They're Manolos and they're only a hundred dollars". She was clearly well versed in designer footwear because she gasped appropriately and let out an appreciative wolf whistle.
I proceeded to the cash with purchase in hand and hubby trailing behind, still asking "But what are Ma-whosies? Are they famous? Why are they normally so expensive?"
The interrogation continued as we exited the store.
"So, is it like a famous brand or something? Does everyone know about Ma ... whatever? Are they comfortable? What are they called again? Manny Black?"
I wheeled around suddenly, hissing "Manolo, Manolo, Manolo Blahnik!!! And yes, they're famous. Everyone freaking knows about Manolo Blahnik. Geez!" before I stomped off.
I did feel vaguely guilty for having been so condescending, rude and dismissive towards him, but such blind ignorance on his part is clearly deserving of that, isn't it??
After taking our kids to see the new Harry Potter movie this afternoon, we paid a visit to a nearby outlet mall. We had a little bit of time to kill before our son's hockey game, and my husband suggested that we take a look at some of the stores. Reluctant to spend a beautiful afternoon shopping, but realising that he was in desperate need of some shirts, I agreed. Unfortunately, we both had different motives for our mall visit; I was under the impression that we were going to select some clothes for him (he's lost weight over the past year or so and his clothes look dreadful on him) while he wanted to buy me a new winter coat (the one that I wear is fifteen years old and has never done a good job keeping me warm). It was a fairly irritating and unproductive visit as both of us refused to cooperate with the other.
As we were walking around pleading with each other to see reason, I came to a screeching halt in front of the Brown Shoes Outlet Store. Having a mild shoe addiction, I just had to go in and have a tiny peek. Hubby and kids had a quick look of their own and then deposited themselves onto the comfy leather sofa while I felt compelled to walk around and touch all the merchandise. Then suddenly, I spied a fabulously sexy and fun number and picked it up to take a closer look.
Oh my God, I thought, suddenly unable to breathe, I'm hallucinating. It just can't be.
I rushed back to the sofa and wordlessly dangled my precious find under my husband's nose.
"That's neat," he said "Are you going to try it on?"
"Hhhh-ow much does the label say it is?" I stuttered as I flipped the shoe over so that the price sticker affixed to the sole was visible.
"$99.50," hubby read and then repeated "Are you going to try them on?"
Stunned, I sat down and then turned suddenly towards my husband.
"They're Manolo's," I whispered reverentially "And they're only a hundred bucks?"
"What is Manolo?", enquired my poor sweet ignoramus.
"You're kidding me, right?" I said looking up in surprise. The blank stare that met my gaze was clearly not kidding.
"Maaaaaaahhhhhhh-NO-low," I bleated, raising my eyebrows significantly. Another blank stare followed.
"Maaaaaaahhhhhhh-NO-low," I repeated as though speaking to a child. "Maaaaaaahhhhhhh-NO-low as in Blahnik," thinking that last hint should jog his memory. We did after all, watch Sex and the City religiously. Just what the hell had he been focussing on during that show, if not for Sarah Jessica Parker's great shoe collection and the women's repeated references to the reknown Mr. Blahnik?
"Oh, for the love of God!," I screeched as the realisation sunk in that he'd quite obviously been distracted by Kim Cattrall's breasts. "Who the hell doesn't know Manolo Blahnik?!!"
"Um, what is that? Is that the style of shoe?"
Too exasperated and irritated to continue speaking, I grabbed a passing salesperson's arm and asked for the shoe's mate. The salesman arrived and deposited the box into my lap before rushing off to help another customer. It was at that point that my husband cottoned onto the idea that Manolo might actually be a term worth knowing, because, printed on the side of the box was the pre-sale price.
"A thousand? Dollars??!!" he exclaimed.
"No, pesos," I thought dryly.
"Of course dollars, you nimbus. They're Manolos ... I told you! And actually it's eleven hundred and fifty dollars ... not including tax".
As I slipped my feet into the shoes, a beatific smile slowly spread over my face. My God, they fit wonderfully and felt absolutely heavenly. No wonder all those women raved about the genius of Manolo.
I stood up and pranced around the store feeling like an absolute goddess. A passing customer looked down at my feet, smiled and said "Those look amazingly sexy on you", to which I replied "They're Manolos and they're only a hundred dollars". She was clearly well versed in designer footwear because she gasped appropriately and let out an appreciative wolf whistle.
I proceeded to the cash with purchase in hand and hubby trailing behind, still asking "But what are Ma-whosies? Are they famous? Why are they normally so expensive?"
The interrogation continued as we exited the store.
"So, is it like a famous brand or something? Does everyone know about Ma ... whatever? Are they comfortable? What are they called again? Manny Black?"
I wheeled around suddenly, hissing "Manolo, Manolo, Manolo Blahnik!!! And yes, they're famous. Everyone freaking knows about Manolo Blahnik. Geez!" before I stomped off.
I did feel vaguely guilty for having been so condescending, rude and dismissive towards him, but such blind ignorance on his part is clearly deserving of that, isn't it??
Friday, November 18, 2005
Top Ten Signs You're a Blog-o-holic
This grew out of my rendez-vous with Sensational Snooze last night.
10. You get together with a dear friend who is also a blogger and whom you haven't seen in absolute ages, and spend the night discussing people you've never met (fellow-bloggers) and their posts.
9. You fight over the rights to be the first to blog about a particular event when with another blogger, to the point where after having offered to drive the other blogger home, you then contemplate retracting it so that you beat her home and can then be the first to post your take. (Don't be fooled by all the details here ... it's just a hypothetically based example ... really, it is!)
8. You find yourself obsessively checking your round of blogs and get frustrated when they don't post often enough or fast enough for your liking.
7. Your computer breaks down and you go through hell to get to an internet cafe or some third party computer just so you can keep up with the world of blogging.
6. You find yourself sneaking upstairs to your computer on the pretext of going to the washroom (during dinner) so that you can check and see if bloggers have either posted comments to your latest blog, or they have responded to your comments on their own blogs.
5. After said sneaking upstairs, you tiptoe to the washroom and flush the toilet to cover up what you've really been doing.
4. You find yourself composing your next post about a certain incident, while said incident is still taking place and unfolding.
3. You try to figure out ways to entice more readers to your blog.
2. You feel rejected and pissed off when people you don't even know delink you from their blogger lists.
And the number one sign you're a blog-o-holic is ...
1. You've been nodding your head vigorously in agreement as you read through the above items.
10. You get together with a dear friend who is also a blogger and whom you haven't seen in absolute ages, and spend the night discussing people you've never met (fellow-bloggers) and their posts.
9. You fight over the rights to be the first to blog about a particular event when with another blogger, to the point where after having offered to drive the other blogger home, you then contemplate retracting it so that you beat her home and can then be the first to post your take. (Don't be fooled by all the details here ... it's just a hypothetically based example ... really, it is!)
8. You find yourself obsessively checking your round of blogs and get frustrated when they don't post often enough or fast enough for your liking.
7. Your computer breaks down and you go through hell to get to an internet cafe or some third party computer just so you can keep up with the world of blogging.
6. You find yourself sneaking upstairs to your computer on the pretext of going to the washroom (during dinner) so that you can check and see if bloggers have either posted comments to your latest blog, or they have responded to your comments on their own blogs.
5. After said sneaking upstairs, you tiptoe to the washroom and flush the toilet to cover up what you've really been doing.
4. You find yourself composing your next post about a certain incident, while said incident is still taking place and unfolding.
3. You try to figure out ways to entice more readers to your blog.
2. You feel rejected and pissed off when people you don't even know delink you from their blogger lists.
And the number one sign you're a blog-o-holic is ...
1. You've been nodding your head vigorously in agreement as you read through the above items.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
The Lion's Den
I am debating calling an old boyfriend of mine. Actually, he was THE boyfriend. The only man before my husband with whom I was seriously head over heels in love, enough to contemplate spending the rest of my life with him.
Unfortunately, he's also the one who had a hard time getting over me and got pretty obsessive, to the point where years after we'd broken up, friends, colleagues and business acquaintances were advising me to get a restraining order issued against him. He's the reason why I don't venture very often into my old neighbourhood (Little Italy) because he still lives in the area and I've been told that he's still mourning the loss of our relationship (fourteen years later).
The reason I'm seriously thinking of giving him a call is because he's in possession of about a dozen black and white professional photographs of me from my early twenties. I had them taken as a birthday gift to him by a very talented artsy photographer. I realised the other day when speaking with my kids that there are no pictures of me beyond my nineteenth birthday (the year I left home). Even within the last decade or so, there are only a handful of photos of me (I'm usually the photographer, or the one trying to dodge the camera as I'm shy). My parents aren't into picture taking, or memorbilia of any kind, hence they didn't even purchase my university graduation photos.
My kids know what I looked like as a child and teenager, but they've asked about what I looked like before I got married and had kids. I have nothing to leave them with to help fill in the blanks. Only my old boyfriend has these wonderful pictures of them, and I would like to either ask for them back (because what does he need with a dozen five-by-seven's of me?) or ask if I might scan them for my own kids.
I'm worried about opening up a Pandora's box though; that in contacting him, I might be stirring up a pot of trouble. However, I've become quite obsessed with the idea of reclaiming these pictures in some fashion or another. I'm not a materialistic person and normally have no problems with letting go of personal possession, but I feel that this is something of a legacy for my kids.
Unfortunately, he's also the one who had a hard time getting over me and got pretty obsessive, to the point where years after we'd broken up, friends, colleagues and business acquaintances were advising me to get a restraining order issued against him. He's the reason why I don't venture very often into my old neighbourhood (Little Italy) because he still lives in the area and I've been told that he's still mourning the loss of our relationship (fourteen years later).
The reason I'm seriously thinking of giving him a call is because he's in possession of about a dozen black and white professional photographs of me from my early twenties. I had them taken as a birthday gift to him by a very talented artsy photographer. I realised the other day when speaking with my kids that there are no pictures of me beyond my nineteenth birthday (the year I left home). Even within the last decade or so, there are only a handful of photos of me (I'm usually the photographer, or the one trying to dodge the camera as I'm shy). My parents aren't into picture taking, or memorbilia of any kind, hence they didn't even purchase my university graduation photos.
My kids know what I looked like as a child and teenager, but they've asked about what I looked like before I got married and had kids. I have nothing to leave them with to help fill in the blanks. Only my old boyfriend has these wonderful pictures of them, and I would like to either ask for them back (because what does he need with a dozen five-by-seven's of me?) or ask if I might scan them for my own kids.
I'm worried about opening up a Pandora's box though; that in contacting him, I might be stirring up a pot of trouble. However, I've become quite obsessed with the idea of reclaiming these pictures in some fashion or another. I'm not a materialistic person and normally have no problems with letting go of personal possession, but I feel that this is something of a legacy for my kids.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Take Two
This comes courtesy of Epicurist who is either trying to make nice with me, or hates me ...
Two Names You Go By --
1. Cats (or variations thereof such as Cat and Catwoman)
2. Tiny (only my husband calls me this)
Two Parts of Your Heritage --
1. South Korean by descent (unless my mom would like to tell me about our postman)
2. Quebecoise (by dint of birth geography -- it feels like it's in my blood now)
Two Things That Scare You --
1. Possibility of unspeakably bad things happening to my kids
2. Finding out I may have taken important people in my life for granted
Two of Your Everyday Essentials --
1. Hugs and kisses from my kiddie crew (marks the beginning and end of each day)
2. Toothpaste (dental hygiene is everything!)
Two Things You Are Wearing Right Now --
1. Fabulous nail polish with great name (Thigh High)
2. Five extra pounds I'm trying to lose (damn that Hallowe'en candy)
Two of Your Favorite Bands or Musical Artists (at the moment) --
1. Coldplay
2. Led Zeppelin (I'm working my way through my old collection of albums)
Two Things You Want in a Relationship (other than Real Love) --
1. Honesty at all costs
2. Wild, fabulous, exciting and passionate sex
Two Truths --
1. When I was a teenager, I wanted to be a professional dancer (not exotic!)
2. I have many secrets that might shock the socks off of people
Two Physical Things that Appeal to You --
1. Eyes and how they look when a person smiles
2. Hands
Two of Your Favorite Hobbies --
1. Reading (especially if accompanied by eating chocolate)
2. Dancing
Two Things You Want Really Badly --
1. A trip to NYC with some of my best girlfriends
2. A toss-up between either a live-in chef or a daily private session with a yoga instructor
Two Places You Want to go on Vacation --
1. Cuba
2. South Africa
Two Things You Want to Do Before You Die --
1. Travel extensively and learn several languages of my favourite countries
2. Learn how to make a quilt and turn out a fabulous masterpiece
Two Ways that you are stereotypically a Guy (I know I was probably supposed to change that to Girl, but it's more interesting this way) --
1. I don't believe that love is a necessary accompaniment to sex
2. I'd rather do anything than go shopping
Two Things You Normally Wouldn't Admit --
1. I am quite the Martha Stewart if I want to be
2. My checkered past (which clashes with my Martha Stewart self)
Two Things You Are Thinking About Now --
1. How filling this out has revealed just how boring and lame I really am
2. The package of M & M's I've squirrelled away (how am I going to lose those five pounds with all this temptation surrounding me?)
Two Stores You Shop At -- (Ugh, didn't I mention how I abhor shopping?)
1. Winners
2. Indigo
Two people I haven't talked to in a while --
1. My brother
2. An ex-lover (from many years ago) now good friend, from my hometown (this means call me, D!!!)
Two bloggers who may now dislike you for passing this on to them --
1. Sister Staceypatrick
2. Krave
Two Names You Go By --
1. Cats (or variations thereof such as Cat and Catwoman)
2. Tiny (only my husband calls me this)
Two Parts of Your Heritage --
1. South Korean by descent (unless my mom would like to tell me about our postman)
2. Quebecoise (by dint of birth geography -- it feels like it's in my blood now)
Two Things That Scare You --
1. Possibility of unspeakably bad things happening to my kids
2. Finding out I may have taken important people in my life for granted
Two of Your Everyday Essentials --
1. Hugs and kisses from my kiddie crew (marks the beginning and end of each day)
2. Toothpaste (dental hygiene is everything!)
Two Things You Are Wearing Right Now --
1. Fabulous nail polish with great name (Thigh High)
2. Five extra pounds I'm trying to lose (damn that Hallowe'en candy)
Two of Your Favorite Bands or Musical Artists (at the moment) --
1. Coldplay
2. Led Zeppelin (I'm working my way through my old collection of albums)
Two Things You Want in a Relationship (other than Real Love) --
1. Honesty at all costs
2. Wild, fabulous, exciting and passionate sex
Two Truths --
1. When I was a teenager, I wanted to be a professional dancer (not exotic!)
2. I have many secrets that might shock the socks off of people
Two Physical Things that Appeal to You --
1. Eyes and how they look when a person smiles
2. Hands
Two of Your Favorite Hobbies --
1. Reading (especially if accompanied by eating chocolate)
2. Dancing
Two Things You Want Really Badly --
1. A trip to NYC with some of my best girlfriends
2. A toss-up between either a live-in chef or a daily private session with a yoga instructor
Two Places You Want to go on Vacation --
1. Cuba
2. South Africa
Two Things You Want to Do Before You Die --
1. Travel extensively and learn several languages of my favourite countries
2. Learn how to make a quilt and turn out a fabulous masterpiece
Two Ways that you are stereotypically a Guy (I know I was probably supposed to change that to Girl, but it's more interesting this way) --
1. I don't believe that love is a necessary accompaniment to sex
2. I'd rather do anything than go shopping
Two Things You Normally Wouldn't Admit --
1. I am quite the Martha Stewart if I want to be
2. My checkered past (which clashes with my Martha Stewart self)
Two Things You Are Thinking About Now --
1. How filling this out has revealed just how boring and lame I really am
2. The package of M & M's I've squirrelled away (how am I going to lose those five pounds with all this temptation surrounding me?)
Two Stores You Shop At -- (Ugh, didn't I mention how I abhor shopping?)
1. Winners
2. Indigo
Two people I haven't talked to in a while --
1. My brother
2. An ex-lover (from many years ago) now good friend, from my hometown (this means call me, D!!!)
Two bloggers who may now dislike you for passing this on to them --
1. Sister Staceypatrick
2. Krave
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Booby Trap
I caught about ten minutes worth of Oprah today. I've never watched her show but my friend insisted that I tune in as today's subject matter was one which we had discussed at great lengths recently whilst getting drunk. Not sure what the whole show was about, but the first bit had to do with women who wore ill-fitting bras. Oprah brought in thirty-five expert bra fitters from around the country to help out a panel of women selected from the audience. Not surprisingly, every single participant was wearing the wrong size bra.
The show made me reflect upon my own mammary history. Growing up, I had always been very underweight, hence developing was a term I used more in reference to photography than I did to my own body. At five foot six inches and ninety-five pounds, I was a carpenter's wet dream.
Since I didn't reach menarche until I was midway through grade nine (probably about three years beyond the average of my peers) and I graduated high school after grade eleven, most of my highschool classmates never got to see me in my full-blown glory. I started blooming very late in the game, and then at a very rapid and scary rate (I had to buy a new bra every month for a year while my body adjusted).
Unfortunately, being raised in a very close-mouthed household where most topics surrounding our bodies were never discussed or even addressed, I was pretty much on my own when it came to all these feminine issues. I had no idea what I was doing when it came to bra shopping, and I was too embarassed to ask the saleswomen for help (I mean, please if you've ever been to the department stores and seen the older ladies who pose as staff in the lingerie sections, you'd understand why as a shy sixteen year-old, the whole idea of getting their assistance was a daunting and distastelful one).
So I would essentially rush in and grab some stuff off a rack and then shuffle off red-faced to the counter where I would stand looking at some distant point beyond the cashier while she rang in my purchases. Because I was so busty, I erroneously thought that I should be buying larger sizes. Consequently, I was wearing a size 38 B or C cup at one point, when really back then I was probably a 32 or 34 D or E. If I'd gotten into an accident, I'm sure the paramedics would have dropped dead of shock at the state of my underthings.
After a few years, I got somewhat over my whole shyness with regards to my body. (Although having kids drove the nail in the coffin on the modesty issue -- something about having a roomful of people, my mother-in-law included, staring at my vagina in a disassociated manner while I lay writhing on the bed completely naked. I now have no problems whipping my clothes off in front of the world -- too bad no one is going to pay me the big bucks to strip). One day when I was getting a suit fitted, the seamstress commented that my breasts were in the wrong place. Excuse me? She proceeded to yank at my bra straps from outside the jacket and move my breasts around until they were where she wanted them to be. Oh, I thought, many questions having been answered. She sent me off packing to a lingerie specialty store to get properly fitted and kitted.
Now, for you ladies who have never had the pleasure of a bra fitting, let me tell you, it's quite the experience. I've had sex with people who've never gotten this close to me. I went to this very large well known lingerie store. The proprietor is a lady in her sixties who has been in the biz for years. When I quietly whispered that I wanted to purchase a bra, she led me into a dressing room and told me to strip down as she needed to see what kind of breasts I had. In the badly lit, cramped room under her gaze, I hurriedly took my top and bra off and stood there as she scrutinized me for what seemed like an eternity, making me turn every which way. She then measured my rib cage, poked at one of my breasts and rushed off into the store. Minutes later, she returned with a couple of different bras which she helped me to put on. Basically this entailed her slipping my arms through the straps from behind and then pushing me down so that I was bent over. She then hooked up the bra, yanked me back up and then stuck her hand into the cups to adjust my breasts. Afterwards, she stepped back to examine her handiwork. Very nice, she said, see how much better this fits? I murmured something politely back, but jeez, I was still trying to catch my breath after her lightening fast cop-a-feel routine.
I have to say though, that a properly fitted bra makes the world of difference. And since our bodies change constantly, it is a good idea to go for periodic fittings. Watching my ten minutes of Oprah reminded me that I'm probably overdue for another feel-up session.
The next time I go though, I'm going to turn my cellphone off. A couple of years ago, while shopping for an appropriate undergarment for an evening gown, my husband phoned to say hello and to comment that our daughter's bedroom seemed a little small, and wouldn't it be nice one day if we enlarged it. This was while I was bent over with a chick's hands cupping each of my breasts (no exaggeration) all in the name of helping me, so I basically yelled out breathlessly "Sure honey, that would be nice, wouldn't it? Gotta run now" before disconnecting. I returned home to find our daughter's newly painted bedroom wall knocked down -- he'd taken a sledgehammer to it (without covering up all my equipment in the adjacent office, I might add -- I spent days freeing my printer, fax machine, keyboard, etc. of the debris and dust).
Moral of the story: bra shopping should never be done in conjunction with anything else.
The show made me reflect upon my own mammary history. Growing up, I had always been very underweight, hence developing was a term I used more in reference to photography than I did to my own body. At five foot six inches and ninety-five pounds, I was a carpenter's wet dream.
Since I didn't reach menarche until I was midway through grade nine (probably about three years beyond the average of my peers) and I graduated high school after grade eleven, most of my highschool classmates never got to see me in my full-blown glory. I started blooming very late in the game, and then at a very rapid and scary rate (I had to buy a new bra every month for a year while my body adjusted).
Unfortunately, being raised in a very close-mouthed household where most topics surrounding our bodies were never discussed or even addressed, I was pretty much on my own when it came to all these feminine issues. I had no idea what I was doing when it came to bra shopping, and I was too embarassed to ask the saleswomen for help (I mean, please if you've ever been to the department stores and seen the older ladies who pose as staff in the lingerie sections, you'd understand why as a shy sixteen year-old, the whole idea of getting their assistance was a daunting and distastelful one).
So I would essentially rush in and grab some stuff off a rack and then shuffle off red-faced to the counter where I would stand looking at some distant point beyond the cashier while she rang in my purchases. Because I was so busty, I erroneously thought that I should be buying larger sizes. Consequently, I was wearing a size 38 B or C cup at one point, when really back then I was probably a 32 or 34 D or E. If I'd gotten into an accident, I'm sure the paramedics would have dropped dead of shock at the state of my underthings.
After a few years, I got somewhat over my whole shyness with regards to my body. (Although having kids drove the nail in the coffin on the modesty issue -- something about having a roomful of people, my mother-in-law included, staring at my vagina in a disassociated manner while I lay writhing on the bed completely naked. I now have no problems whipping my clothes off in front of the world -- too bad no one is going to pay me the big bucks to strip). One day when I was getting a suit fitted, the seamstress commented that my breasts were in the wrong place. Excuse me? She proceeded to yank at my bra straps from outside the jacket and move my breasts around until they were where she wanted them to be. Oh, I thought, many questions having been answered. She sent me off packing to a lingerie specialty store to get properly fitted and kitted.
Now, for you ladies who have never had the pleasure of a bra fitting, let me tell you, it's quite the experience. I've had sex with people who've never gotten this close to me. I went to this very large well known lingerie store. The proprietor is a lady in her sixties who has been in the biz for years. When I quietly whispered that I wanted to purchase a bra, she led me into a dressing room and told me to strip down as she needed to see what kind of breasts I had. In the badly lit, cramped room under her gaze, I hurriedly took my top and bra off and stood there as she scrutinized me for what seemed like an eternity, making me turn every which way. She then measured my rib cage, poked at one of my breasts and rushed off into the store. Minutes later, she returned with a couple of different bras which she helped me to put on. Basically this entailed her slipping my arms through the straps from behind and then pushing me down so that I was bent over. She then hooked up the bra, yanked me back up and then stuck her hand into the cups to adjust my breasts. Afterwards, she stepped back to examine her handiwork. Very nice, she said, see how much better this fits? I murmured something politely back, but jeez, I was still trying to catch my breath after her lightening fast cop-a-feel routine.
I have to say though, that a properly fitted bra makes the world of difference. And since our bodies change constantly, it is a good idea to go for periodic fittings. Watching my ten minutes of Oprah reminded me that I'm probably overdue for another feel-up session.
The next time I go though, I'm going to turn my cellphone off. A couple of years ago, while shopping for an appropriate undergarment for an evening gown, my husband phoned to say hello and to comment that our daughter's bedroom seemed a little small, and wouldn't it be nice one day if we enlarged it. This was while I was bent over with a chick's hands cupping each of my breasts (no exaggeration) all in the name of helping me, so I basically yelled out breathlessly "Sure honey, that would be nice, wouldn't it? Gotta run now" before disconnecting. I returned home to find our daughter's newly painted bedroom wall knocked down -- he'd taken a sledgehammer to it (without covering up all my equipment in the adjacent office, I might add -- I spent days freeing my printer, fax machine, keyboard, etc. of the debris and dust).
Moral of the story: bra shopping should never be done in conjunction with anything else.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Scattered thoughts
Without sounding unduly holistic and granola spiritual, I was thinking today about the energy that people put forth. I know that sounds just so airy fairy, and I usually like to think of myself as being such a pragmatic, down-to-earth kind of gal, but I don't know what other words to employ.
I've just returned from a visit to a funeral home. I really don't understand the purpose of having an open casket; the absence of one's being speaks volumes in the presence of what has been left behind. It simply serves to reminds us of what and who we are missing. In this particular instance, I kept marvelling over how small the body seemed absent the man's expansive personality. I remember the first time I paid a condolence call to the bereaved parents of a schoolmate at the age of fourteen. I was struck by how the body, although arranged to look as if the former occupant was in peaceful repose, just seemed empty. It's weird how we can instinctively tell, even from a distance, the difference between a sleeping person and a dead one.
About two years ago, one of my cats died while in her sleep. At a glance, it was obvious that she wasn't peacefully slumbering away, but had passed into the great feline beyond. What is it that signals to us that what is left behind is but a shell? That who we are isn't defined by our bodies, but by something else less tangible and comprehensible.
The other day my eldest son slept over at his friend's. As soon as he'd left, the house felt substantially different. Of course, it was a bit quieter, but that wasn't the qualitative difference. There was a hole that he left in the general fabric of our household. Even my husband, who is more on the oblivious side sometimes, came home after all the kids were in bed asleep and commented how the house felt empty somehow. Interestingly enough, he'd forgotten about the arrangements that had been made and had no idea that we were less one child that night. So he was responding either to my attitude or to the absence of our son. Either way, he felt something in the air.
Have you ever been around someone and for some unknown reason couldn't stand them? For whatever reason, they just triggered an almost physical response of revulsion or discomfort? And of course, there's the opposite scenario in which you meet someone and instantly feel a connection.
So call it chemistry or energy or whatever term you'd like to use, but it's undeniably there, isn't it?
Having been raised in a very academic and scientifically inclined household, I can't help but refer back to my core sciences degree. I remember an amusing moment in my grade ten physics class when we were taught that one can calculate the electro-magnetic force between any two objects. To illustrate his point, our prof used me and this really nice but wholly unattractive guy who sat next to me. He plugged our body masses and the distance between the two of us into an equation to calculate the electrical attraction between us.
So, it's not an entirely crazy scenario then to assume that there are differing energies between people, is it?
Don't get me wrong, I don't automatically meet someone and make a decision about them. In general, I think I'm pretty easygoing and assume I'm going to like everyone, but there have been a few notable exceptions.
Many years ago, I met a guy through mutual acquaintances. He was intelligent, average looking and probably a nice enough man. But I never felt comfortable with him. It's difficult when you don't have anything upon which to base your immediate dislike of a person, other than he made my skin crawl everytime he came near me. I tried to be friends with him and even contemplated taking him on as a lover (to prove to myself that I could do it). In the end, I just had to cut all ties to him because I couldn't stand the man. I haven't any valid reasons which I can voice to bolster my decision. It's just that whatever energy he puts out there seems to clash with mine.
So, I'm back to that word again -- "energy". I know, I know ... it sounds like I'm some kind of yoga-licious, Birkenstock-sporting, vegan-loving, hemp-clad crazed woman.
But again ... when my kids were born, I remember thinking that I could have found them in the dark within a roomful of infants. Each one of them felt so different to the touch. My eldest son emanated an intensity unlike anything I've ever experienced, my daughter exuded strength and my youngest son oozed sweetness, amiability and affability from every pore.
I've got friends whom I call upon depending upon my mood and needs, because some have a calming air about them while others have an exciting one. I think it's fair to say that people's beings do occupy a certain space within the world. There is a certain emptiness when that energy is withdrawn. I guess the $64,000.00 question is where does the energy go?
I've just returned from a visit to a funeral home. I really don't understand the purpose of having an open casket; the absence of one's being speaks volumes in the presence of what has been left behind. It simply serves to reminds us of what and who we are missing. In this particular instance, I kept marvelling over how small the body seemed absent the man's expansive personality. I remember the first time I paid a condolence call to the bereaved parents of a schoolmate at the age of fourteen. I was struck by how the body, although arranged to look as if the former occupant was in peaceful repose, just seemed empty. It's weird how we can instinctively tell, even from a distance, the difference between a sleeping person and a dead one.
About two years ago, one of my cats died while in her sleep. At a glance, it was obvious that she wasn't peacefully slumbering away, but had passed into the great feline beyond. What is it that signals to us that what is left behind is but a shell? That who we are isn't defined by our bodies, but by something else less tangible and comprehensible.
The other day my eldest son slept over at his friend's. As soon as he'd left, the house felt substantially different. Of course, it was a bit quieter, but that wasn't the qualitative difference. There was a hole that he left in the general fabric of our household. Even my husband, who is more on the oblivious side sometimes, came home after all the kids were in bed asleep and commented how the house felt empty somehow. Interestingly enough, he'd forgotten about the arrangements that had been made and had no idea that we were less one child that night. So he was responding either to my attitude or to the absence of our son. Either way, he felt something in the air.
Have you ever been around someone and for some unknown reason couldn't stand them? For whatever reason, they just triggered an almost physical response of revulsion or discomfort? And of course, there's the opposite scenario in which you meet someone and instantly feel a connection.
So call it chemistry or energy or whatever term you'd like to use, but it's undeniably there, isn't it?
Having been raised in a very academic and scientifically inclined household, I can't help but refer back to my core sciences degree. I remember an amusing moment in my grade ten physics class when we were taught that one can calculate the electro-magnetic force between any two objects. To illustrate his point, our prof used me and this really nice but wholly unattractive guy who sat next to me. He plugged our body masses and the distance between the two of us into an equation to calculate the electrical attraction between us.
So, it's not an entirely crazy scenario then to assume that there are differing energies between people, is it?
Don't get me wrong, I don't automatically meet someone and make a decision about them. In general, I think I'm pretty easygoing and assume I'm going to like everyone, but there have been a few notable exceptions.
Many years ago, I met a guy through mutual acquaintances. He was intelligent, average looking and probably a nice enough man. But I never felt comfortable with him. It's difficult when you don't have anything upon which to base your immediate dislike of a person, other than he made my skin crawl everytime he came near me. I tried to be friends with him and even contemplated taking him on as a lover (to prove to myself that I could do it). In the end, I just had to cut all ties to him because I couldn't stand the man. I haven't any valid reasons which I can voice to bolster my decision. It's just that whatever energy he puts out there seems to clash with mine.
So, I'm back to that word again -- "energy". I know, I know ... it sounds like I'm some kind of yoga-licious, Birkenstock-sporting, vegan-loving, hemp-clad crazed woman.
But again ... when my kids were born, I remember thinking that I could have found them in the dark within a roomful of infants. Each one of them felt so different to the touch. My eldest son emanated an intensity unlike anything I've ever experienced, my daughter exuded strength and my youngest son oozed sweetness, amiability and affability from every pore.
I've got friends whom I call upon depending upon my mood and needs, because some have a calming air about them while others have an exciting one. I think it's fair to say that people's beings do occupy a certain space within the world. There is a certain emptiness when that energy is withdrawn. I guess the $64,000.00 question is where does the energy go?
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Worth every red cent
Quick on the heels of women who make me ashamed we share the same gender, here is a story which a client recently related to me.
This particular client is a bizarre albeit benignly harmless fellow. He is a self-professed big drinker (we had to factor in the cost of his habit, when qualifying him for a mortgage). The day his deal firmed up, he ended up at my place around the dinner hour. Since he appeared to be ravenous and was literally salivating at the smells emanating from my kitchen, I invited him to stay and break bread with my kids. Afterwards, he politely turned down my offers of coffee or tea, but looked expectant. I twigged to the fact that he probably wanted a digestif along the alcoholic lines, so I offered to open up a bottle of wine. He proceeded to drink me under the table quite easily, and as he drank, he got even more chatty than usual.
Somehow the topic turned to his single status. He told me that he hadn't had a girlfriend in some months now, and that if I found him one, he would give me $800.00. Of course, I just had to question how he arrived at that particular amount. Not too interesting an answer actually; he said he'd once made the same offer to a friend for a cool thousand, but now figured that that had been far too much money. (It would make for an interesting Mastercard commercial though, wouldn't it? Acquiring beautiful, intelligent girlfriend: $800.00. First date with said girlfriend: $150.00. Floral arrangement sent to girlfriend after discovery of covert deal with friend: $100.00. Antihistamines purchased after now ex-girlfriend throws flowers in face: $12.00. Grief at blowing opportunity to spend life with great girl because of sheer stupidity: Priceless).
As we approached the end of the bottle of wine which we "shared" (I had half a glass, he had the rest), the client shared another little anecdote with me, hailing from his university days. It involved his then-current girlfriend with whom he'd been going out for about six months at the time of the incident.
One night she turned away from his sexual overtures, and stated that she wasn't in the mood. Desperately horny, he offered to pay her if she'd have sex with him. Rather than smacking him senseless and walking out on him, she instead asked him how much. In turn, he replied "What would you like?", all the while thinking that he'd be willing to part with fifty bucks. In true insecure female fashion, she valued her booty at a whopping ten dollars.
Here's the part of the story which the client thought was truly amusing, and which I found utterly revolting. Instead of handing over the pitiful sum of money and having his way with her, the client figured that surely there must be wiggle room for negotiation. So he countered her offer with $5.00 which she then countered for $9.00. They finally settled on $8.00, which was used afterwards to buy a pack of cigarettes and some milk. As if that wasn't bad enough, the client bragged that he'd smoked half the pack and drank most of the milk anyway.
I certainly hope he at least gave her a few orgasms.
This particular client is a bizarre albeit benignly harmless fellow. He is a self-professed big drinker (we had to factor in the cost of his habit, when qualifying him for a mortgage). The day his deal firmed up, he ended up at my place around the dinner hour. Since he appeared to be ravenous and was literally salivating at the smells emanating from my kitchen, I invited him to stay and break bread with my kids. Afterwards, he politely turned down my offers of coffee or tea, but looked expectant. I twigged to the fact that he probably wanted a digestif along the alcoholic lines, so I offered to open up a bottle of wine. He proceeded to drink me under the table quite easily, and as he drank, he got even more chatty than usual.
Somehow the topic turned to his single status. He told me that he hadn't had a girlfriend in some months now, and that if I found him one, he would give me $800.00. Of course, I just had to question how he arrived at that particular amount. Not too interesting an answer actually; he said he'd once made the same offer to a friend for a cool thousand, but now figured that that had been far too much money. (It would make for an interesting Mastercard commercial though, wouldn't it? Acquiring beautiful, intelligent girlfriend: $800.00. First date with said girlfriend: $150.00. Floral arrangement sent to girlfriend after discovery of covert deal with friend: $100.00. Antihistamines purchased after now ex-girlfriend throws flowers in face: $12.00. Grief at blowing opportunity to spend life with great girl because of sheer stupidity: Priceless).
As we approached the end of the bottle of wine which we "shared" (I had half a glass, he had the rest), the client shared another little anecdote with me, hailing from his university days. It involved his then-current girlfriend with whom he'd been going out for about six months at the time of the incident.
One night she turned away from his sexual overtures, and stated that she wasn't in the mood. Desperately horny, he offered to pay her if she'd have sex with him. Rather than smacking him senseless and walking out on him, she instead asked him how much. In turn, he replied "What would you like?", all the while thinking that he'd be willing to part with fifty bucks. In true insecure female fashion, she valued her booty at a whopping ten dollars.
Here's the part of the story which the client thought was truly amusing, and which I found utterly revolting. Instead of handing over the pitiful sum of money and having his way with her, the client figured that surely there must be wiggle room for negotiation. So he countered her offer with $5.00 which she then countered for $9.00. They finally settled on $8.00, which was used afterwards to buy a pack of cigarettes and some milk. As if that wasn't bad enough, the client bragged that he'd smoked half the pack and drank most of the milk anyway.
I certainly hope he at least gave her a few orgasms.
Friday, November 11, 2005
It's all in the presentation ...
Okay, so now I've heard everything. Apparently, one of the hottest dining crazes sweeping through the United States is something called "nearly naked sushi". The nearly naked part refers not to the diners themselves, but rather to the sushi server. I use the term "server" loosely.
What it entails:
A beautiful woman, clad only in the most minimal of G-strings, lies prone on a table. Her nearly naked body is then covered with strategically placed leaves, shells and bits of cellophane upon which one's sushi order is balanced. Diners can then pick and choose from this lovely platter as they chat and eat at their leisure. For a party of four to six people, the cost is typically $500.00 per person. Yes, the price tag associated with objectifying and exploiting women (because it's only women who are employed as sushi servers thus far) can be steep if food is involved. After all, as I understand it, the going rate of a blow job from your local hooker will only run you about $20.00.
In an interview with the press, one of the sushi servers defended her job and went so far as to dub it "performance art". Uh huh, and the accidental groping that might occur as clients clumsily manipulate their chopsticks would count as applause for said art?
For those of you who were avid watchers of Sex and the City, recall the episode in which Charlotte asks Samantha to refrain from employing the crude term "pussy" (in reference to a woman's genitalia). Of course, since Samantha couldn't abstain completely from the subject matter, she was forced to find a substitute word that was less offensive to Charlotte's delicate sensibilities. "Sushi" then became the girls' discreet code word. Wonder what Charlotte would make of this dining extravaganza, because truly, those women really do serve up a mean sushi ... in all respects.
More food for thought: As a complete aside ... when at a restaurant, if you should be so unlucky as to find a hair in your food, the general protocol is that it gets returned to the kitchen and the manager appears with profuse apologies and free desserts, etc. Well, in this case, would it just be considered one of the hazards of the meal?
What it entails:
A beautiful woman, clad only in the most minimal of G-strings, lies prone on a table. Her nearly naked body is then covered with strategically placed leaves, shells and bits of cellophane upon which one's sushi order is balanced. Diners can then pick and choose from this lovely platter as they chat and eat at their leisure. For a party of four to six people, the cost is typically $500.00 per person. Yes, the price tag associated with objectifying and exploiting women (because it's only women who are employed as sushi servers thus far) can be steep if food is involved. After all, as I understand it, the going rate of a blow job from your local hooker will only run you about $20.00.
In an interview with the press, one of the sushi servers defended her job and went so far as to dub it "performance art". Uh huh, and the accidental groping that might occur as clients clumsily manipulate their chopsticks would count as applause for said art?
For those of you who were avid watchers of Sex and the City, recall the episode in which Charlotte asks Samantha to refrain from employing the crude term "pussy" (in reference to a woman's genitalia). Of course, since Samantha couldn't abstain completely from the subject matter, she was forced to find a substitute word that was less offensive to Charlotte's delicate sensibilities. "Sushi" then became the girls' discreet code word. Wonder what Charlotte would make of this dining extravaganza, because truly, those women really do serve up a mean sushi ... in all respects.
More food for thought: As a complete aside ... when at a restaurant, if you should be so unlucky as to find a hair in your food, the general protocol is that it gets returned to the kitchen and the manager appears with profuse apologies and free desserts, etc. Well, in this case, would it just be considered one of the hazards of the meal?
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Another Difference Between Boys and Girls
I am very relaxed and easygoing in my household with regards to nudity. As a result my kids aren't shy about their bodies around immediate family members. It's a common daily occurrence to find at least one of us in some state of undress or other, conversing casually or carrying out a task without anyone batting an eyelash.
This morning, my two younger kids were taking longer than usual to go downstairs for breakfast; although they were dressed, they were in the boys' room giggling away and playing merrily, oblivious as to the lateness of the hour. I was in the middle of getting dressed when I noticed the time and dashed to their room to remind them to hustle downstairs. Upon seeing me, this was the conversation that ensued:
Daughter: I really like your pants, Mummy.
Me: Thanks honey. Now hurry up and go eat your breakfast.
Youngest son: I really like your nipples, Mummy.
Me (choking back a laugh): Thanks honey. Now hurry up and go eat your breakfast.
See ... I knew it ... women look at what other women are wearing and ooh and aah, while men only notice what the clothes aren't covering.
This morning, my two younger kids were taking longer than usual to go downstairs for breakfast; although they were dressed, they were in the boys' room giggling away and playing merrily, oblivious as to the lateness of the hour. I was in the middle of getting dressed when I noticed the time and dashed to their room to remind them to hustle downstairs. Upon seeing me, this was the conversation that ensued:
Daughter: I really like your pants, Mummy.
Me: Thanks honey. Now hurry up and go eat your breakfast.
Youngest son: I really like your nipples, Mummy.
Me (choking back a laugh): Thanks honey. Now hurry up and go eat your breakfast.
See ... I knew it ... women look at what other women are wearing and ooh and aah, while men only notice what the clothes aren't covering.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Ignorance is Blind
I just had my piano tuned today by an older blind man. I'm not sure if it's politically correct anymore to refer to someone as blind; is the proper term now visually challenged? That particular phrase just doesn't sound right somehow because truly, I think I've met a number of people whom I would deem visually challenged and yet their eyesight is probably twenty-twenty.
For the last year-and-a-half, I have been mistaken for this local chick who appears on TV daily. This has happened at least a dozen times. Those who know I'm not her (my doctor's and dentist's staff, for example) ask me instead if she is my sister. Since each person has sworn up and down that we could be twins, I just had to see for myself who this babe was. I taped the show one day and played it back and ... I just couldn't see the resemblance. I mean, she's clearly of Asian descent and she has funky hair with fun streaks of colours in it, but the similarities more or less ended there. I even asked my husband if he thought we looked alike, and he looked similarly confused when I recounted all the stories about how I've been accosted by adoring fans. His comment was "Well ... I can't even figure it out. I guess she's kind of good-looking, right? So they're paying you a compliment, aren't they?"
I suppose maybe it is all meant to be complimentary, but I can't help getting mildly offended at the ignorance contained within the comments. In the past, I've been compared to every Asian celebrity under the sun (Lucy Liu, Sandra Oh, Connie Chung, the girl from Raise the Red Lantern, etc.) And truly, I look like none of these women. And honestly, exactly what physical characteristics do Lucy Liu and Sandra Oh have in common? Oh yes, they're both Asian.
Growing up in the seventies, I heard a lot of ignorant comments regarding my heritage and my appearance. It really wasn't uncommon for a Caucasian to blurt out that "you all look alike" (or, my all-time favourite -- to ask me exactly how I was able to see through my eyes). Uh huh ... so the reason I can spot a person of Chinese descent amongst a crowd of Japanese would be? Oh yes, it's different if you're actually Asian (or Oriental, as it used to be called back in my childhood days).
I remember once being asked by a Caucasian guy if someone else was Jewish or Christian. When I responded that I hadn't asked that question, and therefore didn't know the answer, he replied "Well how could you not tell? It's pretty obvious". Well, I suppose in some cases it may be (i.e. the guy's name is Rabbi Moishe Goldstein and he's wearing a kippa), but since I don't have a tendency to try and classify people in that way, I couldn't correctly answer the question. Instead I flippantly said "Hmm ... I don't know because all you white folk look the same to me". Apparently, that is not a politcally correct thing to say; the guy was shocked and offended that I would utter such an insensitive and unkind remark. But the truth of the matter is that it isn't deemed unacceptable to say that Chinese, Japanese, Philipinos, Vietnamese, Koreans, etc. all look alike.
My children, especially my eldest who has quite unusual colouring, get asked often about their ancestry in rather rude and limiting ways (Are you Chinese or Japanese? What is your dad? What is your mom?) They truly have no understanding as to why people would pose these kinds of questions and why that aspect about them in particular, is of any interest. My son's stock response to questions as to his cultural background is "I'm Canadian. What about you?" It's not meant to be a flip answer; he just honestly doesn't identify with anything else, and he's never thought of me as being of Korean descent. To him, I'm his mom first and une Quebecoise second. I find that thinking surprisingly refreshing, when truly, it should be the norm.
For the last year-and-a-half, I have been mistaken for this local chick who appears on TV daily. This has happened at least a dozen times. Those who know I'm not her (my doctor's and dentist's staff, for example) ask me instead if she is my sister. Since each person has sworn up and down that we could be twins, I just had to see for myself who this babe was. I taped the show one day and played it back and ... I just couldn't see the resemblance. I mean, she's clearly of Asian descent and she has funky hair with fun streaks of colours in it, but the similarities more or less ended there. I even asked my husband if he thought we looked alike, and he looked similarly confused when I recounted all the stories about how I've been accosted by adoring fans. His comment was "Well ... I can't even figure it out. I guess she's kind of good-looking, right? So they're paying you a compliment, aren't they?"
I suppose maybe it is all meant to be complimentary, but I can't help getting mildly offended at the ignorance contained within the comments. In the past, I've been compared to every Asian celebrity under the sun (Lucy Liu, Sandra Oh, Connie Chung, the girl from Raise the Red Lantern, etc.) And truly, I look like none of these women. And honestly, exactly what physical characteristics do Lucy Liu and Sandra Oh have in common? Oh yes, they're both Asian.
Growing up in the seventies, I heard a lot of ignorant comments regarding my heritage and my appearance. It really wasn't uncommon for a Caucasian to blurt out that "you all look alike" (or, my all-time favourite -- to ask me exactly how I was able to see through my eyes). Uh huh ... so the reason I can spot a person of Chinese descent amongst a crowd of Japanese would be? Oh yes, it's different if you're actually Asian (or Oriental, as it used to be called back in my childhood days).
I remember once being asked by a Caucasian guy if someone else was Jewish or Christian. When I responded that I hadn't asked that question, and therefore didn't know the answer, he replied "Well how could you not tell? It's pretty obvious". Well, I suppose in some cases it may be (i.e. the guy's name is Rabbi Moishe Goldstein and he's wearing a kippa), but since I don't have a tendency to try and classify people in that way, I couldn't correctly answer the question. Instead I flippantly said "Hmm ... I don't know because all you white folk look the same to me". Apparently, that is not a politcally correct thing to say; the guy was shocked and offended that I would utter such an insensitive and unkind remark. But the truth of the matter is that it isn't deemed unacceptable to say that Chinese, Japanese, Philipinos, Vietnamese, Koreans, etc. all look alike.
My children, especially my eldest who has quite unusual colouring, get asked often about their ancestry in rather rude and limiting ways (Are you Chinese or Japanese? What is your dad? What is your mom?) They truly have no understanding as to why people would pose these kinds of questions and why that aspect about them in particular, is of any interest. My son's stock response to questions as to his cultural background is "I'm Canadian. What about you?" It's not meant to be a flip answer; he just honestly doesn't identify with anything else, and he's never thought of me as being of Korean descent. To him, I'm his mom first and une Quebecoise second. I find that thinking surprisingly refreshing, when truly, it should be the norm.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
The Day After Yesterday
Spent Saturday night with my Montreal girlfriend J. and two of her friends, all of whom blew into town for the weekend. Our goal was to repeat our last fun night out on the town.
After we had dinner, we headed over to a club nearby which the girls were curious about (it had been under renovations on their last visit). This particular club hosts a real mix of clientele of all ages and types. However, since it's far more spacious than the previous club we'd been to, people watching (my favourite activity) was virtually impossible.
The most unfortunate part of this club however, was its DJ. We weren't sure if he suffered from ADD or was just trying to be cool, but he never played a song in its entirety. It was pretty annoying to get lured to the dance floor by a tune you loved, only to have it suddenly changed to some unfamiliar hip hop rap song within forty-five seconds. Talk about switch and bait.
We all love to dance, so we occupied a very busy spot on the periphery of the dance floor for much of the night. Periodically J. would take her camera out and snap pictures of us all. At one point, I wrestled the camera away and tried to get a shot of her. Suddenly, I was approached from behind by two young guys who wanted me to take their picture. One of them even bared a nipple for the money shot. (Not sure why though ... maybe I egged him on? My memory is a little fuzzy on that front). After the picture was taken, the less insane guy (non-nipple flasher) stayed behind and started chatting me up. I wasn't sure if the goal all along had been to approach us, or if the opportunity just arose, but rather than being unfriendly, I decided to keep conversing with him. (See this is how I know I've matured ... many years ago, I more or less told anyone who came within ten feet of me to get lost. Now I assume that life is a series of experiences and that one should just go with the flow).
Very early into our conversation the question of age came up not so subtly ("So how old are you? I know you're not supposed to ask girls this question but ..."), at which point I grinned and told the guy that not only was I probably way older than he thought I was, but that I was also way older than him. Of course, he then went into the whole "No way" routine while sniffing around to find out what I considered to be old. In response to my statement that I was ancient, he then threw out a guess, which turned out to be almost two years younger than my actual age (well, I guess if you're young, anything approaching forty is ghastly). Finally, I put him out of his misery and confessed that I was a couple months shy of thirty-eight, at which point polite flattery made a brief appearance (Gee, the Oil of Olay is really doing its job).
Continuing to fumble his way around in what was actually a very funny and charming young way, he then said "Wow, your parents must be in shock. I mean, almost thirty-eight and unmarried ... they must wonder what's wrong with you". (Yes, imagine that a woman in her late thirties might have elected to remain single. The horror!) I then looked him straight in the eye and deadpanned "What makes you think I'm not married?" The slow and horrifed shock on his face as I flashed him my ring finger and the ensuing "Oh my God" that erupted from his mouth was priceless ... imagine that he'd wasted at least fifteen minutes trying to make nice to an old married hound! Perversely wanting to bump up the torture a notch or two, I then told him that I had three kids. I even considered offering to show him my stretch marks (although surprisingly, I actually don't have any) but since he really was a nice guy, I thought I'd back off a bit and give him a break. I turned the conversation towards his work and not surprisingly, he eventually announced that he was going to go find his friends whom he'd obviously abandoned for what he thought was a twenty-something single chick.
Later on, the same guy did turn up again, emboldened no doubt by a few drinks and perhaps by his friends' advice to investigate the possibility that he'd uncovered a Mrs. Robinson. At one point when he leaned in to say something, I caught a whiff of his breath and observed out loud that he was a smoker (there is an enclosed smoking room in the club -- gorgeous in all respects save and except for the lack of oxygen within), and asked if he was a regular smoker or a social smoker. Eventually, he ended up inviting me to accompany him into the smoking room which I declined to do initially, but then curiosity getting the better of me, changed my mind.
Now, I don't want to complain, but for some reason, the music that is miked into the smoking room isn't the DJ's selection, but something more along the heavy rock, head banging variety. Is that a stereotype about smokers? Intrigued by the people in the room, and taking it all in visually as we entered, I was unfortunately looking in all directions but down towards my feet. So, I missed the fact that there were a couple of shallow steps down to the main floor. Oops ... I tripped and hurtled headlong into the room, making quite the suave entrance. Young smoker dude caught up to me and laughingly enquired if I was okay, then hurried to assure me (without prompting) that he didn't think anyone had noticed. Oh right, so it was just my imagination that the bouncer was checking me out, undoubtedly making a mental note to spread the word to the bartenders not to serve me any more alcohol (for the record, I'd only had two drinks that night, so wasn't drunk in the least).
After about five minutes of inhaling the special mix of carbon monoxide and nicotine within the room, I'd pretty much reached my limit. We burst out of that room into the fresh clean air. Having exhausted all possible topics of conversation, we then looked for a graceful manner in which to go our separate ways. Points scored for the guy who said something along the lines of "Well, it's too bad you're married, because ... yadda yadda yadda" and then hugged and kissed me chastely on both cheeks good-bye. It was an experience that reminded me that not everyone who frequented clubs was slimy, desperate or on the make. (Although based on what took place as we tried to collect our jackets and file out of the club, I think he was in the minority).
After seeing my friends back to their hotel where we were invited by some army guys to come up to their hotel room for a party (wondering if they thought we might have been hookers since we were hanging around on the lobby couches and party was code for something else) I made my way home on very tired feet (I'd danced for about three hours non-stop).
As I lay in bed in the minutes before I passed out from exhaustion, I wondered what appeal clubbing had for me these days. In my early twenties, I went in search of a good time partying with my friends. Also, I think the possibility of seeing the cute crush of the moment, factored into the excitement. I'm not entirely sure what it is that I like about going out. Admittedly, I love to dance and can't get enough of that in my life, but I'm not certain if that's the sole impetus behind my girls' nights out.
Back in university, there was a group of post-graduates in their late twenties who frequented our Friday night college pub. Most of the other regulars who flocked to the pub lived in residence close by and we all looked forward to the once-weekly event during which we could drink our faces off and blow off a little steam. The post-grads came because that particular pub represented a fun time in their lives, perhaps even the ultimate time, and they were reluctant to let it go. Setting aside the fact that they appeared somewhat ridiculous hitting on girls who were ten years younger than them, it always struck me as kind of sad that the highlight of one's life should be the hours spent in a university refectory converted to a Friday night drinking hole.
But now I can't help but wonder if I'm not doing something along the same lines. Of course to me, it feels significantly different. I don't go out for the same reasons that I did in my youth and I don't react the same way that I did then either. But am I holding onto an activity that should have been laid to rest many moons ago? At one point should one be letting go of a facet of one self?
After we had dinner, we headed over to a club nearby which the girls were curious about (it had been under renovations on their last visit). This particular club hosts a real mix of clientele of all ages and types. However, since it's far more spacious than the previous club we'd been to, people watching (my favourite activity) was virtually impossible.
The most unfortunate part of this club however, was its DJ. We weren't sure if he suffered from ADD or was just trying to be cool, but he never played a song in its entirety. It was pretty annoying to get lured to the dance floor by a tune you loved, only to have it suddenly changed to some unfamiliar hip hop rap song within forty-five seconds. Talk about switch and bait.
We all love to dance, so we occupied a very busy spot on the periphery of the dance floor for much of the night. Periodically J. would take her camera out and snap pictures of us all. At one point, I wrestled the camera away and tried to get a shot of her. Suddenly, I was approached from behind by two young guys who wanted me to take their picture. One of them even bared a nipple for the money shot. (Not sure why though ... maybe I egged him on? My memory is a little fuzzy on that front). After the picture was taken, the less insane guy (non-nipple flasher) stayed behind and started chatting me up. I wasn't sure if the goal all along had been to approach us, or if the opportunity just arose, but rather than being unfriendly, I decided to keep conversing with him. (See this is how I know I've matured ... many years ago, I more or less told anyone who came within ten feet of me to get lost. Now I assume that life is a series of experiences and that one should just go with the flow).
Very early into our conversation the question of age came up not so subtly ("So how old are you? I know you're not supposed to ask girls this question but ..."), at which point I grinned and told the guy that not only was I probably way older than he thought I was, but that I was also way older than him. Of course, he then went into the whole "No way" routine while sniffing around to find out what I considered to be old. In response to my statement that I was ancient, he then threw out a guess, which turned out to be almost two years younger than my actual age (well, I guess if you're young, anything approaching forty is ghastly). Finally, I put him out of his misery and confessed that I was a couple months shy of thirty-eight, at which point polite flattery made a brief appearance (Gee, the Oil of Olay is really doing its job).
Continuing to fumble his way around in what was actually a very funny and charming young way, he then said "Wow, your parents must be in shock. I mean, almost thirty-eight and unmarried ... they must wonder what's wrong with you". (Yes, imagine that a woman in her late thirties might have elected to remain single. The horror!) I then looked him straight in the eye and deadpanned "What makes you think I'm not married?" The slow and horrifed shock on his face as I flashed him my ring finger and the ensuing "Oh my God" that erupted from his mouth was priceless ... imagine that he'd wasted at least fifteen minutes trying to make nice to an old married hound! Perversely wanting to bump up the torture a notch or two, I then told him that I had three kids. I even considered offering to show him my stretch marks (although surprisingly, I actually don't have any) but since he really was a nice guy, I thought I'd back off a bit and give him a break. I turned the conversation towards his work and not surprisingly, he eventually announced that he was going to go find his friends whom he'd obviously abandoned for what he thought was a twenty-something single chick.
Later on, the same guy did turn up again, emboldened no doubt by a few drinks and perhaps by his friends' advice to investigate the possibility that he'd uncovered a Mrs. Robinson. At one point when he leaned in to say something, I caught a whiff of his breath and observed out loud that he was a smoker (there is an enclosed smoking room in the club -- gorgeous in all respects save and except for the lack of oxygen within), and asked if he was a regular smoker or a social smoker. Eventually, he ended up inviting me to accompany him into the smoking room which I declined to do initially, but then curiosity getting the better of me, changed my mind.
Now, I don't want to complain, but for some reason, the music that is miked into the smoking room isn't the DJ's selection, but something more along the heavy rock, head banging variety. Is that a stereotype about smokers? Intrigued by the people in the room, and taking it all in visually as we entered, I was unfortunately looking in all directions but down towards my feet. So, I missed the fact that there were a couple of shallow steps down to the main floor. Oops ... I tripped and hurtled headlong into the room, making quite the suave entrance. Young smoker dude caught up to me and laughingly enquired if I was okay, then hurried to assure me (without prompting) that he didn't think anyone had noticed. Oh right, so it was just my imagination that the bouncer was checking me out, undoubtedly making a mental note to spread the word to the bartenders not to serve me any more alcohol (for the record, I'd only had two drinks that night, so wasn't drunk in the least).
After about five minutes of inhaling the special mix of carbon monoxide and nicotine within the room, I'd pretty much reached my limit. We burst out of that room into the fresh clean air. Having exhausted all possible topics of conversation, we then looked for a graceful manner in which to go our separate ways. Points scored for the guy who said something along the lines of "Well, it's too bad you're married, because ... yadda yadda yadda" and then hugged and kissed me chastely on both cheeks good-bye. It was an experience that reminded me that not everyone who frequented clubs was slimy, desperate or on the make. (Although based on what took place as we tried to collect our jackets and file out of the club, I think he was in the minority).
After seeing my friends back to their hotel where we were invited by some army guys to come up to their hotel room for a party (wondering if they thought we might have been hookers since we were hanging around on the lobby couches and party was code for something else) I made my way home on very tired feet (I'd danced for about three hours non-stop).
As I lay in bed in the minutes before I passed out from exhaustion, I wondered what appeal clubbing had for me these days. In my early twenties, I went in search of a good time partying with my friends. Also, I think the possibility of seeing the cute crush of the moment, factored into the excitement. I'm not entirely sure what it is that I like about going out. Admittedly, I love to dance and can't get enough of that in my life, but I'm not certain if that's the sole impetus behind my girls' nights out.
Back in university, there was a group of post-graduates in their late twenties who frequented our Friday night college pub. Most of the other regulars who flocked to the pub lived in residence close by and we all looked forward to the once-weekly event during which we could drink our faces off and blow off a little steam. The post-grads came because that particular pub represented a fun time in their lives, perhaps even the ultimate time, and they were reluctant to let it go. Setting aside the fact that they appeared somewhat ridiculous hitting on girls who were ten years younger than them, it always struck me as kind of sad that the highlight of one's life should be the hours spent in a university refectory converted to a Friday night drinking hole.
But now I can't help but wonder if I'm not doing something along the same lines. Of course to me, it feels significantly different. I don't go out for the same reasons that I did in my youth and I don't react the same way that I did then either. But am I holding onto an activity that should have been laid to rest many moons ago? At one point should one be letting go of a facet of one self?
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Can I Be the Exception to the Rule?
Ick ... I'm sitting here trying to force feed myself some chicken. Ever since I got ill a few weeks ago, I've lost my appetite, which is highly unusual for me. I've got this giant love of food, love to cook and sample new types of cuisine. I come from a family that believes in sitting down and enjoying our food in copious amounts (thankfully, we've been blessed with good metabolisms). As a mother, I've embraced the whole feeding-the-world reflex.
Since I'm also a firm believer in eating properly and healthily, I generally eat three meals and four or five snacks a day. It's been pretty torturous lately because I just can't get excited about any of the foods I've had in front of me.
A friend of mine and I used to subscribe to the idea of food as a parable for sex. We believed that people's eating habits could tell you a lot about how they were in bed. My friend who was Italian and loved to eat (God we used to pig out at her family's Sunday brunches) claimed that people who constantly watched what they ate or who lacked a gusto for food were lousy lovers. We had extrapolated every possibility of eating habits -- from those who would stick to the same foods regularly (missionary position with the lights out) to those who binged and purged (post-coital guilty feelings which might inhibit enjoyment).
Of course, we all like to think we're great lovers so naturally I've prided myself on my abilities in the boudoir. To put it simply -- I love to eat good food, in great quantities and whenever possible (the phrases "I'm too full" or "I'm not hungry" heretofore have never crossed my lips), I love to cook and am very inventive, creative and daring in my combinations of ingredients, I strive for variety in my diet and believe that eating is more about enjoyment than it is survival.
So what does it say about me that I now don't crave anything at all foodwise, could care less whether you handed me a gourmet meal and that I could probably go for long periods of time without eating?
Since I'm also a firm believer in eating properly and healthily, I generally eat three meals and four or five snacks a day. It's been pretty torturous lately because I just can't get excited about any of the foods I've had in front of me.
A friend of mine and I used to subscribe to the idea of food as a parable for sex. We believed that people's eating habits could tell you a lot about how they were in bed. My friend who was Italian and loved to eat (God we used to pig out at her family's Sunday brunches) claimed that people who constantly watched what they ate or who lacked a gusto for food were lousy lovers. We had extrapolated every possibility of eating habits -- from those who would stick to the same foods regularly (missionary position with the lights out) to those who binged and purged (post-coital guilty feelings which might inhibit enjoyment).
Of course, we all like to think we're great lovers so naturally I've prided myself on my abilities in the boudoir. To put it simply -- I love to eat good food, in great quantities and whenever possible (the phrases "I'm too full" or "I'm not hungry" heretofore have never crossed my lips), I love to cook and am very inventive, creative and daring in my combinations of ingredients, I strive for variety in my diet and believe that eating is more about enjoyment than it is survival.
So what does it say about me that I now don't crave anything at all foodwise, could care less whether you handed me a gourmet meal and that I could probably go for long periods of time without eating?
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