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!

Carpal Tunnel Syndrome ... Here I Come!

Way too tired to post a coherent entry today.

My step-daughter has been violently ill for a week now and I've been playing nursemaid twenty-four/seven. Last night, I massaged her head and feet for two-and-a-half hours straight, while she whimpered feverishly. Poor kid. I felt completely useless and just offered cold compresses, cold water and Tylenol periodically.

I don't know how parents of terminally ill patients cope. Seven days has been more than enough for me.

This Feel Good Moment Was Brought to You by the Makers of Absolut Vodka

I do some of my best thinking when I am driving, something about not having to focus on external stimuli other than road signs and traffic lights.

Today, while driving to and from my cottage, I was reflecting on my life in general. I realise I spend a lot of time on my blog engaging in idle complaints and amusing bitching, but the truth of the matter is that it's really all in the name of good fun; I've never been happier and more at peace than I am now.

It's funny. I'm not particularly ambitious anymore, or at least not in the way I was during my twenties when I felt I had to prove myself to the world at large. Oh sure, there are things I may want to tackle career-wise at some point in my future since I'm not passionate about the profession I'm currently in, but I'm okay to just let things cook awhile before I go full tilt towards anything.

It's been suggested by some that I am yearning for my youth. I guess, the small slice of myself that I've presented here on my blog certainly seems like evidence in favour of that opinion. The truth of the matter is that I wouldn't trade where I am right now for anything. Sure, I'm middle-aged and look it, but with that comes the security and confidence of not caring anymore. When I was younger, I spent a lot of time feeling tense about so many unresolved issues, and worse, lacking the awareness that I had any unresolved issues.

Growing up, my parents always had this thing about not being content with oneself, because in their opinion, once you were satisfied with something, you stopped trying. Therefore, there was no shortage of criticism, and an absolute drought in the way of compliments. I don't think that's necessarily true, based in part on my experiences as a parent, and largely upon my own personal life. I realise that I've travelled a fair bit on my own path to self-development, but that there is still a long way to go. Having gotten as far as I have has only whetted my appetite to keep going.

It took me so long to try and find my place in the world, and now having found it (okay, not professionally though) has brought me such peace of mind and (I hesitate to even use this word) joy.

I realised yet again today on my drive home that happiness has nothing to do with the external circumstances (unless of course, you're in life-threatening or extreme situations eg. starving to death, war, etc.). I'm not happy because I may live in a nice house or drive a big ass truck or any of those other frivolous, materialistic and completely irrelevant facts. The happiness comes from somewhere or something that has little to do with what your living situation may be and more to do with a sense of self.

Having spent more than half of my life struggling with issues of what my self was and where my place in the world was, I've had many moments of feeling deeply unhappy, despite any of the positive external factors in my life.

It's deeply liberating to me now to come to the realisation that so long as I'm alive and own little nuclear family is okay, nothing else really matters.

So just for today, I'm going to be corny and grateful to whatever powers that be that let me find my way to where I am now. Tomorrow, I'll go back to being my usual bitchy self on my blog!

Does Anyone Remember Good Old Rover?

I'd like to throw my children's Tamagotchis out the window.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with what I am talking about -- they are these little computerised toys, that first emerged on the market about ten years ago, and are now experiencing a resurgence in popularity. Essentially, it is is a virtual pet. You start off with an egg that hatches and then nurture it through three other stages of life. The goal is to keep it happy and healthy for as long as possible by feeding it, praising it, playing with it and cleaning up its poop. Through connecting wirelessly with other Tamagotchi owners, you can if you're lucky, raise a second generation Tamagotchi, which apparently is the desired goal..

In any event, my daughter was given a Tamagotchi as a birthday present by one of her friends. She was at first indifferent to it, but then met someone at day camp this summer who had one and explained the joys of owning one. Upon her return from camp that particular afternoon, she unearthed hers from the toybox where she'd carelessly discarded it and the two have been inseparable ever since.

So as a parent, I should probably be behind this kind of a toy because in a way, I guess it's like that old Home Ec assignment of carrying around an egg and treating it like a baby. Ostensibly that assignment is to teach teens how difficult and time consuming having a baby can be, hence making them more responsible sexually, and also appreciative towards their parents for all they've endured. Not sure if that experiment works, but I'm pretty sure that Tamagotchis won't accomplish that goal.

In my daughter however, it has elicited some real highs and lows. The high point was when her egg hatched to become a girl (after an endless string of boy pets). It was quite cute watching her croon with delight, then take off like a shot yelling to her brother "It's a girl! I had a girl!". I felt like I was watching some maternity ward drama.

The lowest point came when her girl died a week later. She cried inconsolably and intensely for about fifteen minutes straight. Now her other male pets had all died, without incident or emotion; she promptly reset the toy and waited for the next egg to hatch. Quite clearly, she'd projected something of herself onto this girl pet of hers and it broke her heart when it didn't make it. After holding her while she cried herself out, I then had to watch her go through the period of guilt and wondering "Did I not feed it enough? Did I feed it too much? What did I do wrong?" It was a terrible sight to behold. And the weird thing is that you actually get swept up into it all. I held her hand and told her that sometimes accidents happen and you don't always understand the logic behind it. My first instinct was to tell her that she could have another girl at a later time, but I held back because I thought how if one of my kids were to die, the last thing I'd want to hear is that I could have another. I told her just about everything under the son except that her pet had gone to a better place. And really, how bizarre and surreal a tableau is that. I mean, the thing is an image borne of a computer chip, for crying out loud!

My eldest son is now lobbying for a Tamagotchi of his own and my daughter is asking if she can have another one as well, so she can increase her chances of having a second generation pet. Moments like these make me think our society is going to hell in a handbasket. Are we really learning how to be properly attached to something if our interactions are limited in such an impersonal and electronic way?

Ambivalence

Okay, so hot on the topic of being passive versus active and agressive, comes the fact that I sometimes think I'm a wishy washy kind of person; slow to make up my own mind, and very willing to go along with others' desires. Not sure if this passivity finds its roots in my childhood (yes, I know ... here we go again, with my whole mantra of "blame the parents").

Even physically, I don't pick a side. I'm quasi-ambidextrous. Ostensibly, I write with my left-hand, but that's only really because I use it more often and am therefore faster. I write very legibly and neat with my right hand, and even do calligraphy right-handed (mainly because as a teen I would 'borrow' my dad's calligraphy set without his consent and didn't want to ruin the nib lest my thievery got discovered). I can bat both ways, catch and throw with both hands with the equal strength and accuracy, play guitar right-handed (probably left as well although I've never tried), and do other things with both hands where most people only do it with their dominant ones (before your dirty minds get carried away, I was thinking of things like wiping down counters, carrying bags, eating, drinking, using knives, etc.)

I often catch myself going along with someone else's plan rather than actively making one of my own. Sometimes, I think it's because I lack the passion and interest that others do, and people around me can sense that their desires are stronger, so they act as the guiding arm. It makes me wonder sometimes if my apparent "easy-goingness" (sic) is just really falsely labelled indecisiveness.

What Breed is Your "Dog"?

Was engaging in some banter with a quasi-friend/acquaintance today regarding some men's delusions of grandeur vis-a-vis their (ahem) equipment.

I recounted a story about how we used to have this Yorkshire terrier aptly named Peppy. Peppy weighed in at a whopping four pounds soaking wet, but suffered from canine schizophrenia or something, because she seemed to think that she was a German Shepherd or Irish Wolfhound or something. She would strut up and down the street and growl ferociously at pit bulls and threaten to take them on, seemingly ignorant of the fact that these dogs could easily make dinner (or a light snack) of her within seconds flat. Talk about having a problem with body image!

So discussions with my friend quickly turned to who might be a Yorkie and who might be a German Shepherd, and all the variations in between. And how disappointing it can be, if a man leads one to believe that he is a German Shepherd, when the real truth is that he should be so lucky as to aspire to be a Yorkie. How exactly can people get so deluded about what they look like?

(I had an unfortunate memory of a man I once knew who lay claim to being of fairly mythic proportions. And then suffered from nerves when it came time to "produce". It became immediately apparent that he was probably half the man that he'd put himself forth to be. It wouldn't have mattered so much to me, but then I couldn't help but wonder what else he'd told me that was an obvious mistruth).

I don't want to be labelled a sizist, and truly it really isn't all about size, (although I think there is a certain minimum requirement). but to start off a relationship with gross misrepresentation is never a good thing. So men please, if you're a Chihuahua or a Yorkie, own up to it.

Sisyphus Was an Idiot

I have such amazing friends. Of course I know this, but then every now and then something happens to remind me once again of how wonderfully lucky I am to be surrounded by the fabulous people that are in my life.

I had this great conversation today with a close friend whom I've known for about ten years. We see each other every couple of months for a lunch or dinner (bonding over food ... what better past-time?) and she always has something amazingly insightful to say. In this case as I was fretting that perhaps I'm a passive person and should be spending more time actively seeking out my next career rather than just sitting around waiting for someone or something to just drop it into my lap like some kind of rich plum, she interrupted me gently and tried to redirect my thinking.

It's funny ... you do get tunnel vision and tend to funnel everything through one way. I've been feeling mildly guilty for a number of reasons. Firstly, I've been enjoying motherhood so much and haven't spent any time towards thinking about me professionally in years. Secondly, now that I'm beginning to feel that there is something else for me out there other than parenting and/or my current career, I haven't spent any time trying to figure it out, let alone pursue it. In other words, I haven't set any goals for myself. And I've always been led to believe that the absence of concrete goals is a bad thing.

My dear friend suggested that being active vs. passive is not necessarily an on or off thing. She also said that I shouldn't feel guilty because I'm just giving time to just being, as opposed to doing. Now, this all sounds really basic I know, but the practice of this theory isn't so easy. I've been programmed to believe that productivity lies in the carrying out of something. My friend dared to suggest that the fact that I like to spend time doing things like crossword puzzles or reading, rather than laundry, doesn't make me lazy. Rather, it means that I'm simply taking time out for myself, and that in and of itself is really important and valuable. Of course, we all know this at some level, but we don't really necessarily see it as vital and make our quiet quality time a priority. When pressed for time, what's the first thing that doesn't make the cut? It's not laundry, or dinner, that's for sure.

What my friend said was that I need to rethink my whole view of passivity/inactivity. That in fact what I am really doing is nurturing myself and that in so doing, the whole career thing will probably fall into place at some point. She went on to suggest that the reason I haven't figured it out is that I'm not ready yet, and that I'm forcing the issue. So that by being what I term 'passive', in some ways would be productive and lead to activity.

Interesting ... and a part of me, I must admit, felt that she was just humouring me like a good friend, instead of shrieking "You're right! You're a lazy ass, so get off your butt and DO something". It made me wonder if I wasn't just seeking out a license from others, an approval or sanctioning of sorts, for me to continue in the manner that I have. See? Some reflexes never go away.

In any event, regardless of whether or not she is just being a supportive friend, rather than a disapproving critic, I am going to try to stop pushing that rock uphill, and just chill out for awhile.

My Dog Ate My Homework a.k.a A Good Workman Always Blames His Tools

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

I hate technology. It's supposedly designed to make your life easier, when it often seems to make it a living hell.

Twice, I was in the middle of composing my next post, and it was going to be mind blowing and brilliant (hey, some of us have sexual fantasies and some of us just have fantasies), when my computer crashed before I was able to either publish or save the damn thing.

But then again, what can I expect? I own what I have been told is a dinosaur, as my computer is (gasp) about seven years old. It's really kind of scary when you think how quickly one's equipment becomes obsolete.

I feel so old when I think that when I was a child, no one had a PC. When I was fourteen, I enrolled in a computer sciences class at school and to write our programs, we had to fill out those little cards with an HB pencil and then feed it into the computer to read. Then when I was fifteen, my dad brought home a PC from work. We were the big shooters on the block because it was probably about three years before they hit the market and most people started shelling out the big bucks to get them.

The funny thing was that I resisted using a computer during university, clinging doggedly to my Smith Corona typewriter. About a year or two post-graduation, I finally broke down and bought a computer and then just turned my back on my faithful typewriter. I've now gone through about six computers since then and am contemplating throwing this one in the dumpster because of its non-performance issues. The other day when I was storing some stuff in my attic, I tripped over my Smith Corona. On a lark, I brought it downstairs with me, dusted it off, removed the cover, inserted a sheet of paper into and turned it on. My baby revved into action right away. After all these years (and sadly, it has been many), the thing still works impeccably.

What ever happened to the old adage "if it ain't broke, don't fix it"?

Blogging about Jogging and Snogging

Read an article in The National Post yesterday about research into the link between jogging and sex. The actual heading of the article was "Running Can Make you a Sex God: A Study". Naturally this piqued my adolescent interest and of course, I read this before tackling the article about King Fahd's successor.

According to the article, "people can not only run their way to a better sex life, but also have sex to become better runners". Apparently, the study conducted applied to males only (of course), although it did go on to speculate that women tend to compete better after orgasm, and hence stand to gain "an athletic advantage" from having sex before jogging. Hmmm ... interesting hypothesis. So to recap: if men are allowed to run on a regular basis, they will be better in the sack, and if women want to keep up with men's jogging pace, they should have sex (or at least mind-blowing orgasms in whichever way they can achieve them). Doesn't this smack of some kind of male-perpetrated conspiracy to try and get more sex and free time to "jog"?

Hey, not that I need convincing of course since I'm part nympho. But after doing laundry, making meals, squiring the heirs to the dynasty hither and thither and then being a sex goddess by night, exactly when am I supposed to find time for jogging?

Professional Venting

So while my friends get to use the internet for exciting things like phone sex enhanced with cyber imagery, I am online completing some stupid continuing education courses to maintain my license. Basically, it's just the industry's way of soaking us for more money ... as if we don't already pay enough for the privilege of being licensed agents. My only saving grace is that thanks to technology, I now don't have to actually go into the classroom anymore to complete these bloody courses. That was a torturous experience because there was always one keener who somehow thought that it was all going to be an enriching educational experience, as opposed to the farce that it is.

I may sound cynical, but if the powers that be in our industry really cared about keeping us current, they would actually change the content of the courses if only ever so slightly. Since I do the online education for both myself and my husband, I have done all of these courses several times overs and despite their falsely advertised name of "RECO Update", they haven't altered within the last four years. This when there have been a number of changes within our industry that need to be addressed.

The thing that ticks me off is that I get to pay for the privilege of repeating a course deemed to be a "requirement". Needless to say, I blasted them on the optional survey. I mean truly, why don't we just cut out the middleman, and I'll just mail the Council my cheque without asking for them to give me a lame ass excuse for taking more of my hard-earned money.

I hate people who can't just come out and be up front. I'd have no problems if the government and regulating boards would just say "We need more money. We are bumping up your member's fee 25%", rather than saying "Oh we feel that the members need to be better educated and informed so as to protect the community at large, so you need to spend an extra $500.00 or more on courses before we reissue you your license". Yeah, right ... that's why they make it so easy to 're-educate' yourself by offering courses online that can be taken by anyone masquerading as the member.

God, I have to find a new career!

P.S. In case there's any doubt in any one's mind, I am PMSing. Make a note of the date in your calendar, make the appropriate calculations and then stay clear of me each month at the the same time.

The Inherent Problem with the Itty Bitty Bikini

Someone please explain to me the evolutionary purpose of pubic hair??!!

(Okay, I know ... this is hardly esoteric and deep material, although what the hell make anyone think they could expect that kind of stuff here??!!)

Seriously, what exactly is the point of hair in the nether regions? It's obviously not for warmth, otherwise we'd have been born with it. Is it supposed to be like raising a red flag to a bull -- a sort of come-hither-look-what-I've-got-hiding-under-here message? And if that's the case, why do we then devote so much time (and so many products) towards removing it?

And not to get too graphic or anything, but for those who have seen me naked and remember the experience (my eyes! my eyes are burning!!), being Asian (and according to Philippe Rushton therefore more highly evolved), I don't exactly have huge quantities of hair other than on my head. I don't even have hair on my legs. And yet, here I sit debating whether or not to wax before my cottage weekend during which I shall spend the majority of the time clad in my pornographic silver bikini.

The reason for my private debate? The last time I donned this bikini, it was pointed out to me quite indiscreetly that I had a few short ones popping out of the sides (I've seen eye patches bigger than this thing for crying out loud, so naturally something is going to show). Personally, I don't know what this person was doing with his face so close to my crotch that he'd notice this kind of thing but then again, maybe it is glaringly obvious to all.

But as I sit here trying to muster up the courage to wrench the little buggers out by their roots, I am perplexed as to why in the world we in even have them in the first place?

It's Not All About You

It's an interesting experience, this whole blogging thing. I now understand what Snooze was always talking about re. the worry about censoring content, etc.

My earlier post vis-a-vis old boyfriends and lovers elicited a few reactions from some, none of which were anticipated. Obviously, the intent to simply detail how I've matured within the past decade-and-a-half fell flat in the face of some of the details about my amorous affairs.

In this particular case, a number of my ex-lovers suddenly contacted me, wanting to know if in fact they were the subject matter of my blog. One in particular, was very sweet, because he was really concerned that he'd put me through terrible emotional stress, and although he didn't remember doing this (duh -- maybe because he had always been a fabulous, considerate friend and lover, albeit with a shoddy memory bank), he was worried that it had somehow stuck with me through the years, and I was still nursing my wounds. Or maybe he was worried that I was going to make him pay for his past transgressions (even, I am not that evil).

Anyway, it's reassuring to know that people actually read my blog and pay attention. Please know however, that if I have an issue with you, it would be taken up privately with said person, and not aired openly for all bloggers to read.

Flipping to the A Side

Ugh ... my mother-in-law is visiting me. For the record, we are on day 10 and counting. Her date of departure is somewhat up in the air, but she has so kindly offered to stay until sometime next week. Just how many swear words can you string together in one sentence?

I know I shouldn't complain. After all, she is a nice lady and a great grandmother to my children. She would also do anything for me, which is wonderful and heartwarming. It's not that I don't love her, but it's quite an adjustment to make whenever she comes for one of her visits.

For one thing, she's an avid soap opera fan. I thnk she watches four a day religiously. The hours between 1:00 and 5:30 p.m. are spent on perched on the edge of my family room couch, nodding her head vigorously to the asinine cliched scripts of All My Children or Days of Our Lives or whatever the hell it is that she watches (take your pick ... they all churn out the same idiotic far fetched drivel).

For another thing, she is somewhat of a negative thinker. The glass is never half full. She came back from a one week, all expense paid vacation to Vegas, courtesy of my brother-in-law and his family, in celebration of her eightieth birthday. Not once did I hear a "Gee, I'm so lucky that someone cares enough about me to take me to Vegas and make sure I have a good time". All I heard was her complaints about how my brother-in-law and his wife raised their kids, how they were made to wait for thirty minutes prior to checking into their hotel and how much of a prima donna she felt one of her grand daughters was. Yeah, okay, so she got to go see Celine Dion, Wayne Newton and gamble to her hearts' delight (she can spend hours at the one armed bandits), but someone else is a prima donna?

Anyway, I suppose I'm focussing somewhat on the negative by complaining, and God only knows, I don't think of myself as being a negative person. I should instead, try and think about all the great things she brings into my life. It's hard though because sometimes we all end up gritting our teeth when she blathers on and on about something that has bugged her (a long list). But okay, here goes:

Good Things My MIL Brings to My Life

1. She is obsessive about cleaning my kitchen, hence I can slack off whenever she is around (although when she is gone, reality sure hits hard);
2. She is always willing to help out and watch the kids -- no easy task if you've ever been subjected to the Terrible Three;
3. She never forgets a birthday or anniversary and always sends a card containing a cheque -- also no small potatoes when you consider the fact that she has nine grandkids;
4. No matter how much of a pain in the ass we have been, she has always helped us out in times of trouble, and there have been a few, and more importantly, she has never once reminded us of what she has done, nor made us feel that it was done begrudgingly. To me this is probably the most amazing thing since my parents consistently go out of their way to make me feel as though I should be indebted to them eternally for the most basic things (like feeding me);
5. She thoroughly enjoys and loves my kids unconditionally.

Well, that was a good exercise for me. Because really, it makes a visit with my MIL seem somewhat more tolerable in the face of our history together. Of course, as soon as I finish this and go downstairs and subject myself to about fifteen minutes worth of her, I may be fleeing back up here to review my list as though it were somewhat of a mantra, but the important thing is that I at least have a list, right?

Retrospect

I was cleaning out my basement the other day and came across a whole bunch of stuff from my university days.

Flipped through a number of my term papers, some of which I now realise were complete and utter horse manure. No wonder I got so many B plusses during my academic career. Well, what could one expect given that I would be frantically pounding the conclusion out on my typewriter at sunrise on the due date?

Two things I found that made me realise I've come a long way since my early twenties:

Firstly, I unearthed a file folder containing copious amounts of correspondence from an old boyfriend. We were together initially for a year, spent a year apart and then got back together briefly. He used to write me notes quite a bit, both when we were together and when we were apart. Sentimental person that I am, I kept each and every one of his letters. I flipped through and read a few of them as I stood in my dimly lit furnace room. It was hard to believe that there was once so much love professed between the two of us, and so much pain involved around the extricating of one from the other. I remember when we first broke up, I felt as though a part of me had been wrenched violently away. It took me years to get over this man.

Now, re-reading his letters, I felt strangely divorced from both him and that part of my life. It was as though I was reading something belonging to someone else. I wondered if I should dispose of the file lest one day my kids come across it and realise that there had been someone else before their dad. Would it crush them to know that their mother had once upon a time contemplated marrying another man?

As I continued to root around in the box, I also came across a couple of my journals from university. I flipped to the pages which contained my thoughts before I began first year, as well as those from the early months. It was weird because a great number of entries dealt with my feelings about this one guy that I'd had this on again, off again pseudo-relationship (polite term for random sexual encounters). I spent hours ripping my hair out trying to decipher what he was feeling and thinking when he would insist that he really cared about me, but that he wanted to remain just friends (this after we'd slept together) and didn't want to get tied down with a relationship. He kept telling me that he was seeing other girls, but would get upset when he would see me with other guys. Stupidly, I took this to be a good sign -- evidence of his feelings for me, instead of some stupid male territorial issue. The journal entries are rife with paragraphs devoted towards analysing what his fear of commitment denoted and how I should just be patient and show him how much I cared. As an older, wiser and far more experienced woman, I had to resist the urge to shriek scathing recriminations to my younger self. "Just how stupid were you to let him treat you that way?"

The crushing blow came when, without warning, he suddenly acquired a girlfriend -- nice girl with all the right credentials (i.e.very unlike me, i.e. virgin), and I was therefore forced to come to the conclusion that he didn't have strong objections to relationships in general, but that he just didn't want one with me.

It was moderately painful reading some of this stuff as it was proof positive that I'd once been either naive enough or insecure enough to allow someone to jerk me around for a prolonged period of time. I also couldn't believe that I was so stupid as to bill it as being patient and perseverant, as though what I was doing was an act of virtuosity rather than one of complete idiocy.

It's very difficult when you have to stop and consider how much crap you've taken in your life that you shouldn't have. During the course of my yearlong relationshp with my letter-writing boyfriend, I also endured certain things without complaint or comment which I now wouldn't even put up with on a single date.

So where does this propensity for being the grateful recipient of ill treatment come from?

While I don't have regrets about much in my life (even the fact that I had those two relationships), since all of what we experience is what brings us to the point where we are today, and I wouldn't want to trade on where I am today for anything, I still worry about why it is that I didn't consider my needs to be as important as those of others. Given that I have this kind of a past, how do I teach my kids? What if one day they let someone walk all over them because they don't feel secure enough or good enough to demand better treatment? How can a fish teach a fledgling to fly?

Correct Conversation 101

I've come to conclusion yet again that men are just plain dumb. Or is it just my man?

You'd think after thirteen-and-a-half years together, he'd figure it out, but apparently the learning curve for him is a long one. Or maybe it's because he's taken so many blows to the head with the frying pan.

Allow me to provide all you lost men out there with a good script.

When your wife dons an outfit, it is in bad form to say to her "Well that dress looks better on you. It makes you look thin. Not like the other one you just had on". This causes said wife to look in the mirror and wonder if she is fat. Yes, I know this sounds just so female, but you see there is a certain amount of history around this whole scenario.

The worst thing a man can do when asked by a woman how she looks, is to survey her closely up and down, make repeated requests for her to turn every which way, open his mouth to say something, interrupt himself by looking down at his watch and then say quickly "You look fine. We'd better go now or we're going to be late". The translation of this is "You actually don't look so hot, but if I say that, I know you'll start going through your entire wardrobe and we don't have time for that now".

The other day I got dressed and came downstairs to begin my day. My husband was unusually silent after giving me the once over during breakfast. I have to state firstly that I was wearing the dress that apparently didn't look as good on me as the skinny one. After I backed the car out of the driveway and was on my way to my kids' camp, my phone rang. It was hubby with some work-related question, after which I commented to him that I have never felt comfortable wearing this particular dress after he'd insinuated that I looked fat in it, and that I now worried that I looked frumpy and fat to the rest of the world at large.

Here is where all you men should be taking notes. When a woman says this, the correct answer is "Really sweetie? I don't know why. You look completely hot, sexy and irresistible in that dress. How could you be anything otherwise?", not "Why do you wear it then?"

In similar fashion, the following are not considered to be a good compliments:

"You look good for someone who has had three kids"
"That's a flattering outfit. It hides your tummy"
"I like your haircut this time better than I did the last one" (particularly if you say this every haircut)
"You're not fat. Just look at so-and-so" (so-and-so has about fifty pounds on me)
"Don't worry about what you look like. Most people aren't very good looking anyways".

Okay, so it may sound as though I'm completely and utterly vain and shallow since all of these comments have to do with my appearance. The reason for this is that I don't doubt that I'm reasonably intelligent. Hell, my parents essentially told me throughout my childhood to give up on what I look like and concentrate on my wonderful brain instead. That's got to count for something since my parents never gave out compliments.

Will I sound terribly anti-feminist if I say that lots of women don't just want to be thought of as smart, capable people, but also as beautiful, sexy and desirable people?

A Pound of Flesh

Had a day containing events only slightly more preferable to the Chinese Water Torture.

I had promised my step-daughter that I would take her shopping for bathing suits as she desperately needed a few for her job as camp counselor. If ever our kids reflect back upon the past with lingering doubts as to whether or not they were unconditionally loved, I hope that they recall moments such as these.

In the first place, shopping is my least favourite activity (unless it's for books). In the second place, I haven't purchased a bathing suit for myself in years, much less a bikini. Seriously, for awhile I was wearing my maternity bathing suit (mind you, it's from Paris and is totally gorgeous, but it's still maternity wear for God's sakes). For those who are not acquainted with my step-daughter, or haven't seen her in awhile, allow me to paint you a little picture. She stands about five feet nine inches tall (all legs), weighs in at 115 pounds, and is drop dead gorgeous. It is hard to sit there and watch her pop out of the dressing room in barely there swimwear, only to have her ask if the pink bikini makes her look fatter than the black one.

Since, as I mentioned before, I lack any appropriate swimwear, I was coaxed into trying on a few numbers myself. Picture me in a claustrophobic, terribly lit dressing room struggling into what my step-daughter described as being a skanky bikini (she meant it in a good way, apparently). Then while surveying myself in the mirror (not a skinny one either) and wondering if I could pull it off, I would hear her calling me, asking me to come out of the dressing room so I could see her in whatever suit she'd tried on. So yeah, I had the added stress of having to dash out in an itty bitty two-piece so I could log in my opinion. Fortunately, I only tried on a couple of suits to her dozen (in sizes about five times bigger than hers, too, I might add), so the humiliation factor was somewhat contained. The highlight was when I came out shyly in this pornographic white bikini and she nodded her head approvingly with the statement "I'm into it". To my question "But isn't it a little too hello-these-are-my-breasts?", she gently replied "That's the whole idea", completely oblivious to my fear of unmentionable body parts making themself known to the general public at any given point in time.

It was either an example of unconditional trust or sheer insanity on my part, but I elected to purchase the bikini that she'd deemed to be acceptable. I kept reiterating though that if I found myself poolside and people were pointing and snickering, I would come after her ass with a vengeance. She shrugged her shoulders and just proceeded to the cash register without comment, leaving me with the lingering question as to what that meant.

I kept flashing back to my university days when my mom used to take me clothes shopping. My mother and I are built quite differently. She has a very petite feminine frame to my Amazonian one (the latter is my dad's description, not my own). At the age of twelve, I was already starting to outgrow her sweaters and shirts.

Now I could be paranoid, but I swear that my mom used to delight in taking me shopping in the days when I was a little more well-endowed and couldn't fit into most dresses, jackets and tops comfortably. We used to get adjacent dressing rooms and she would pick out identical dresses for us to try on. Mine was always about four sizes larger than hers, of course. When we would emerge from our rooms, she would look fabulous, and I would either be wearing my own clothes because I couldn't squeeze into the dress, or I would come out looking completely ridiculous. Since I'm not exactly well proportioned, the dress would be straining in the bust and shoulder areas. It really was a crushing experience for a twenty-something-year-old to have her middle-aged mom look better in an outfit. From the look of glee on my mom's face, I think it was a completely pleasurable one for her though. Actually, she used to entertain herself during my visits by showing me her latest purchase and then suggesting that I try it on, despite my protests that it would never fit, after which she would laugh at the sight of me.

(Thankfully, things evened out for me a bit after having had my kids. While I still have somewhat of a problem finding dresses because I lack that perfectly proportioned feminine figure that designers based their prototype upon, I don't look so ridiculous anymore. Time and menopause has also altered my mom's figure so that she is now more bottom heavy than she used to be, and therefore can't fit into any of my stuff. For some reason though, she is still under the delusion that I am five sizes bigger than her and continues to purchase me clothes that essentially fit me like burlap sacks).

With all of this in mind, I followed my step-daughter to the checkout counter with my bikini clutched tightly in hand, all the while wondering if she just didn't care what I bought for myself, and was simply humouring me, since after all, I was footing the bill for the whole shopping expedition.

I love my step-daughter to death, but should one of my breasts make an unexpected appearance, I'm going to kill her.