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.