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.

Maternal Reflex

Whew ... I survived the last week of school and my daughter's birthday party. No small feat, the latter, because I had twenty-three very wired kids in attendance.

It really is interesting watching some of the kids ... you really can tell who has been raised in a barn, and who has had a proper upbringing. I know that sounds terribly snobby and echoes our moms and grandmothers, but it's true. I guess I can't exorcise my mother's voice from my head (very Norman Bates-like, I know).

Every time I host an event in which there are lots of children in attendance outside of my kids' circle of close friends, I find myself having to hold back from quizzing my kids closely afterwards th ensure that my kids don't do any of the rude things at others' homes and parties that I witnessed in my own. Quite frankly, I'm always appalled by some of the things I see.

Don't get me wrong ... I don't expect kids to be miniature adults and just sit quietly. My children are certainly active and boisterous as a barrel of monkeys, and I love the element of chaos that they bring into the household. What I don't expect though are children who have this sense of entitlement and who are just plain cheeky and rude. Children who will do things like open your fridge and just help themselves to things without being invited to do so. Children who will decide they like something they see (non-edible) and pocket it without asking. Children, who when you tell them a rule (like, we don't use the word "fuck" in our household), argue with you. I guess, I must be old because I just kept thinking to myself how disrespectful some of these kids were.

Of course, some of the mystery was cleared up when I met the parents. One woman showed up half an hour late (this after she had repeatedly asked me at the drop-off what time the party ended, thereby proving that hearing and listening are two distinct and separate experiences), and completely without explanation or apology. During the torturously long half an hour before she deigned to appear, I had to constantly ask her son to refrain from behaving in a certain rude and decidedly wild manner. I also had to resist from ripping out of his hands some of the things he'd decided should go home with him. I was in no mood to linger and chat with the mom when she finally did show up. Was also mildly appalled that neither parent nor child thanked me or my daughter before they left. This is a woman who is quite well educated and wealthy, and is a respected professional, so stupidly I assumed that she would have some amount of etiquette, but there I go, snobbishly stereotyping again.

The delayed reaction I get to being exposed to kids like that is wanting to pack up and move to a rural neighbourhood where I can raise my children in a natural, simple and unspoiled environment. I just can't bear the thought of my kids turning into rude and obnoxious people.

The Green Eyed Monster

I read an interesting article in the Star yesterday. It told the tale of Matt, a seventeen year old boy who attends a large well-known public high school in Toronto. A quiet,intelligent boy who ran for school council president and won narrowly.

This past winter, Matt came out to his entire school as Jade. Apparently, Matt had always felt that he wasn't really male, and after much discussion with his parents, he elected to present himself as a female to the world this past December. In a gutsy move, six foot four Matt came to school dressed in woman's apparel and a wig.

What I found wonderful, reassuring and surprisingly refreshing was how much support Matt/Jade received on all fronts. First off, his parents, who are divorced, were amazing. I'm trying to imagine anyone from my generation telling their parents that he/she wants to change sexes, even if only clothing and namewise. My favourite quote was about how when his mom phoned his jock dad to tell him about Matt's decision, his dad rushed right over. Not because he was horrified, but because he didn't want Matt to think that he had hesitated for a moment, and not been supportive, loving and accepting. He later took Matt shopping and helped him pick out clothing. underclothing with built-in implants and a wig that would make Jade look pretty. I thought that was pretty impressive, because it must have been a bit weird for a parent to watch his kid transform himself before his very eyes.

Jade also received a great deal of support from the principal of his school, who when informed of his decision, sent out a letter to all staff members explaining what was about to happen and asking them to be respectful and supportive. Jade was then assigned a teacher escort for the first couple of days who helped to field any questions or concerns from others and also acted as a buffer in case of any intolerant individuals.

Lastly, Jade was accepted by her peers. I found that mildly surprising because for some reason, I have this idea in my mind that kids are naturally cruel and intolerant of anything "different". But then again, maybe that was just our generation. Because now that I come to think of it, my step-daughter has a friend the same age as her who is gay and who came out a couple of years ago at the age of about fourteen or fifteen.

I think it's really great that adolescents can come to grips with their sexual preferences at an early age and announce it to the world. In high school, I had a good friend of mine who was a lesbian, but who didn't come out for years. Poor girl went through hell trying to fit in because she thought something was wrong with her. It was all very painful to watch from the sidelines. Now of course, she's happily married to a lovely woman and they have a beautiful four-month-old daughter. She recently commented to me that she felt our present day society is far more accepting and tolerant, at least on the surface, than it was "back in our day". Her partner is about eight years younger than us -- not a huge difference, but enough that she found more acceptance amongst her peers at an earlier age (she went to her highschool prom with a female date).

It's funny, I try to teach my kids to be tolerant, respectful and supportive people, and there are many times where I get blown away because they say and do things that I would never have done in my youth. Even now, I think I'm still way harder, meaner and more suspicious than they will ever be as adults. Should I have been at all surprised by the fact that Matt/Jade isn't being taunted at school? Should I have simply taken it in stride, and not thought otherwise? Granted, I would never have openly made fun of a peer under any circumstances, but would I have been openly supportive either? Without trying to be too Seinfeldesque, not that there's anything wrong with it, but I'm not sure what I would have thought if one of my classmates decided to present himself or herself as a member of the opposite sex. I'm not homophobic and I'm quite sure if one of my kids announced he or she was gay, I would be ultra supportive because all that matters to me is that my kids are happy and secure with themselves.

I have to wonder if maybe I'm envious that today's youth seems to possess a certain self-confidence and self-assurance that I never felt, especially as an adolescent. I think it's amazing and wonderful and it obviously shows that as parents, we are on the right track if we are endowing our kids with this kind of feeling of self-empowerment. To echo my profile, I guess I really am somewhat developmentally retarded because I am only just now discovering this kind of secureness to pursue my own path without worrying and fearing others' recriminations.

All Fired Up

Okay, so I'm on day three of steroid therapy, and it's got me really manic and way bitchier than usual (yes, I know you're all thinking "who would have thought that possible?")

Anyway, so I have to wonder: is it just me/the 'roids or are people really cheeky? Feel free to cast your vote.

To illustrate:

I am currently in the midst of planning my daughter's seventh birthday party. Disorganised person that I am, I always leave this until the last minute and then get in a panic when I suddenly realise that I have to throw the party before school is over as people leave for their summer vacation or kids get tied up with summer camp. (Apparently, it's chic to ship your kids off at the age of seven to overnight camp for a month or more). Anyway, so as I'm alternately chastising myself for being a bad mother and for my poor conception planning skills (why, oh why didn't I have a spring baby?), I finally manage to throw together what might actually turn out to be a terrific party. And just in the nick of time, too as school will be finished next week.

We elected to invite my daughter's entire class to the party as she was friendly with about three-quarters of the boys and girls. The only problem with this plan of action is that I don't actually know all the kids, and more importantly, their parents. There are just some parents whom you NEVER see at any classroom events, field trips or even during the pick-up/drop-off times.

The next day after the invites were passed out, I received a phone call. Bear in mind that I had just spent the previous twenty-four hours in hospital, am now on steroid therapy and am extremely exhausted. The person on the other end identifies herself as being the aunt of one my daughter's classmates, and then proceeds to say that he has a brother at the school in Grade 6 and "it's okay for him to come as well, right?"

I very gently but firmly explained that in fact, the invitation was extended to only one person, and that while I understood their predicament (I really didn't, actually), the party was intended to be for my daughter and her friends only. Also, since others invited had brothers and sisters in the school, I would have to extend this courtesy to others, and we were already beyond the recommended capacity for this particular venue. So sorry, no siblings allowed.

The woman clearly didn't expect to be turned down, so after a long pause said "Okay, so just K. will come then ... one person". As though she were doing me a favour by complying with the invitation request. (See, I told you I was reaching new heights of bitchiness). I replied very cheerfully "Great, we'll look forward to seeing him then".

There must have been a special on imposing yourself upon others that day (two rude requests for the price of one), because the woman then says "So you'll be bringing him to the party and then you'll drop him back off at school". Whoa ... has this kid never been to a party before? Does she not know the drill? I resisted the urge to ask her if I should be purchasing a gift and wrapping it on their behalf, took a deep breath and reminded myself that I was probably reacting in an unduly irrational manner. I proceeded to inform the woman that in fact, I had three kids of my own, was hosting a party and that I therefore couldn't be responsible for her nephew. I told her that each parent was expected to either bring their child themselves or in the alternative, make their own drop-off and pick-up arrangements.

Her response was "Yeah but his mom only wants to pick up her kids once". My initial reaction was one of horror because it dawned on me that the older sibling would probably have to hang out at school for a couple of hours while his brother partied just so that mommy dearest wouldn't have to make a couple of trips. Following that, I became mildly pissed off because she was essentially saying "If you don't do this, then K. won't come", which was just fine with me because K. actually never even made it on the A list to begin with. Of course, I didn't say this. Instead, I simply said "Well it sounds as though it may not work out for your this time around. But let me know if you make other arrangements and K. can make it because we'd love to have him if he can". (His aunt frostily informed me the following day that K. would not be attending the party after all, and implied that his mom was somewhat insulted by my inhospitable manner and failure to accomodate her son).

So I have to question if it's me/the 'roids or if this woman was just pushing the envelope on bad guest etiquette. I did wonder briefly what kind of a caregiver would entrust their child to a virtual stranger. I mean, for all she knew I could have been some irresponsible, alcoholic child beater. Actually, that might not be as bad as the reality -- an irrational steroid charged bitch on wheels.

Life, the Universe and Everything

Okay so there are some things I just don't get.

I guess you could call me somewhat of a ponderer. Well, at least I used to be one. I spent my adolescence mulling over agonising questions that seemingly had no answers. Like the meaning of life, or the reason behind racism. I think it's not an inaccurate statement to say that most young adults/teenagers struggle with these kinds of issues and questions. Youth has the time and energy to be passionate about societal injustices and metaphysical questions.

My parents would, in their own words, essentially tell me to get over myself. What exactly is the point of wondering whether or not people are islands unto themselves? Who cares? What difference could it possibly make to your existence to figure out why people are anti-Semitic or prejudiced against blacks? I remember thinking "how can they not get it? How can they not understand how important an issue this is to resolve?"

Of course, now here I stand, mother to a child who asks endless questions that have no apparent answers. A child, who I think, may one day agonise over what he perceives to be life's injustices. Already, he wonders how it is that we can live in a country where we have so much, when on the other side of the world, people are dying daily from starvation. And while I have the utmost sympathy for my child questioning the morality of eating cows, or the existence of any concrete proof of God, I honestly don't always have the time and the patience to humour him in the way that he deserves. It must be a symptom of old age that we become so burnt out, beaten down and jaded so as to believe that one person's passion isn't enough to change a universal problem. When did we stop believing in David and Goliath?

These days, I find myself pondering less weighty issues, like why it is that no one can refill the toilet paper holder when it is empty. The toilet paper is right there, but they will use it without exchanging the empty roll for a new one. Or why is it that a former jock star basketball player consistently seems to miss the laundry basket when pitching his socks onto the floor. Or what the logic is behind a teenager announcing that she is going out clothes shopping with some friends, but "can you please go to Shoppers and pick up some shampoo because later on when I come home from shopping, I'm going to want to shower and wash my hair and there isn't the kind of shampoo that I like".

To be honest, sometimes I think I stand more of a chance of beating racism and third world countries' poverty, than I do of getting someone to empty the damn dishwasher. Obviously, my passion is misdirected.

Ahhhh youth ...

I feel pathetic. And old.

I went down to Queen Street the other day with my step-daughter. The purpose of our excursion was two-fold. First, we were going to New Tribe (a tattoo and piercing parlour) and then we were going to a particular store to shop. The reason for the pit stop at the tattoo parlour, you ask? Here's where the pathetically old comes in: during a conversation with Celine, I mentioned that I wanted to get both of my ears pierced a second time, and the left one a third time. This is something I'd wanted to do since I was fourteen, but never dared to (could barely face the wrath of my mother when I was thirteen and went off and pierced the first holes). Of course, she egged me on and then offered to come and hold my hand during the deed.

Then she mentioned once again, how she's been thinking of getting a tattoo. I wanted to be supportive, but just couldn't egg her on with the same enthusiasm as she had me. Instead, I remained fairly non-committal and expressed the cons of doing so. Granted, she only wanted a very small tattoo, in a very discreet location. In fact, she was thinking of only doing the outline and not filling it in. It didn't sound so bad, but I knew that both of her parents would freak if they knew, so I couldn't exactly start chanting "Do it! Do it! Do it!" So, I said that if she really was going to go ahead and get a tattoo, that I wanted to be the one to go with her and check out the place to make sure it was kosher. I figured that I couldn't stop her from doing what she wanted to do, unless I pulled out the authoritarian parent card (which would seem weird since I've never done that), but that I could at least exercise some control if I was present.

As it turned out, she didn't end up getting a tattoo. Five minutes en route to Queen Street, when I asked her if she was really and truly sure that she wanted to get a tattoo, she exclaimed "Oh no! I forgot the picture!" She'd left the photo of what she wanted at home (Perfect Circle's symbol). I offered to turn around and go back home, but then she started waffling and saying that maybe she should do a little bit more research before actually going ahead with the deed. Having a degree in Psychology, with a big emphasis on Freudian analysis, I felt that really and truly, this was her subconscious way of declaring that she didn't want a tattoo. In the face of a consenting and supportive parental figure, she found a way to get out of it gracefully. I let her off the hook and gently said "That's a good idea, honey".

I have to admit though that I felt really self-conscious and foolish when we arrived at New Tribe. I had to step up and announce to this very young and very tattoo'ed and pierced teenager at the counter that I wanted my ears pierced. I swear, I could feel her thinking "yeah, like that's really going to fool everyone into believing that you're young and cool". Had I been younger, I might have caved into the perceived peer pressure and signed up for major tattoo'ing!

I felt even older and squarer when the teenybopper presented me with a selection of jewelry for my piercings, none of which included any studs. I found myself wishing that I'd gone somewhere that had some really lovely little bejewelled earrings instead. I picked the smallest and most discreet silver barbells for all three of my piercings. (Again, I could feel the girl thinking "Boooooo-RRRRRRing!").

Afterwards, we had a really good time shopping for the rest of the afternoon. Celine took me to a store afterwards where she'd bought a whole bunch of great tops on sale a few days earlier. The salesgirl recognised her and then kept referring to me as her "friend", as though we were the same age (see, the piercings really did work).

The highlight of my day was walking down the street with her and having every young twenty-ish guy ogle the two of us and nudge his buddy. This would never happen if I was alone, but with her, everyone assumed that we were more or less the same age (well, okay but at least confined to the same decade). It's funny how when you're old, you suddenly revel and relish these moments which, when they happened fifteen or twenty years earlier, you just rolled your eyes.

I know, I know. I am really pathetic. And old. But at least I don't have any delusions about myself, right?

P.S. For those of you who think I am going through mid-life crisis and that the piercings are my way of expressing it, I say "You better believe it!"

EU-thanasia

Okay, so if I had a quarter for every time I've thought the phrase "Just kill me now" lately, I think I'd be able to take a nice little trip to Cancun.

Here are a few key examples of the various times during which that little mantra takes place:

1. This weekend, I drove to and from the cottage within the span of about twenty-four hours. It's not a long drive -- a little over an hour from doorstep to doorstep, but it's not always so peaceful. When I first purchased my car, R had asked that the dealer install a TV and DVD player. I balked at first, but he shushed me and insisted that we would be glad that we had one. At the time, my eldest was 5 years old, my daughter 3 and the baby was only 1. During longer car trips, I would put on a tape and all three kids' attention would be instantly riveted. It was great during trips to Montreal when the kids would get bored after the first couple of hours. It certainly cut down on the usual "Are we there yet? How much longer until we get there? How about now? Now, how much closer are we?"

Inevitably however, what started happening was heated arguments over what tape to play, and of course, as soon as J.M. (the baby) got old enough to cast his vote, it became increasingly difficult to reach a consensus. However, once they'd agreed upon a tape, peace would be restored and the kids would be quiet for the duration of the movie. The half an hour to an hour's worth of silence was like gold to me.

Unfortunately, my kids are exceedingly creative and adept at discovering fresh new ways of torture. Now, once a tape has been agreed upon, there begins a fight over which character each child is going to be. Yes, you read it correctly. For instance, if I put on a Tom and Jerry tape, as soon as each episode begins, the kids call out "I'm Tom! I'm Jerry", etc. Inevitably, someone calls out a character that is apparently more desirous and pretty soon, all I hear is "No, I'm Tom! No, I am! No you're not! I called it first! Mommmmmeeeeeee! I said I was going to be Tom and then she said she wanted to be Tom but I was first and she's being mean". This of course is where the script reads Harried mother clutches steering wheel tightly while softly chanting to herself "Kill me now, please".

2. My step-daughter graduated from high school last week. We were both so proud of her accomplishments and overcome with emotion at reaching such a significant milestone.

On the other hand, the amount of pomp and circumstance surrounding the momentous event was significant. First, we had to attend the Headmaster's Dinner which was a sit-down meal for parents, students and teachers alike. This would have been okay except that we were subjected to the Headmaster's boring speeches. This was followed by each student being called up to the podium to receive a momento (stainless steel key chain) while getting their picture snapped with the director of the senior school and some unknown parent.

A couple of days later, the graduation ceremony took place. I loved seeing the kids as they received their diploma, and wished we could have heard more about them. Instead, for reasons unknown, we were subjected to a barrage of speeches from the Headmaster, the President of the school board, the Director of the school, and lastly from the CEO of Manulife (couldn't figure out the reasoning behind that last one as he isn't alumni or related to staff or parents in any way ... probably the only French speaking dude they could find who has made it big). All of these speeches were meant to be humourous and inspiring, but were simply trite and boring at best.

The ceremony lasted a full three hours in an auditorium that was overly air-conditioned. By hour two, I was starting to mutter those all too familar words "Just kill me now, please" as I crossed and recrossed my frostbitten legs tightly (damn cold room made me want to pee incessantly!)

(What bothered me the most about the whole ceremony was that it was just a private school trying to show off. It didn't have much to do with the kids; they were just a way in which to sell an image).

3. I was helping my step-daughter fill out her application for university residence. At the end of the whole process, she passed her application to R for signature and he then started questioning all of her choices. Not that he didn't have a right to do so, but on the other hand, he chose to watch a basketball game rather than join our earlier discussion in which we had figured everything out. Now, the joke around our household is that Richard suffers from ADHD. He can never sit still beyond about thirty seconds and he asks questions but walks away from you mid-answer, only to pace back furiously a minute or two later and pose the very same question again.

When we started telling him the different choices that needed to be made in residence, like apartment-style vs. residence style, double vs. triple vs. quad vs. bunk loft, we didn't get very far. He interrupted before we'd had a chance to finish our explanation and started firing off questions like "Are there rooms you can have that are like self-contained apartments? So what did you say you wanted as your first choice? You chose residence style vs. apartment style ... what's the difference? What are the chances that you'd get a single? You don't want a single? Why not? So you want to live in what kind of a place? An apartment? No? Oh then what? Do you want to get a single room? No? Why not?" My all-time favourite was when he started questioning each of the choices and would ask for explanations like "What's a double? Oh two people in a room. Okay, so how many people are in a triple?" Hard to believe from this discourse that the man is actually very bright.

So yes, during the firing off all the rapid questions, both C and I started getting irritated, and I would bet money that simultaneously we were both thinking "Just kill me now".


Now the real question that comes up is, does it denote a pacifist's soul that I elect to be suicidal versus homicidal? I mean, why don't I want to kill the offending parties? Is it that I'm a martyr or a masochist?

Next Stop ... Geriatrics

Man, all my kids are getting older!!! Time really is relative because I still feel young and immature. It's like I'm in the Freaky Friday movie -- somehow I woke up up in this middle-aged bod complete with the house, hubby, kids, pets and two cars. Weird ...

My eldest son is starting to have existentialist type doubts about the tooth fairy. My daughter has lost her baby belly and has sprouted these incredibly long pre-teen legs (already!). My youngest son is losing his baby talk (sad because I loved when he would said that he wanted to go eat at Tickle Bear (Pickle Barrel) or he would ask Justin to join him in a game of Pretendo (Nintendo)). My step-daughter graduates from high school this Friday and begins university in September. Where the hell does time go??

Meanwhile, back at the ranch ... not much has changed with me ... or so I like to think. But is that good? I mean, isn't change a good thing? If suddenly, my life is uneventful, hum drum and fairly static, isn't that the first sign of old age?

Further evidence of my middle aged status ... the fact that my big thrill these days is getting mistaken for someone in my twenties. Even if it's obviously complete bullshit. About a month ago, I went out with a friend of mine and she sent me into the store to buy her some cigarettes. I got I.D'd by the clerk who claimed that I looked like I was twenty-two. I think he was just hoping to get me to buy more stuff, but I didn't care (it worked, incidentally).

Today, I went into the LCBO with Richard, my step-daughter and her school friend. The purpose of our visit was to buy them some wine coolers to take to a graduation party tonight. The clerk at the counter asked Richard if he was buying the booze for himself -- implying that he'd hooked up with a bunch of under-aged kids outside who'd asked him to score some stuff for them. When Richard replied by saying that he was buying it for his daughter and her friends because they had just graduated from The Toronto French School, the guy turned to me and said "Congratulations. It's such a great thing that you can speak French". I don't think I need to tell you what a big thrill that was, even though I suspect the guy wasn't exactly Albert Einstein, and may also have been tippling abit of the store's inventory while on the job.

I realised that Justin is already halfway to the age of being able to get a driving licence. How scary is that? Jacqueline will probably start developing in a couple of years. Celine is probably going to lose her virginity with the next six months. I don't think I can bear it all!!!

It was pointed out to me not so long ago that my children are now closer to the age of twenty-one than I am. Gee, there's a lovely thought. Thanks, thanks very much for brightening my day. (That was one of your friends, Snooze, by the way ...)


I was looking over my wardrobe the other day and realised that I still dress in pretty much the same way as I did since I was fourteen. I'm still into cute little mini skirts and tights, or tight jeans and t-shirts with funny logos on them. I still wear my hair long. Should I be making some fashion changes in order to be more appropriately middle-aged? It worries me when I pick up my kids at school and see the eighth graders wearing the exact same skirt that I just bought a few days ago. It elicits that whole panicky feeling where I start frantically asking myself questions like Am I dressing too youthful? Or are they dressing too mature? Is it them? Is it me? Are they laughing at me?

To hell with it all. I'm going to wear my mini skirts into the grave. Old age doesn't mean that I have to become this decrepit, dowdy, boring person with no sense of humour. (I'm told that this is classic middle-age crisis thinking, but I choose to ignore that helpful comment).

On the Effects of Damn Good Drugs

On the way to Montreal a couple of weekends ago, I was fiddling with the radio trying to find a station that played decent music, so I could stay awake (was on the road until 1 a.m.) Finally found one (don't know what it was or where it was coming from) but it played some great tunes from the seventies and eighties. Good quality classic rock like Led Zep, Pink Floyd, Queen, The Eagles, April Wine, etc. God those groups were awesome. They just managed to find that musical groove together, that came from some really great jam sessions.

I had to stop and ponder whether or not we have any kind of music currently that has the same kind of staying power that the old stuff has. I mean, sure, there are some great tunes around that I like to dance to or listen to, but will they have any relevance and appeal ten, twenty or thirty years hence?

When I was bemoaning this fact to a friend, it was suggested that I was becoming an old fart and sounding like the previous generation did. You know, complaining about how "music today is such crap. Back in myyyyyyy day ..." But I really don't think this is necessarily true. Take my step-daughter for instance. Born in 1987 and on the verge of her eighteenth birthday. She discovered her step-dad's old albums (he was a rocker pretty much into the same stuff as I was/am) and she claims that music today isn't of the same calibre and quality as it was back when we were teenagers. She also says that the lyrics written during our era were way deeper and more intelligent. Think about it ... who doesn't know Twist and Shout? It's played at parties and weddings galore. What's the contemporary equivalent for that? I can't think of one.

It occurred to me that there was some connection between the types of drugs used and music that ensued. During the sixties and seventies, musicians were into drugs like good old marijuana, hash, LSD, coke, 'shrooms and the like. They'd toke or coke up and then get together and jam. I personally think that bands like Led Zep probably alternated between weed/hash and LSD. Their music is so wonderfully laidback and relaxed in a way, and not coke hopped up like some of the great energetic tunes by The Stones.

Nowadays, the music is all computer generated and very techno sounding. Jam sessions include computer engineers who goof around with various files to find the right sound. To me, a lot of the music sounds the same -- somewhat hollow and tinny, although catchy. Any connection to the designer drugs that are circulating among the beautiful? Stuff like Ecstasy?

I'm thinking that we need to take a bunch of musicians and get them to smoke a really big spliff of some great weed that might have been dusted every so slightly. Then put them in a room and see what they come up with. I'm counting on something a little more relevant, intelligent and lasting than what we are currently churning out.

Re-Wired

Phew! Almost three weeks without internet ... how did I ever survive?

It's truly amazing how dependent we have become upon technology. Things like letter writing on paper and (gasp) mailing it via the postal system have just fallen by the wayside. I find I become frustrated and impatient when I discover that someone doesn't have email. You mean, I actually have to take time to post something to you and then wait for several days for a response?! And yet, I have an entire shoebox crammed with letters from friends and family members who wrote to me when I first moved away from home to go to university. This after about seven or eight address changes and more than a decade-and-a-half later. I actually schlepped them with me everytime I moved. The shoebox containing printed up emails? Empty. So much for sentimental and meaningful correspondence, so long as I get it today, or better yet, yesterday. It's all about speed now. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am.

Oddly, I missed blogging more than I thought I would. But did it occur to me to sit down and write out some of my thoughts? Of course not. That would just be so passe and anti-techno.

Let's face it ... we're going to hell in a handbasket. But so long as we can bring our IPods, laptops, cell phones and other gadgets along, I guess we won't much mind the journey.

Here's to All Fellow Moms

So it was Mother's Day yesterday. I wanted to wish all moms a happy belated Mother's Day.

A few years ago, a friend of mine disdainfully sneered at what he called these "Hallmark Card holidays". (Of course, this was before his wife gave birth to their three kids, so I'm sure he might have changed his tune a bit). In any event, I absolutely love the idea of a special day devoted to paying homage to mothers.

Not to pat us moms on the back, but ... parenthood can be hellish sometimes. Like when our kids come home with these impossible assignments involving popsicle sticks and oddly shaped cardboard pieces with the unrealistic expectation that we will be able to decipher their teacher's instructions. (I felt like writing the teacher a short note stating that Iassumed the assignment was an astronomy project and that she was welcome to take the popsicle sticks on a short visit to the planet Uranus).

I am fortunate to have three wonderful, happy and healthy kids (healthy is the universal mom code for "I haven't killed or maimed my child yet). They are amazingly bright (even if you subtract the mom bias) and immensely energetic. The combination is absolutely exhausting. I don't get a moment to even think quietly on my own. The questions that my eldest son comes up with are fascinating in their scope and quite well-formed. Unfortunately, they are also difficult to answer in ten words or less, if they can even be answered at all -- especially when he wakes me up before the crack of dawn to pose them. (In the expression "nip and tuck", who is winning, nip or tuck? Why can't panhandlers just get a job? If the Weather Network says that it feels like it's 35 degrees when the temperature is actually 30 degrees, how do they figure out the temperature in the first place? With all the water rushing at Niagara Falls, how come the basin never gets full?)

I have to say though, despite all this false complaining, I can't imagine life without my kids. My days are spent chauffering my children, cooking for them, overseeing homework, mediating in daily arguments, answering endless questions and generally trying to recover from the combined effects of all of the above, but I wouldn't trade in a second of it. Children force you to use every single skill in your possession. They chip away at your small mountain of patience. They push and pull you every which way. They make you think about sterilisation.

But then along comes Mother's Day and they wake you up eagerly to lavish upon you a shower of gifts which they spent hours making for you. My eldest son made me a card which contained a poem he'd composed. It actually brought tears to my eyes (not hormonally induced this time around). My daughter proudly handed me her card which held a coupon redeemable for one car wash, along with a sun catcher she'd spent two whole days creating. My youngest son handed over a beautiful painting and wind chime he'd made, with solemn instructions to bring in the wind chimes during inclement weather.

Later, my eldest son hugged me and whispered that I was the best mom on earth. You just can't buy moments like these. I wish I could bottle yesterday and uncork it one day when my kids are adults and will have long flown the coop. (Or for a day when my adolescent children will be shrieking at me, declaring their hatred for me and their conviction that I've ruined their lives).

Caution: The Contents Contained Herein May Cause Males to Blush and Cringe

At the risk of sounding hopelessly female ... I feel sooooooo fat and gross. And weepy.

It must be something about being in my late thirties. Suddenly, all my hormones are raging and "that time of the month" announces its imminent arrival by sending a wave of good tidings like water retention (extra layer of jiggliness on top of my multi layers of fat ... thanks very much), unpredictable mood swings and major sugar cravings (great way to add to those layers of fat if I cave in).

I never used to understand those PMS jokes but now, I'm a walking ad for them. Seriously, I'll be in my car humming along with the radio when suddenly, out of nowhere, I'll be overcome by a wave of inexplicable sadness and have this overwhelming urge to weep. I feel like some kind of a crazy woman.

I'm hoping that this will wrap itself up in the very near future. My big fear is that it may continue and finish just in time for my daughter to begin her journey on the hormonal highway (God, kill me now). That lovely trip will probably end just as menopause begins. I think there is some kind of perverse plan going on here.

Being and Nothingness

I think I'm blog's answer to Seinfeld. I'm the blog about nothing. Too bad I don't rake in the big bucks like the sitcom's cast did.

I'm trying to figure out where my place in this world is. Yes, I realise that I'm headed for forty, and I still haven't gotten my shit together. Is that pathetic? Or is it better to be entrenched in some kind of dead end, mind numbing, emotionally unfulfilling lifestyle and think that that's enough? Not of course, that I'm implying that my life is anything like that. In fact, most of it is incredibly satisfying and wonderful. I just can't seem to get past the whole thing about careers.

I was raised in a household where what you did professionally defined you personally. I guess I have high standards in that regard. My parents both love what they do. They chose their careers because they feel passionately about it. In fact, my dad lives, breathes and eats his research.

I have yet to find my passion. Don't get me wrong, motherhood is wonderful and I love my children passionately, but the reality is that my kids are growing older and they don't need me in quite the same way. I now have more time on my hands to turn my eyes inwardly to myself. More importantly, I think my kids need to see a mom who focuses on something other than them, and who follows her heart and does what she believes in.

The $64,000 question of course, is what is my heart telling me? I must be fairly deaf because I honestly don't know. I don't know what I want to do or be, but I do know, I don't just want to be a mom.

A friend of mine called today to chat. She is in the fashion industry and has worked as a designer in one capacity or another for years. She honestly loves what she does. Recently, she opened up her own boutique in tony Hazelton Lanes, a move which I applauded because she has wanted to do this for years but never dared. While business is tough at the moment, she is insanely happy. I found myself volunteering to come and help out a day a week as she is unable to find reliable staff. It's not that I see myself with a career in fashion, but more because I guess, I just want to be around someone who is pursuing her dream. Maybe in doing so, some of that magic feeling will rub off onto me and motivate me. Well at the very least, I think some of her designs will rub off onto me -- she's promised me free clothing in exchange for help. So hey, I may not know my place in the world, but at least I'll be wandering around aimlessly dressed to the nines.

On the Effects of T.V. Overdosing

This may sound weird, but I wonder if the loss of the family unit isn't in part, somewhat attributable to computers, portable audio/video devices and multiple television sets.

When I was a kid, we only had one t.v. in the house. Hell, my parents still only have one t.v. Anyway, I remember watching lots of t.v. with the family as a whole. We had certain programs that we liked to watch together. Granted there wasn't that much since we didn't have cable, and local television in Montreal pretty much sucked at the time, but still ... You also had to be pretty much in agreement as to what you wanted to watch.

The other night, after tucking the kids into bed, I camped out in my room in front of the t.v. I think I was watching a movie I'd taped digitally. Richard walked in, took one look at what I was watching and then announced that he would be downstairs in the family room watching the baseball game. We spent the night quite contentedly apart, and then saw each other briefly after our respective shows were over and we were ready to snuggle up before lights out. It occurred to me then that if we were a one t.v. family, we'd either be fighting or one of us would be sucking it back unhappily. Because with Richard, you don't fuck around with the whole spectator sports issue, and I don't give in easily, so we'd either be filing for divorce or we'd be splurging for an extra television set (and if he had his way, it'd be some big ass plasma screen).

In our house, I'm embarassed to say that we own a total of six t.v.'s, three combination vcr/dvd players, one portable dvd player and two computers. The viewing options are pretty limitless. (And this doesn't count the t.v. and dvd player in my car). It's especially amazing when you consider the fact that we so rarely tune in, other than to watch the nightly news or the morning weather. Every now and then we have a family movie night, but other than that, we pretty much don't watch anything. But the underlying and unspoken fact remains that if we all wanted to watch something different and were unable to come to agreement, rather than trying to reach a satisfactory resolution, we could all disband to separate rooms and watch our preferred choice.

I have to then wonder if this means that my children will be deficient in conflict resolution skills. It sounds stupid, I know, but when I lived in residence at U of T, we had some pretty heated arguments over what program to watch in the common room. You had to learn to plan ahead and/or to pitch your cause to the masses. Does the proliferation of video options in my household mean that my children won't learn valuable skills about compromising? Can the disintergration of family units be directly traced to the extinction of the single t.v. households? Sure it sounds crazy but televisions can have an impact on society -- if I recall correctly from one of my social history classes, I do believe that the year t.v.'s became accessible to the general public, birth rates dramatically decreased. And what about remote controls? I've known couples who have had relationship breaking fights simply because one partner has taken liberties with the remote.

So tonight rather than flaking out in front of the t.v. by yourself, do it instead with your significant other. In my case, it means I'll either have to watch a whole whack of sports (I'd rather eat dirt), or become more effective in forcing Richard to suffer through an artsy chick movie (he'd rather eat dirt), but I suppose it might be good for our relationship. Either that or one of us will be dead by the end of the week. In which case, we'd have that much more freedom to enjoy our viewing choices.

By Special Order for Luke

I got a request today which I feel compelled to fulfill. One of the very few who regularly frequents my blog suggested that I write a piece about eyelashes.

Okay, so it's not exactly some weighty intellectual topic like politics in the Middle East or the fate of the Catholic Church under the guidance of Benedict XVI but then again, what the hell would ever give anyone the impression that I could do justice to anything like that?

So eyelashes ... hmmm ... well for starters, I am folliclely-challenged in the ocular region. Every professional makeup artist who has ever worked on me starts clucking his or her tongue when he or she surveys the goods.

My youngest son, on the other hand, has the most spectacular eyelashes. Long, thick lashes both on bottom and top that interlace and frame his eyes beautifully. When he cries, they plump up and look like luscious spiders' legs. (It's a complete mystery where he inherited this eyelash gene as no one in either family is blessed in this regard). I have to stop myself from applying mascara to his lashes. (God knows he already is at risk of developing issues since Jacqueline has been regularly painting his toenails electric blue since he was eighteen months old). It's sort of unjust -- I am not personally blessed with lush lashes like that and I also don't get the pleasure of at least playing with his because they're on the wrong sexed child.

Recently, I visited a friend's salon-spa. As I climbed the stairs to the inner sanctum of feminine beauty secrets, three women emerged from one of the rooms oohing and ahhing. The cause of their delight? A new technology which was being introduced at the spa -- semi-permanent lashes ... as seen on the celebrity stars (J. Lo, Jennifer Aniston, Beyonce Knowles and a few other chicks I've never heard of). So of course, my ears perked up. What's this, you say? I can have lashes and look like a babe, too? Where do I sign up?

One hour later, I emerged from the salon with slut length lashes. Okay, so they actually weren't that long, but to someone who has nothing, the change seemed enormous to me. I kept expecting people to pop out of nowhere screaming "fraud!"

The impact of longer, fuller eyelashes was immediately noticeable. Friends, clients, teachers, etc. would comment that I looked particularly good that day and different somehow, but they couldn't quite put their finger on what was the cause of the difference. I was reluctant to confess that I was in possession of anything less than natural, so I let them continue to stare and wonder.

I guess I have this thing about screwing around with nature. Oh, of course, like lots of women, I manipulate it to some extent. I wear makeup sometimes, I have streaks of colour in my hair and I paint my fingernails. But I guess, I see these things as being typical and widely accepted feminine rituals. Other things like silicone breast implants, hair extensions, Botox, etc. just seem beyond the pale of normal to me. I could never imagine myself partaking and indulging in these practices. Somehow, the lash addition smacked of these though.

I guess I also have issues about vanity. During my childhood, my parents would constantly reiterate that physical beauty was truly only skin deep and that pride in one's appearance was vain, superficial and therefore not a desirable quality. My mom used to point out to me that "beauty shines from within" and that my beauty lay in my intelligence, not in my face. I think this was meant to console me as it was usually said quick on the heels of her looking at me and shaking her head. (I was stuck at the awkward stage for an eternity; I can't count the amount of times my parents used to recite the tale of the Ugly Duckling to me). So by extrapolation, I guess I've concluded that time spent on personal grooming is frivolous and silly and that therefore, I shouldn't covet my son's lashes, let alone actually let someone affix semi-permanent ones to me.

I guess, the only way I justify my case and exonerate myself from the ranks of total vain bimbo is that catering to my appearance isn't the only thing in my life. In fact, it occupies only a very minute part of my daily routine. It sounds hard to believe but there are two women who are regular clients of my friend's spa and they have devoted their entire life to plastic surgery, spa treatments and clothes shopping. They are complete abstractions of reality, something you'd expect to see in a sitcom. Given the choice between taking care of their physical needs and spending time with the children, they actually choose the former. So the day I opt to abstain from some fun activity because it's bad for my fake tits or will ruin my nails, shoot me.

In the meantime, I'm going to flutter my slutty eyelashes flirtatiously and shamelessly.