Pound Foolish No More

I have this huge piggy bank of my own which stands about three feet high. It's amazing how quickly it fills up. Every four months or so, I start to empty it out and spend hours separating change and rolling it. I generally concentrate on the loonies, twoonies and quarters since the pay-off is larger for the amount of backbreaking gross work it takes (one year, we paid our mortgage for several months with the change that had accumulated).

Sometimes I enlist my kids to help out, but since the task often takes hours to fully complete, they start losing interest within the first hour. What usually happens is that I dump out the contents of the piggy bank onto a newspaper, separate out the bigger change and roll that, and then deposit all the smaller change back into the piggy bank. This means that I've accumulated a ton of pennies. I know it's Hallowe'en today, but we never have that much of a demand for Unicef that I can rid myself of the thousands of pennies in my possession.

There are those Cashstop machines at the grocery stores that I've kept passing but have never used. Recently, I stopped and checked it out. The surcharge is almost ten cents per dollar counted (nine and eight-tenths to be exact). I was pretty astounded when I first saw that and thought "Forget it. I'll just do it myself. That's way too much money to lose".

But then I thought about it. I have A LOT of pennies and the bank will only accept them for deposit if they are rolled into those plastic sleeves. I usually only buy the sleeves for everything but pennies, because they cost a dollar (at the dollar store of course) for a package of ten. It's fine to pay that if you're going to roll loonies and twoonies because you spend a minimal amount to net out a fairly large chunk of cash, but in the case of pennies, I realised that one package of sleeves would only roll five dollars worth of change. I would therefore be losing one-fifth of my money, not to mention the amount of time it would take to carry out the gross and grimy task (I hate how mucky my hands get within minutes of touching all that change). How many hours would it take to roll the number of pennies that I had and couldn't I use that time in a way that might make me more money than I was trying to save?

Once I realised that it was more cost-effective to use the machine for the pennies, I shovelled all the pennies into a large strong canvas bag and humped it down to the store. It was a pretty staggering weight. I thought I was going to get a hernia trying to lift it into my car.

As it turned out after only ten minutes of depositing all my change into the machine, I ended up with a little over $440.00 worth of pennies. The surcharge was $40.00 (as compared to the $88.00 it would have cost me in plastic rolling sleeves) and it was worth every penny in my opinion. That and the experience of getting out to the grocery store where everyone gawked at me and my big bag of change made it all worth it.

P.S. I had some sexagenarian attempting to flirt with me while his elderly wife looked on ... I'm not sure if he was turned on by the fact that I was a babe who saved or if he wanted to hit me up for some cash. He stood there watching me and chatting me up for a good five minutes. It was really quite funny.

Sorry but my gang bang card is full

Once after a fun drunken evening, I fell into bed with a man only to wake up the next morning and find two totally different but really cute half-naked guys on either side of me. Sounds great, no? Talk about a woman's fabulous fantasy come to life!

Punch line is that the gorgeous dudes were my sons. Apparently, they'd missed me when I'd been out kicking up my heels, so after I'd come home and passed out, they crawled into bed next to me and kicked out their dad. Freud might have had a field day with that one, I'm sure.

This evening I got a phone call from some guy who has been hitting on me repeatedly. Nice guy who's actually pretty intelligent and interesting and we were friends of a sort until he decided to take it upon himself to try and move things up a notch. Sad really because I liked the idea of having a platonic relationship with him but for whatever reason, his current goal is to try and bed me. Dunno why ... I mean, who fantasizes about sex with older married mothers? I've tried all kinds of ways to cool his jets but he's pretty persistent. I guess it's all in the thrill of the chase maybe?

Anyway, tonight my eldest son is having his sleep-over party in celebration of his ninth birthday. Four of his closest friends arrived here several hours ago and will be staying until lunchtime tomorrow. It's not as bad as it sounds. Boys are pretty low-key -- just point them in the general direction of the Playstation and they don't emerge for hours, except for pizza and bathroom breaks. At least that's what happened last year.

So in the middle of all the festivities, this guy calls and starts sniffing around for a get-together. Now, it usually starts as a suggestion that we have coffee ... which we used to do until he tried to cop a feel over a latte, so I'm now somewhat wary about going for Round 2. But it seems the more I just tell him that "really, I'm only interested in being non-sexual friends", the harder he tries. I'm reluctant to tell him to fuck off because I'm just never comfortable with being that way with anyone. (Something about bad karma maybe, I don't know, or maybe because I'm somewhat wussy). So tonight after we'd exchanged greetings, I interrupted him with a breathy "I can't really talk right now. As you can hear, I've got a bunch of people here. They're all guys and I'm really pretty busy servicing their needs. Gotta run! Later dude!" before I hung up.

Think I'll hear back from him?

It's Good For You

I recently read a Forbes article citing scientific findings with regards to the hazards of female sexual abstinence. So I'm curious about whether or not proponents for the saving-yourself-for-marriage theory might be swayed by the study's conclusions. Apparently, "women who abstain from sex run some risks ... these include vaginal atrophy". The article goes on to cite a case in which a physician, whose patient hadn't had sexual intercourse in three years, advised said patient to "buy a vibrator" as she was well on her way to "los(ing) function there". My goodness, I'm trying to imagine any of my doctors suggesting the purchase of a dildo or vibrator ...

According to the study's findings, there appears to be a bit of a problem going on because apparently, men can sustain permanent damage from having too much sex while women just can't get enough. So while we women have to protect ourselves against the perils of celibacy, you men have to try and abstain a little bit more. Does anyone detect a wee problem going on there? It's almost as if the article is advocating that women have a coterie of lovers.

It seems to me that where sex is concerned, the rules of society don't seem to jive with nature's ways. This is one such example. Another prime one is the fact that boys reach their sexual peak at the age of seventeen, while women don't attain that milestone until their late thirties. And yet society often seems to think that women should partner up with men who are more or less their own age. Oh sure, we've heard all the little consoling remarks that a man's experience is supposed to kick in some kind of contributing factor post-seventeen, but really if he can only do it once or twice in an evening without imperiling the health of his genitalia and we thirty-something sexually insatiable women can do it all night long ... I mean it practically guarantees that we have to assume the role of Mrs. Robinson at some point in our lives, doesn't it?

P.S. As an aside, the article cited a doctor from England who said that there is "little or no risk of a woman's overdosing on sex. In fact ... regular sessions will not only firm a woman's tummy and buttocks but also improve her posture". So forget the aerobics classes, ladies and have a great time!

In the Blink of an Eye

Last Friday marked my ten year wedding anniversary. This Sunday is my eldest's son's ninth birthday. Hard to believe that so much time has passed in what seemed like a nano second.

I'm not sure which milestone freaks me out more, my anniversary or my son's birthday. I suspect it is probably the latter. It's hard to believe that my first-born is only a couple of years away from adolescence. I can still remember the moment he was born; the doctor placed him on my stomach and I looked down into his face and felt as though I was seeing someone I'd known all my life. It was a really weird experience; electrifying and comforting all at once. Afterwards, I spent hours holding him and rubbing my cheek against the soft downy fuzz of his head.

Two days ago, my son came home from his hockey practice complaining of a stomach ache. The first thing he did was head upstairs to see me. I ended up holding him much like I did when he was a baby, stroking his head and back and whispering "ssh" into his hair. It's funny how even though kids can get bigger, they still revert back to that infantile stage in moments of stress. Although I felt badly that he was suffering so much, I have to confess that it was so nice to cuddle him like I used to when he was a newborn.

Reflecting back upon the last ten years of my life, I wondered if I've gotten any more mature than when I was in my twenties. I have this horrible suspicion that, if anything, I might have regressed. I suppose I could point to the fact that I'm in a long-term relationship as proof of my maturity, since prior to our fourteen years together (ack!), I'd always made sure to end relationships at the one-year mark, but really the truth of the matter is that it's more a credit to his patience than anything else. We're like some perverse twist on A Portrait of Dorian Gray; as he gets older and more mature, I get more childish and silly. Wonder what I'll be doing on our twentieth anniversary?

The Art of Conversation or How to Say Nothing in As Many Words as Possible

I'm still feeling uninspired to write anything, but Snooze has given me a big kick to post an entry after my long sojourn of laziness, so I've decided to just engage in general cocktail talk. (Don't you just love that word? It conjures up such lurid sexual images).

I come from a family that believes in every moment, action, gesture, thought, etc. being a deeply significant one. We weren't permitted the luxury of waste at any level. So to sit around and chatter about topics lacking real substance was really considered insipid and generally useless. My dad used to hate going to faculty parties and the like because it meant that he might find himself trapped in some trivial conversation, and what was the point of that when he could be doing something truly important? We weren't really a family well-versed in communication of any kind (unless you counted yelling at each other in which case we were brilliant conversationalists).

I often tell my kids that if they can't say something nice to someone, to refrain from commenting at all. Growing up, the golden unspoken rule was "If you haven't anything intelligent to say, don't say anything at all". So I spent much of my younger years rehearsing the words in my head before uttering them, or in more instances than not, choking them back after judging them "too silly to say". I was a pretty silent child, who spent most of my time watching and listening to others, and while this sullen retentive attitude might have passed for good behaviour, I had the unfortunate occasional habit of blurting out attempted witticisms in the heat of the moment (a compulsion to which I still give in). My parents chastised me for my "slick tongue" and these outbursts effectively cancelled out my otherwise clean record of verbal abstinence.

As a teenager, I stuck out like a sore thumb in many social situations because I continued to adhere to the rule of refraining from the so-called mindless chitter chatter that most adolescent girls were prone to indulge in. I did remarkably well at my parents' dinner parties in which middle-aged academics were present, but quite honestly, when you're thirteen, you really don't consider it a compliment if a forty-something professor tells you how poised and mature you are; what you really want is for his cute teenage son to tumble at your feet in adoration and worship, and if you couldn't behave like any other normal pre-pubescent girl, how on earth were you going to accomplish this lofty goal??!!

I remember once how the love of my early teenage life was the unfortunate recipient of me phoning him up to treat him to endless silence, all because I would run through what I might say to him (eg. nice weather we're having) and then think to myself "No, no, I can't say that. That's not a deep and profound topic. Think, think of something else to say". Poor boy tried to keep up a running patter, but then inevitably would get so turned off that he'd finally find an excuse to hang up in a hurry. I realised many years later, that he would have been happy to listen to pretty much anything I'd said and would have volleyed back with comments of his own until we'd built ourselves up to a comfortable conversational level. The irony is that in my attempts to be brilliant, profound and interesting, I ended up instead being billed as stupid and boring.

Unfortunately, these kind of uncomfortable silences punctuated much of my adolescent and early post-adolescent years. I was just not well-versed in the art of cocktail talk, and I suffered from the mistaken belief that the world at large wanted to be treated to a constant deeply intellectual patter. What never occurred to me was that my intelligence might still shine through during the parentally-deemed inoccuous chit chat. I failed to realise that in the absence of having anything intelligent to say (which is nearly all the time), I can at least inquire after people's health and comment on the weather. There is a certain art, I think, in successfully pulling off cocktail chatter; if done correctly, it tends to put people at ease (unless you're my dad in which case the inanity of it all is simply enervating and irritating).

Many years later, I've become fairly well-versed in talking about seemingly nothing. After all, I've created an entire blog about pretty much nothing. But since some people have been clamouring for more, I guess the vacuity has provided them with some sort of amusement. Smoke and mirror, my friends, smoke and mirrors.

Lazy Ass Syndrome

I am feeling so incredibly unmotivated today. I've done hardly anything and yet I'm exhausted already. In fact, by the time I got dressed this morning, I was pooped. Is this a sign of old age?

Warm Fuzzy Feelings

Urp ... sitting here feeling somewhat like a beached whale after the big Thanksgiving smorgasbord. I'm somewhat exhausted after the all-day cooking and cleaning fest, followed by the shameless gorging. Just sitting here waiting for the effects of the turkey's L-tryptophan to kick in ...

In the meantime, figured I should spend some time thinking about all the good things in my life. As we sat down to dinner tonight, I asked my kids what they were most thankful for, and my seven-year-old daughter replied without missing a beat, "I'm thankful for my family". I thought that was a particularly amazing comment for someone so young, but maybe that's just my mom biased pride colouring my judgement.

So top of the list for me, is of course, my family. I'm surrounded by a bevy of wonderful people within my household, and that's wonderfully reassuring and comforting, even though it can be downright exhausting at times.

I spent all week feeling really awful and ill, so now that I'm feeling almost back to my old self, I guess I'd have to say my good health is also a boon. Touch wood that I remain moderately healthy for a long time. I'm don't make a very good patient. (By the way, thank you to all who read my post and took the time to wish me well).

One thing that amazed me during this past week, was the amount of support I had from people. Some of the moms saw me at school during the drop-off and pick-ups earlier in the week, and commented on my worn-out and pale appearance. Before I knew it, I suddenly had a number of the parents volunteering to drive my kids to and from school. Now, I'm not one who ever asks to be on the receiving end of favours, although I'm very willing to help out most people whenever required, but I actually did take up some of the mothers on their offers after one in particular phoned me several times and insisted that I let her help out because she could see how poorly I was feeling. It was so touching to know that people noticed and cared enough about me to extend themselves. I really do have such extraordinary friends.

One of the greatest things I am most thankful for, is the fact that I'm at a point in my life where I can recognise, appreciate and embrace the good parts of life itself. It sounds fairly trite and trivial, but a decade ago, I don't think I ever really did stop to smell the roses, much less notice them, so I'm glad that I'm able now to see all the small wonderful moments and things that make my day.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Letters from the Sickbed

Ick. I've been felled by some nasty virus and can't even wrap my mind around blogging. Unfortunately have nothing amusing or interesting to share with anybody other than my germs.

Will post when I am feeling human again and can string together a coherent thought.

Thanks for stopping in.

Thank God for Judaism

It's Monday ... and not to plagiarise the Boomtown Rats, but I just don't like Mondays. Unless it's a holiday Monday. Then I can cavort around the house in my pyjamas until noon if I like, instead of yelling at my kids every two minutes to hurry up and get ready for school.

This past month, Monday afternoons have been particularly hellish as my kids have swimming lessons immediately after school (rush for the afternoon pick up), followed by my eldest son's soccer game at 6:00 (rush to get to the game). This means that I've had to make and pack dinner at 2:30 p.m. so that we can eat it either in the car en route to said soccer game, or have a quick picnic on the soccer field. It's been somewhat difficult if I've had an afternoon meeting that day because I've had to rush home to make dinner quickly before racing out to pick up the kids.

Today however, Rosh Hashana (the Jewish New Year) begins at sundown. Since my son's soccer team is almost entirely comprised of Jewish kids (we are one of three Gentile families on the team), I've gotten a reprieve. Gotta love them Jewish high holidays!

Shana Tovah to one and all!

Passing the Torch

I had this long-standing tradition with two of my university girlfriends; all three of us have birthdays within weeks of each other, so we've celebrated them together year after year, by going for high tea at the Four Seasons Hotel.

A couple of years ago on my daughter's fourth birthday, one of my girlfriends presented her with a card entitling her to tea with the "girls", as part of her initiation into big girl status. Naturally, my daughter loved the whole idea of sipping sweet milky tea from grown up china cups and munching on delectable pastries and tea biscuits (gotta love that clotted cream).

Lately, my girlfriends and I haven't been able to get it together and have our annual birthday tea. Not wanting such a lovely tradition to die, I decided to revive it with my daughter.

I promised her last week that we would go for tea this weekend. In honour of the event, she made us tea crowns. They were lovely colourful creations with the words "Tea Queen" emblazoned across the front, and our names at the back. She'd also made me these fabulous dangly earrings, one purple and the other apple green (she didn't have enough beads of each colour to make a pair), which I'd promised her I would wear only on special occasions. I figured the initation of a mother-daughter tea tradition counted as such.

We had a blast-and-a-half. As soon as we were seated, we placed our tea crowns solemnly upon our heads and proceeded to order the afternoon full tea. We drew a few envious looks from those seated nearby. My daughter got a big kick out of the server's constant references to her as "the beautiful Tea Queen". I was complimented many times on my gorgeous earrings, which caused my daughter to beam and glow.

And for the first time ever ... the Lobby Bar, which never validates parking, did so gladly and willingly. I'm sure this wouldn't happen for any normal plebians, but since we were Tea Queens after all, they were more than happy to oblige.

And so a new tradition is born ...

Think Pink

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

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

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

That trench coat is looking better by the minute.

From Flab to Fab

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

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

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

Move Over Dr. Atkins ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleep is Highly Overrated

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Wear is Human ...

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

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

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

Flashback

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rain, Rain, Go Away

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Missing you M.

Set Theory

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

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

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

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