All we need to know, we should have learned in kindergarten

I am often fascinated by how easily children, boys especially, can get together and play.

It's as though all they say is "I'm a kid, you're a kid. Great, we have so much in common. Now let's go tussle out back".

A couple of years ago, I got back in touch with a university friend. We had been quite close during our undergrad years, but then drifted apart and lost touch with each other subsequently.

Upon our reunion, we discovered that our sons were about four months apart in age so we arranged an impromptu playdate. Without consulting her son, we arrived at her house with my eldest guy in tow. We discovered her son in the basement playing basketball by himself. As we stood awkwardly in the doorway watching him, my friend made the introductions, during which time our sons remained completely silent.

While my friend started chattering about how we had been best friends for years, her son suddenly bounce passed the ball to my son who, without missing a beat, caught it, entered the room, shot the ball and then bounce passed it back. Immediately, they fell into a rhythm of taking shots on net and passing the ball back to the other. All this went on wordlessly for several minutes. My friend and I watched this, shrugged our shoulders and went upstairs for a cup of coffee, leaving our children to their own devices.

I'm not sure at what point one of them finally spoke, and what was said exactly. But the two boys got on like a house on fire and hours later when they emerged from the basement, they were giggling and chatting as though they'd always known each other.

I've observed this kind of easy acceptance and camaraderie amongst other children on many occasions, and I'm constantly amazed by it. Many adults tend to complicate things in that they spend more time and energy sizing each other up and deciding if another person is the right gender, religion, personality type, intelligence level, etc. before they can decide if they want to go forward and extend any kind of friendship or friendly gesture.

Maybe we need to take a leaf out of our children's books and just learn to relax.

Copycat

Have any of you ever seen the movie Single White Female? It's about a woman who advertises for a roommate. Said roommate turns out to have a few screws loose, fixates upon the woman and ultimately tries to get rid of everyone important in her life so as to have an exclusive and close relationship. At one point, the deranged roommate from hell deliberately tries to look and dress just like the object of her obsession.

There is a young woman who used to teach my eldest son a couple of years ago. She is on the verge of turning thirty and is in all respects a very attractive person. For whatever reason, she has always liked me and my family, and that feeling has been mutually reciprocated.

A couple of weeks ago, she approached me and commented favourably on the outfit I was wearing. Among her gushing comments was the confession that she felt herself to be a "safe dresser" while she perceived me to be edgy and willing to take risks in the fashion arena. I suppose in a sea of Lulu Lemon clad women gingerly clutching Starbucks coffee cups so as not to ruin their French manicures, I might appear a little different, bur I'm hardly way out there.

Last week, the teacher sidled up to me in the courtyard and started fishing for compliments with regards to her outfit. I couldn't help but think that her ensemble seemed like an attempt to recreate the look that I'd had the week before, especially since her opening line was "I'm trying really hard to be a little edgier today". I complimented her nevertheless and said that as always, she looked wonderful.

On Friday of last week, I was dressed fairly conservatively as I'd been meeting with new clients. Still, my outfit had a bit of punch in that my skirt was of an unusual shape and was a beautiful shade of hot pink. That afternoon, the same teacher approached me, complimented me yet again on my look. She then went on to say that she had the exact same skirt and that she was "taking notes on my outfit".

Yesterday, as I entered the courtyard to pick up my children, I did a double take. Standing about twenty feet from me was the teacher clad in a virtually identical outfit as I had been wearing on Friday.

It's funny. That kind of thing always happened in high school. In every high school, I think there is always at least one girl who has a certain je ne sais quoi about her. Hand in hand with that girl is at least one friend who is mildly adoring and wants to be like her in every respect possible. Generally, that desire to emulate is expressed in terms of clothing. But for whatever reason, the obsessor can never quite pull it off.

During the summer, I was sitting in a coffee shop one day when in strolled these two young girls. They were probably about fifteen years old and they had that I-am-the-cat's-pyjamas-confidence that only a young teen can possess. I had to stifle a giggle watching them as they were dressed virtually identically in brown tank tops, fashionably frayed jean minis, flip flops and clutch purses. But even though they were fashion's answer to the Bobsey Twins, it was still obvious who was the trendsetter and who was the follower. I wanted to shake the second girl and say "What are you doing? Why do you want to be a clone? Wouldn't you rather be unique?"

I'm way past my high school years, but I have to admit that it does bother me to have a clone out there. It must be genetic because my daughter, who expresses herself by her own completely creative and unique sense of fashion, gets upset if anyone copies her.

Update: This afternoon when picking up my children, I was approached yet again by the teacher who asked where I got a particular item of clothing I was wearing today. She said that coincidentally she had just been flipping through a magazine this afternoon and had wanted to create the very same look I was sporting. Wondering if this means that tomorrow I will be greeted with a version of myself?

Tales from the fifth grade

Can't think,
Brain dumb,
Inspiration won't come.
Bum pen,
No ink,
Best wishes,
Amen.

That little rhymer was scribbled into my grade school autograph books on numerous occasions by various classmates.

In the third grade, the teasing began:

Not because you're dirty,
Not because you're clean,
But because you kissed a boy
Behind a magazine.

As we got older, the rhymes would take on a more lewd tone (at a third grade level, that is):

She offered her honour,
He honoured her offer,
And all night long,
He was on her and off her.

We tee-hee'd over that one, thinking we were so bad.

I haven't a clue why we persisted year after year, in ceremoniously making the rounds of the class in order to get each person's John Henry. We were very much a community school; there wasn't a single classmate that didn't walk to and from school. The day after school ended and every day during the summer, we would find each other at the neighbourhood public pool, so the point of bidding each other "adieu" in our Mickey Mouse autograph books was fairly pointless. I guess the idea was to hold onto the books on the off chance that one of our classmates would become a famous porn star or politician or both and then we'd have some priceless memorabilia. Unfortunately, i am the child of two completely unsentimental people who are the absolute anti-thesis of pack rats. Sigh ...

Bittersweet

Today was the first day of school. My youngest child began grade one. There are just way too many emotions to sort through.

I have a big lump in my throat.

Knit one, purl two

I've been so busy trying to soak up the last few weeks of summer that I've ignored the whole world of blogging. (Surprisingly the entire infrastructure did not collapse without my obsessive supervision).

I've also been spending a lot of time knitting. Throughout my life, I've tended to go off on these sporadic craft jags where I'll either knit, crochet or sew. Of the three, knitting is my favourite activity. There's something vaguely hypnotic and soothing about the whole thing. I'm endlessly fascinated by the fact that a fabulous creation can spring from two sticks and a ball of string.

Since I'm a fairly experienced and seasoned knitter, I tend to go on autopilot while completing a project. I find that I can just zone out and let my mind wander off on its own tangents. It's interesting where it sometimes meanders.

Most recently, for some reason, it played back a few scenes from my childhood. One of the earliest that kept flashing through my mind was a time when I was about two years old, if that. I remember that it was a crisp fall day and my father had taken me and my brother outside to play. The reason why we were dispatched into his charge was that my mother needed some peace and quiet within to finish sewing my new fall coat. My parents were both frugal people and always recycled things. Hence, the fabric for my coat came from one of my mother's maternity suits. My mother was very conscious of quality, so my coat was of a beautiful green wool pinstripe fabric.

I still remember how excited I was when my mother emerged from our apartment and presented me with the finished product. I immediately donned the coat and pranced around feeling incredibly grown-up.

At the time, i took for granted the fact that my mother is a creative genius. A number of items in my closet were hand-me-downs courtesy of my brother, but my mother always reworked them so that they looked nothing like boy's clothing. It never occurred to me at the time how much time and energy my mother expended on these tasks. Neither did I ever stop to consider how little of either precious commodity she had available.

The other memory that popped up was also from the same era; I may have even been younger than two years old because I seem to remember still being in diapers. My mother came home unexpectedly early one day and I ran to greet her excitedly. Since my mother went back to work within a month of giving birth, neither my brother nor I ever really had much play time with her and had to contend with a series of horrible babysitters. The prospect of having a little extra time with my mother was therefore, a thrilling one.

That particular day I was eating chocolate chip cookies and I had two, one clutched in each pudgy little fist. My hands and face were smeared with crumbs and chocolate. When I ran to hug my mother, she dropped down to her knees and gave me a hug, simultaneiously gracing me with a huge radiant smile. At some point, I remember looking down at one of my hands and seeing that the cookie had been bitten into. I was never sure if I'd eaten it, or if my mother had had a taste while I was busy chattering to her. I prefer the latter scenario because it makes me feel particularly close to my mom.

I've spent a lot of time on my blog here engaging in some form of therapy or another; sharing with the world at large some of the feelings that I've had with regards to my family and to my past. It's a new experience for me given that I spent my entire life keeping all of it secret and trying to invent a different family life than the one I had. I often feel guilty about the amount of indiscreet venting I've done with regards to both my childhood and to my family. A longtime friend of mine once made an idle comment about my lack of discretion online and I felt particularly ashamed because his mother passed away years ago while he was still far too young to be without a parent.

As I furiously and obsessively finished my sweater it occurred to me that perhaps I was doing more than just creating a fashion statement. As trivial and uneventful as my memories are, I hang onto them closely. I somehow believe that if I can just connect the dots between those types of moments, I can fashion a more positive and glowing view of my mother and overlook all the glaring problems that existed in our relationship.

And then like so many of the hang tags that accompany our store-bought garments, any deficiencies in the fabric would simply add to the beauty of the item itself.

Two sides of the same coin

I took my kids to see "Superman Returns". Most of the movie focussed on the relationship between Lois Lane and the tights-in-flight guy.

I know that it's fiction, but it's always bothered me that Lois Lane never gleans onto the fact that Clark Kent is really her super love interest. We are led to believe through our pop culture that love is all-encompassing and has the rare ability to change us. Yet, someone who claims to be in love with another being can't recognise him when he dons street clothes and geeky glasses.

In real life, are we really that superficial? Scarily, I sometimes think that we are indeed. People often fall in love with another, citing his or her good qualities, and fail to take into account that the less desirable qualities are simply the flip side of what we love. They also fail to realise that often you can't have one without the other. I think of my husband who is impulsive, spontaneous and has this incredible joy and passion for life. When I first met him, I was bowled over by his ability to be happy despite all odds. It was a novel concept for me since I grew up believing that enjoying life was frivolous and that planning was everything. What I later came to realise was that my husband is quite possibly also the single most disorganised person on the face of this earth. He would probably curl up and die if a strict nine-to-five regime was imposed upon him.

Am I charmed by the fact that his desk is constantly buried beneath a mountain of papers? Probably not, but I've come to realise that that comes hand in hand with his good qualities; he wouldn't be so able to give into the mood of the moment if he was an anal person.

At the heart of every plainly clothed person lies a superhero. I'm convinced of that fact. The hardest part is trying to love both the civilian and the hero equally.

Maybe they're onto something ...

This past weekend, I was at the cottage entertaining our wonderful friends from Denmark (five of the loveliest individuals one could ever have the pleasure of meeting).

At the request of the matriarch of the Danish crew, we went to the market at St. Jacob's, which is a Mennonite town about a twenty-five minute drive from the cottage. Whilst there, the eldest son would discreetly point to some of the hard core Mennonites. In his charming European adolescent fashion, he would comment about how their lives must suck. On this point, he was obdurate despite my explanations that there could be some beauty in the simplicity of it all. (While lecturing him of course, I was trying to block out the depressing conflict and dreariness which I'd read about in Miriam Toewes "A Complicated Kindness").

My teenage friend kept waxing and waning about a life devoid of cars, electronics and good clothes. Since Denmark is a socialist country, his is certainly not a life jammed with the commercial pleasures into which we greedy North Americans regularly dip our gouty little fingers. Because of this, I thought he could relate to the lives of the Mennonites. From his perspective though, he couldn't figure out why a North American would choose to forego the luxries which he himself was forced to do without.

This weekend, my car broke down, followed by my traiterous cell phone which decided to just literally fall apart within my hands. Then my Palm Pilot started acting up and I oculdn't figure out which end was up in my life anymore. I realised that the Mennonites had one up on us; they could easily star in a Survivor series and thrive, while I would lie moaning on the ground complaining about the lack of electrical outlets for my hair dryer. Speaking of a no hair dryer existence, I think I just figured out why the Mennonite womenfolk sport those hideous black bonnets ...

Bend over ... trust me

Growing up, I was cautioned to trust no one. My parents were very suspicious of others, particularly those of the non-Korean persuasion. I suspect that their mistrust found its roots in the early days of their emigration to North America, and was no doubt fuelled by their parents' and fellow countrymen's cautions.

As I grew up, my parents constantly chastised my brother and I for our apparent naivete. The fact that we naturally instilled any trust and belief in our friends was considered sheer stupidity. I felt conflicted at the best of times.

When adolescent rebellion set in, I began thinking, in typical teenage fashion, that my parents didn't know much about anything. Therefore this whole mistrust of the world at large was clearly silly. I felt that my parents were too paranoid and needed to rethink their position on others' intentions; not everyone was out to take advantage of us at every turn. Surely some people were good.

"Not so", declared my father from within my head in a Norman Bates' mother-like way.

"Oh. do shut up please," I thought as I resolutely ignored him and continued on my merry way.

As the daughter of a theoretical scientist, I can't help but feel that every hypothesis must first be tested before one could declare it a theory. Therefore, I went to the lab so to speak, and set out to prove my parents wrong, all the while feeling the weight of my parents' disapproval.

About four years ago, I made the acquaintance of a young man in his early twenties. We met in the street right outside of my house. I live in a very quiet middle-class neighbourhood. This particular man was visiting his girlfriend who rented a room in a house two doors away from me. The initial jumping off point of our conversation revolved around the question of ownership of two well-groomed dogs which were wandering up and down the street. Somehow our conversation evolved and within weeks, he was doing some odd manual work for my husband around our house and at one of our investment properties. After work, he would often play basketball with my eldest son and would chat with me. As he was on his own, I sort of took him under my wing.

One day, D. asked me about my large book collection which he had seen in the living room. After we had chatted about what types of books he preferred to read, I then selected several from my shelves and pressed them upon him. It was obvious that he was interested in reading them all, but he was quite reticient and suggested that I lend him one at a time rather than all three at once. I insisted that they were essential reads and that he should take them all at once as I had read them already and wouldn't need them back for awhile. He cautioned me several times that he was an extremely slow reader and that it would take him some time before he would be finished with them.

Shortly thereafter, D's girlfriend moved away from our street and out of neighbourhood. As I never go D's phone number, I lost touch with him.

Now, it should be known that the one possesion about which I am slightly obsessive is my books. Through the years, I have lent out many of my books to various people and have never gotten them back. Since I have a nearly photographic memory, I still remember to this day who has which book.

After D. stopped being a regular in our household, I would often have regrets about having been so reckless in my offer to him. One of the books in particular, had been given to me as a gift by my first love and had an inscription written in it. I felt a certain longing for a book that held a chunk of my past within its covers.

Several years later, I was going through my book shelves sorting through my collection. I thought fleetingly of D. and my lost books and silently cursed myself for having trusted a virtual stranger.

The next night as I was feeding my children dinner, I heard someone knocking at my front door. Our area is heavily canvassed by charities, schoolkids and Jehoval witnesses, so I'm somewhat leery about answering my door if I'm not expecting anyone. I peered out of the window and saw a tall man standing on my front stoop. He called out my name and although I couldn't place him, I thought it was someone I knew, so I opened the door. It took me a minute for the penny to drop before I realised it was D. He looked very different as he was dressed in a suit and had cut his dreadlocks off.

I invited him in and we began chatting about what he had been up to since we had last seen each other. Before we got very far in our conversation, he dashed out the door and ran to his car. He returned with my books and apologised for their late return. Apparently, he had moved many times over since we'd last spoken and had taken the books with him to each place. The most touching comment was that he'd felt honoured that I'd trusted a virtual stranger with my possessions and he had wanted to make sure they were returned to me.

At the time, I remember feeling that this was an important life lesson; that good feelings such as respect and trust which are given out to someone eventually boomerang and find their way home to you just as my precious books did. As I learned in my physics class, energy is never lost.

I'd like to end the story on a good note. Unfortunately, after our fuzzy reunion, D. ended up moving into an apartment in one of our investment properties and stiffed us for about four months' rent with neither an explanation nor an apology. The weird thing is that that did nothing to erase my feelings that he was a person with an honour code in place. (In fact, from what I learned afterwards from others, he was going through an extremely tough time in his life which no doubt contributed to his inability to pay). I suppose it's an indication of how much value I place upon my books.

David and Goliath

One of my neighbours got married and had a child later in life. Said child is extremely petite; she weighs twenty-two pounds and is about the size of an average fourteen month-old, despite the fact that she is a couple months away from her third birthday. As the product of a long-harboured desire, she appears to be indulged in very interesting ways.

Yesterday, I was on my way to another neighbour's house with my children. We were going to go swimming. My daughter ran into Thumbelina and played with her briefly before telling her of our plans. Thumbelina then decided that she was going to come with us and ran down the street to tell her father that she needed to put on her bathing suit.

My daughter waited for her and after nearly fifteen minutes, she finally emerged from her house with her mother in tow. Mrs. Thumbelina advised us that her daughter had never really been in a pool and didn't know how to swim. She also said that she didn't know the pool-owning neighbours upon whom her daughter had foisted herself.

After about fifteen minutes of splashing about, during which time Thumbelina commanded my children to fetch and carry, Mrs. Thumbelina asked her daughter if she thought they should leave. As anyone with half a brain would guess, the little one volleyed back with a resounding "no". What kid would chirp "Yes, in fact, I'm ready to go now, Mother dearest"??!!

Then followed thirty minutes of painful dialogue between mother and child. As it turned out, the mother was expecting dinner guests and she kept asking the child if she didn't think she should come home to visit with the guests who had no doubt already arrived. I couldn't figure out what the hell the two were doing there in the first place if the mother knew guests were imminent. Why didn't she just refuse to bring her child swimming when she asked?

So I sat there and bore witness to a twenty pounder pushing around an adult who very willingly took it. It was all I could do not to scream out "Just bloody take your child out of the pool and TELL her it's time to go home!" Why on earth did the mother feel compelled to keep asking her daughter for permission to leave?

Now I'm not the world's most perfect parent, but I do believe in setting boundaries for my children. I can't imagine ever asking them repeatedly "Kids, do you think it's time for to stop all your fun and go home?" Instead, I usually give them the five minute warning, throw in a bonus two minutes and then tell them to pack it up. And yes, on occasion, I have gotten angry if they haven't cooperated.

I sometimes have to stop and wonder if I'm being too hard on my kids. I grew up in a family where no respect or consideration was ever given to one's children or to their feelings, lest said children got horribly spoiled. Because this was the norm for me growing up, I have nothing else to reference when searching for a good role model. Therefore, the task of finding a happy medium between authoritarian parent and jellyfish permissive parent is sometimes a difficult one. In this case however, there is no way I would ever aspire to be like this geriatric mom.

Forget the metaphysical questions ... these are far more pressing

I heard on the radio yesterday that Wireton Willy died after a bout of pneumonia or some such groundhog version of the ailment.

I was curious how they will go about picking Willy's successor. Do they hold auditions by shining a flashlight above the groundhog to see how they will react? Do they pick one of Willy's children? Did Willy have any say in who would follow in his hallowed footsteps? Do they attend some kind of metereology training academy? Will they announce it and have a great big press conference?

Another of my pet peeves

Well since I'm feeling utterly wretched at the moment, i thought I'd just engage in some public bitching.

Why is that people feel compelled to speak some kind of condescending and retarded form of English around immigrants who don't have the greatest command of the language? I mean, I certainly modify how I speak somewhat in that I try to slow down a bit as I am slightly manic in my speech at times. I may also try to simplify my language a bit, in the same way as I would if I was speaking with a younger person.

What I don't do though is either speak in extremely loud tones (because the person is non-English speaking, not hearing impaired) or speak in a stilted and grammatically incorrect manner. I overheard a co-worker yelling at a tradesman, saying something along the lines of "You come his house. You come for fix his fence. I give you address, okay?"

I find the whole thing utterly distasteful and insulting. Newly landed immigrants may not speak English properly upon first arriving to Canada, but they certainly aren't stupid. Also, maybe the reason they might take longer to learn to speak correctly is that idiots deliberately slaughter the language on the premise that they are helping out.

Because I'm too tired and sick to be original

This came from Snooze and while I thought it was just in the name of good fun actually seems to really scream me.

Your Birthdate: January 24

You understand people well and are a natural born therapist. A peacemaker, people always seem to get along when you are around. You tend to be a father or mother figure to friends, even to those older than you. You enjoy your role, and you find that you are close to many people. Your strength: Your devotion Your weakness: Reliance on others for happiness Your power color: Lilac Your power symbol: Heart Your power month: June

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

Who are we kidding?

I just love how the fashion world patronises us in an oh-so-obvious way.

It's yesterday's news that on the whole, people are getting larger. Obesity is on the rise and will no doubt reach epidemic proportions within the near future.

I'm lucky in that I've been blessed with a fairly good metabolism. I may have gained about ten pounds within the last few years, but since I'd always been thin I'm now average in weight.

In years past, I was always a size eight, maybe even a ten depending upon whether the garment was cut on the smaller size. I believe I even have some vintage items from my mother that are a size twelve. But now thanks to our expanding waistlines and fashion's transparent attempt to make us think we still look like we are still fourteen years old, I'm a size zero or a two. Do I honestly care so long as I find something that fits me properly and does the job? Apparently though, lots of women do. It's a big thrill for some girls to suddenly find themselves down from size fourteen to a size eight. Enough to make them buy ten pairs of pants just to have that lovely small size tag staring back at them.

Children's clothes are also made much larger. So that we can tell larger children that "look you fit into a size ten tall ... see you're no different than your friends". I guess I can see the point given that eating disorders are also on the rise amongst our pre-teens. It's pretty scary to hear third and fourth graders worrying about calorie intake and fat content. We wouldn't want our girls developing complexes about their bodies, now would we? And yet, we then prance around and happily announce to our girlfriends that we now fit into a teeny size four, so aren't we so thin now?

In the end though, how blind do the fashion moguls think we are, or how much do they think we are willing to fool ourselves? I mean, I know I'm not really a size zero. I'm hardly overweight, but I'm no waif either. And my perfectly average and normally sized eight-year-old daughter isn't "teeny" or "petite" as the salespeople like to crow delightfully. She's just surrounded by a sea of overly large clothes.

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet and a larger person by any other hang tag is still going to be faced with her own mirror image at home. Intead of deluding ourselves into thinking we are something we aren't, shouldn't we just learn to love and accept what we are?

Transplanted in Toronto Soil and Proud of It

There are a lot of things I don't like about Toronto. Or more accurately, it's not that I dislike Toronto so much as the fact that, at the heart of it all, I'm a Montreal girl; even after all of these years of residing here, I still don't feel quite at home in Toronto. Something about the atmosphere being more Anglophone perhaps?

i was downtown today and found myself in the centre of the Pride Week Parade. It was an awesome experience and I was glad to be a part of it. It is pretty amazing and wonderful that Toronto hosts this kind of an event on an annual basis.

When I first moved to Toronto, I was struck by the amount of uptight and close-minded people I met. I encountered more racism, sexism, homophobia and open ignorance and intolerance here than I had back home. But maybe it's just that the biases are different. Quebec residents have their own set of prejudices and I suppose since I've grown up surrounded by them, I don't give it a second thought.

As I stood amidst the throng of people this afternoon, I wondered why Montreal doesn't host its own Gay Pride week. We bill ourselves as being European, liberal and cosmopolitan in our beliefs and yet, we don't celebrate the wide spectrum of sexuality. Are we really not as open-minded as I liked to give us credit as being, or is it that we are just too pre-occupied with the whole Quebecois identity to even think about anything else?

So much for the magic word

Does anyone remember good manners?

Don't get me wrong, I'm no Emily Post. I do occasionally put my elbows on the table, although never while eating; I don't write as many thank-you cards as I should although I did for all the more momentuous events (wedding, birth and christening gifts) and I have often issued verbal invites rather than the old-fashioned written ones for dinner parties and the like. But when it comes to the basics, I think I'm fairly well-versed.

It seems like etiquette is a dying art. I'm constantly appalled by the lack of respect people show for those older than themselves. Simple gestures such as holding the door open or allowing an older person to enter into or exit from an elevator first seem to be far and few.

I know I sound like an old fart, but honestly, back in my day we were trained to behave in a certain fashion. While I may not agree with the way in which those lessons were drummed into us, I do still believe that the lessons were important ones.

Today, we hosted our daughter's eighth birthday party. I am constantly amazed at the lack of consideration both parents and children exhibit during such events.

We issue written invitations to the entire class every year. Each year, I have to chase down about fifty percent of the parents to find out if their child will be attending. This despite the fact that I specifically ask that parents RSVP by a certain date. Because it's not my dream to run around at the last minute and buy extra loot bags or order a bigger cake to accomodate the late stragglers.

I'm always amazed at the cheekiness that some of the guests possess. Who paws through the loot bags before they are given out and then declares loudly that "it sucks"? Who proclaims that vanilla cake is most decidely not their favourite and then goes on to ask if there is another dessert for them? What the hell ever happened to the rule "if you have nothing good to say, say nothing"?

Many of the parents didn't even bother to thank my daughter or I for inviting their child. I always make sure that at the end of a party or playdate my children seek out all the adults who helped out and thank them, as well as going to the host child and passing on their thanks and/or birthday wishes. Apparently, this is unusual and rare behaviour.

Am I being overly and unrealistically demanding? Or is common etiquette going the way of the dial tone phone?

We are definitely old ...

I went to a dance performance held by my kids' school this evening. It was far better than I hadanticipated it would be. It was really cute to watch some of the kids strut their stuff.

Somewhat simultaenously sobering and amusing, was that the emcee would occasionally announce that a "retro mix" would follow. Music from the eighties and nineties would then be played ... you know stuff that I listened to as a teenager or during my university years.

Even scarier was the fact that these songs had no relevance for our kids. They had no idea that some of these tunes were so popular during our formative years. To them it was just some obscure weird music.

Yikes! Our music is vintage ...

Eh vs Huh

So while I'm on my rant about racial stereotypes, I thought I'd add in this post.

A few weeks ago, I snuck out for a much needed mental health break. Some friends invited me to go along with them to Niagara Falls for a few hours to visit the casino and have dinner. Since I'd never been to a casino before, other than the temporary one that runs during the CNE, I jumped at the chance.

After everyone had had their fill of the casino, we decided to go for dinner. One of my friends insisted that we cross the river to the States and go for dinner at their casino. He claimed that the buffet at this particular location was amazing. Starving, we all climbed into his car and headed for the bridge to cross the border.

I have to stop and give a little background on the occupants of the car. There were five of us in total; three men, two of whom were Caucasian and one who was of Persian descent. The other woman in the car was of Taiwanese descent. Three of us were Canadian born (the two Caucasian guys and myself), the other two were Canadian citizens.

The only ones in the car who had acceptable forms of identification were me (I carry my birth certificate at all times) and the Persian guy who had his citizenship card. EVeryone else just had their drivers' licences.

The customs officer at the border was this whitebread type who just seemed to be on a power trip. He had the temerity to say that I and the two other non-Caucasian passengers didn't look like the average North Americans and that we would therefore have to proceed upstairs. Now, I completely understand the reasons for taking extra precautions. What I didn't agree with was the way in which he felt it necessary to point out that since three of us were non-Caucasian, we didn't fit the bill of a Canadian. I mean, truly, what the hell does a Canadian look like anyway? My friends kept shushing me because I started on my spiel about how I was under the impression that North America was a multi-cultural continent.

What made me even more irritated was the attitude of the officers upstairs. We were called in as a group and each of us were asked to state our birth country. I pulled out my birth certificate yet again as I re-stated that I was Canadian born. I was then subjected to a multitude of questions, obviously posed to sniff out an imposter. What burned me was that my two Caucasian friends only had to say that they were Canadian and were immediately and politely dismissed. They weren't required to produce any corroborating documents or identification. The Taiwanese born woman? Like the other two guys, she didn't have anything other than her driver's licence and yet she was raked over the coals. And despite the fact that the other guy had his citizenship card, he was given the third degree and treated like shit for the longest amount of time. I would have thought that as soon as he produced his card, the conversation would have been over.

The entire time this was taking place, I thought about a childhood lesson I'd been given regarding diplomacy: you can ask for almost anything if you just ask nicely and with respect. I would have been fine with having the extra security measures taken if everyone hadn't gone so obviously out of their way to make their racial stereotypes known. Why didn't the guy at the booth simply say "Some of you appear not to have adequate identification. Please proceed upstairs"?

Of course, now I'm left with the lingering impression and ensuing stereotype that all U.S. Customs Officers are ignorant, power tripping asses.

Forty isn't too old for a frat party, is it?

The other night I went to the worst and stupidest excuse for a party ever.

The event in question was a neighbour's birthday party. The birthday boy has a natural daily inclination towards inebriation. He clearly enjoys his drink. Since we are acquainted with a few of his friends who are also heavy drinkers, we knew that this party would be one big long alcohol fest.

What I didn't realise was that it was also going to be a party filled with alcoholic affluent but ignorant WASPs. Apart from the five nannies who were working industriously in the kitchen that night, I was the only non-Caucasian there.

All of the nannies in our neighbourhood (and there are plenty) are from the Phillipines. Apparently, this couple's nanny was asked to find assistance for the party, so she got a bunch of her friends and fellow countrymen to come in and help out.

We arrived about forty minutes fashionably late. By that point, most of the party-goers were half in the bag. About twenty minutes post-arrival, I got hit on by some guy who was completely wasted. So drunk that he first dropped his cutlery onto the ground and spent several minutes crawling around trying to find it to no avail. He then went back into the house to get extra cutlery and emerged shortly thereafter clutching two forks ("just in case, you know"). Apparently, the combination of speaking and sitting was just too much in his state, and he promptly dropped his plate facedown into the grass. He then scooped his food back onto his plate and began eating it quickly, all the while trying to pay me disingenuous compliments in a very slurred voice. At the first available opportunity, I excused myself and hurried into the house.

Unfortunately, the company that awaited me inside was no better. As I was squeezing through the bodies in the hallway to get to the washroom, another guy spotted me and enquired very loudly if I was the nanny. He then proceeded to tell me how he was looking for a nanny and that he would love to hire me since he'd always wanted to have a hot woman working for him. When the host informed him that I was most definitely not the nanny, but rather a neighbour with a bunch of kids of my own, the idiot thought he was kidding and kept asking "No, but seriously, whose nanny is she?" Brcause what else could an Asian girl be but a nanny? I personally loved the way he ignored the fact that I was dressed quite nicely, spoke English better than he did and was holding a wine glass.

It got worse. When the host was finally able to convince him that I really was a neighbour, the idiot then asked if I was the next-door neighbour's wife, knowing full well that that particular guy rented a single room in the house next door. Because apparently, there was no way an Asian girl could not be a nanny AND own viable real estate. When I pointed out which house I lived in, he then reverted back to the obnoxious question "Are you sure you're not having me on? You really are the nanny, aren't you?"

The last straw was when I went back outside to find my husband, and the wasted guy who ate his dinner from the ground, felt me up while I had both hands completely occupied (one holding a wineglass, the other holding some chick's umbrella while she rummaged around in her purse for a lighter).

The whole night reminded me of my experiences from my early twenties. The joke amongst my friends was that I always managed to attract the weirdest men in any given situation (I even got hit on at a Homo Hop by the one heterosexual guy who had no idea where he was). Not that I ever enjoyed being around ignorant drunken men, but at least back in my university days they were a whole lot cuter.

Back in my day ...

When I was growing up, a few of my friends and I used to have some fun with the phone. On PA days and during the summer holidays, we would phone kids from our class and pretended that we were officials from some kind of adolescent group and were gathering information via a phone survey. We wrote up a script so that our opening patter was flawless, and without pausing, we would move straight from it into a list of questions. We began innocuously enough, enquiring about their age and grade level, whether or not they smoked or drank or did drugs. From there we would quickly move the interrogations towards sex. Since we were only in the fifth or sixth grade, our questions revolved around the basics like "Have you ever been kissed? Have you ever French kissed? Have you ever been felt up? Do you masturbate?"

It was amazing how many of our classmates actually fell for this and were forthcoming with so much personal information. It was hard for us not to burst out laughing during key moments. Surprisingly, no one guessed our identity.

As we got older, our fun with the phone evolved. Through one of our older siblings, we caught wind of something called "looped lines". These were dedicated phone lines used, I believe, by Bell telephone employees to communicate between themselves. My usually photographic memory is a bit foggy on this front, but these numbers either all had the same first three numbers, or the same last four numbers. If you happened to dial in while someone else was also dialing that particular number, you got connected or your lines became looped. Otherwise, you simply encountered dead air.

My friends and I used to congregate at one or the others' houses after school and after quickly doing our homework (we were good students, after all!) would spend hours cruising the looped lines. I'm not sure exactly what our intentions were. Mainly, the lines were jammed with older teenage guys looking for phone sex. As fascinated as we were, we were only twelve or thirteen at the time, and therefore lacked the experience or the desire to have these kinds of conversations. Nevertheless we continued to make these calls on a regular basis and pretend that we were much older girls.

One day while at one of my closest friend's house, her younger sister gave us a slip of paper with a name, a phone number and a brief description of a person (twenty-eight, very horny and dirty-minded) whom she'd accidentally called once and who stupidly (or desperately) gave her his correct home number during the process. Curious as hell, we dialed the number and crowded around the receiver, giggling as it rang.

Quite obviously, the voice on the other end belonged to a man in his late twenties or early thirties. For whatever reason, he very willingly entered into a conversation with us and was quite graphic in his descriptions of what he liked to do. The most bizarre thing was that he never once asked us who we were and how we had gotten his number.

I'd like to say that our fun ended there, but unfortunately, we were strangely drawn to this aberration of a man. We called him on a regular basis, with different friends present, and essentially egged him on to tell us about himself and his sexual conquests. Each time, he never once asked us who we were, must simply eased himself into conversation without question.

Finally, one day many phone calls later, a friend and I decided it was time to find out what this pervert looked like. We made arrangements for him to come and pick us up at a street corner, and then watched from far away as he sat in his car and stopped every girl that might match the description we'd given him.

I grew up firmly believing that one should never judge a book by its cover, but really, this guy was completely ugly and slimy looking. He was quite obviously desperate for something because he apparently hung around waiting for us for close to an hour (we hopped on a bus and went shopping after the first five minutes, but found this out during a subsequent phone call).

I haven't thought about this stuff in years. I'd almost completely forgotten about looped lines until just the other day. Ironically I had been patting myself on the back the other day about how vigilant and careful I am about my kids' use of the computer and internet at home, when really they could have been in the other room using the phone for all I knew.

The only thing I have over them is that at least I was focussed -- I didn't multi-task!

Don't think it through, just do it

I read a little miscellaneous bit of nothing in the Globe and Mail the other day. The title of the blurb was "Why we need sex". (I realise I sound like some kind of obsessed nympho since I'm so often writing about sex and correlated issues, so I should abstain this one time, but this was just too damn funny to pass on).

The bit of piffle referred to research which looked into why members of the Kingdom Animalia engage in sexual relations versus asexual reproduction. Indeed, according to a quote from Smithsonian Magazine, the act of sexual reproduction requires a great deal of energy to carry out, while it only allowes an individual the possibility of passing on half of its genes, as compared to cloning in which one hundred percent of an organism's genes are transferred.

The part that cracked me up was the following quote: "Scientists have long wondered why organisms bother".

Um hello? Have you guys been spending that much time in the lab that you don't know the answer to that question? I realise that this was meant within the context of energy expended as compared to the genetic output, but really!

Why do we bother to have sex? The answer list to that could be endless ... because we're trying to have a baby, because it's damn good fun, because we're horny, because we're bored, because the power is out and the T.V. doesn't work, because we're too broke or cheap to go out on a real date, because we're procrastinating on a work deadline and this seemed like more fun, because she wanted the old geezer to give her a pretty and expensive bauble and this seemed like a good way to get it, because this is a good way to destress, because we just fought and the make-up sex is the best, or just because it feels amazingly, awesomely good.

The real issue here is why would anyone even question the reasons for doing it? I mean, why look a gift horse in the mouth? Are scientists going to come up with a more efficient (and less pleasurable) way for us humans to reproduce?

I was curious if any of those genius scientists had done any research into why people bother to engage in oral or anal sex. Why does that physiological drive exist when it doesn't have anything to do with reproduction per se? I smell a doctoral thesis in there somewhere.