Up and At 'Em

Go ahead: Make my day by asking me why I got up at 4:30 a.m. this morning.

Well, I'm so glad you asked! I got up at 4:30, because I'd been lying in bed, awake, for over half an hour, trying in vain to remember the lyrics for the second verse of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing." (Verses 1 & 3 I had no trouble with.)

It's not easy being me.

It is now the 16th of December. That means Christmas is in NINE DAYS.

Gulp. In the next nine days, I have plenty to do! I have to make shortbread, gingerbread, possibly make a gingerbread house.

I have to finish a quilt and mail it to my niece and nephew, then finish a nearly identical one to give to my new step-grandkids.

In my spare time, I'm going to start a quilt for my daughter and for my brother and his wife.

I need to finish shopping for about four people.

I'm working today and tomorrow - but thankfully have next week off. And I am still clinging to the hope that I will actually get all this done by Christmas.

Right. Now that the alarm has gone off, I'm getting ready to go to work. Taking a break, as it were, from my more presssing engagements...

Speaking of Fallout...

Whoops. A pal of mine, either accidentally or on purpose, hit "reply to all" in the email containing the link to my blog... And now I'm in the middle of a firefight between people I love very much.

Sigh. Won't SOMEBODY post COMMENT - on the blog site? It's right there at the end... You could all talk to each other instead of putting me in the middle of it. Or maybe it's my fault for writing the blog in the first place...

Lest We Forget...

Today is Remembrance Day. Montreal's official ceremony will be held at McGill this year. There will be cannon - a twenty-one gun salute. The McGill staff were sent invitations which told us we'd be hearing the guns and not to get startled.

You can imagine the scenario, right? Some Nervous Nelly who is so absorbed in the papers she has to shuffle that she doesn't know it's Remembrance Day, or that it's approaching eleven o'clock, hears some big guns going off, screams, pulls the fire alarm, the building evacuates, fire trucks come roaring up the street...

It could happen. And mostly because we as a country don't make a point of doing what we used to do on Remembrance Day.

We used to ALL stop work. The buses used to stop. The traffic stopped. People would stop what they were doing.

For a single, quiet minute. We would stop our daily lives to remember the lives given for our sake, taken for our sake. And we'd stand up quietly. For a moment. Think, for one moment. How horrible war was, and is. And pray to god it never happens again.

Well, that's most unlikely, people being people.

A number years ago, a rogue wreath-layer made headlines and caused a kaffuffle when she brazenly walked up to the cenotaph, uninvited, and laid a wreath on behalf of all the women who were raped in the wars.

I know it shocked a lot of people. After all, a lot of mothers of living sons are still shocked when they find out their little boys are "getting everything they need." And that's here in peacetime, with sex posted all over the billboards, in our faces constantly. Now, let me make myself clear: I am ALL IN FAVOR of sex! I just don't need to see it portrayed to sell stuff.

I remember watching the actual ceremony where this woman laid her wreath, and I remember what I was thinking. I was surprised at first, then I thought, well, that happens all the time anyway...

And over the years I've seen the tiny trickle of understanding that began when this woman had the balls to do what she did. It wasn't too long after that ceremony when we first heard about restitution for the "comfort girls" in Korea. A government-built and sanctioned system of brothels using captured women. Hey - to the victor go the spoils, no?

Unfortunately.

Well, there are many other wreaths to be laid, stories to be told aloud for the first time, things we need to think about, as a society, concerning the fallout of war.

I am a victim of World War One. Me personally, I have been affected by the death of my great-grandfather.

My grandmother was about four when her daddy was killed in battle. He had been sent out, he had done a tour, he had come home on furlough, and went out again, and then died.

Little Doris adored her daddy. All four-year-old girls adore their daddies. He meant everything to her. And when he was home on furlough, she heard him and her mother talking. She didn't remember hearing them, but she did have a terrible nightmare during that time that frightened her so badly she remembered it all her life, to the point where she even told me about it.

She told me she dreamt that her father killed her. That he was strangling her. She woke up screaming terribly and would have nothing to do with her father for days. He and her mom finally got through to her that she had dreamt the experience, that it didn't really happen, and she was finally able to trust her daddy again and cry in his arms how much she loved him, just before he was taken away got shot.

As she told me the story, she was an old woman, but it was obvious to me that the dream still frightened her, that she could still see, after all these years, the images that had so terrified a little girl.

I've had therapy, something that wasn't available to Little Doris. I've learned how to interpret dreams, especially the ones that stick with us. And I know what grandma's dream is, what caused it, and I understand its truth.

Little Doris overheard her parents talking about the war, and she heard things every day of her little life about how terrible a thing the war was, how ordinary, upstanding men had to kill other ordinary, upstanding, trustworthy men every single day. And that whoever had the most men left at the end would be the winner.

And even if none of this was said in front of her, she picked up on the fact that HER daddy, her wonderful, funny, loving daddy... was killing other people's daddies. Every single day he was away.

And she dreamt her beloved daddy was killing her. It might have also been an allegorical dream - her daddy might have represented the situation - the war itself. The war was killing more than men. It was killing the hopes and dreams of a generation of human beings. It was killing families, because those who were left at home to worry were having their family life disrupted, were having their hopes and dreams killed. There was no such thing as "normal", not for anyone.

And so Little Doris dreamt she was being killed. And her daddy died in the war. And her mother remarried, and had a third child with her new husband. And when the war was over, Doris' stepdad came home to Canada, to Quebec, and Doris and her brother and her mother and her new baby sister came in tow.

And then Doris' mother died. And that was it. She and her brother were sent away to an institution.

Not for long. Doris was now fourteen years old, and by her demeanour and determination she managed to get a job, a place to live, and got her brother to live with her, and that was how the little English girl came to live here in Quebec, and meet and marry my grandfather.

But now stop, for a moment, and think: what would have happened to Little Doris, if her daddy had NOT died in the war?

Well, he would have been there for her and her brother, when her mother died. And she'd have helped her father take care of Little Albert. And they would have stayed a family, in theory.

But that didn't happen. What did happen was, a young woman had to fight her way through her teen years and young adulthood, scrimping and saving her pennies in order to save the only living human being related to her, in order to bring her brother up. She had to be wise beyond her years, and tough beyond measure.

Yes, she "succeeded". She did bring Albert up, she did finally marry and have a family, she was always "good with money", she was always tough.

And there's where the OTHER dark side of the story comes in. Because she never learned how to turn it off. She never had a parent to get into an argument with, so she never learned how to compromise, she never knew that parents weren't always right.

So, as a mother, she was uncompromising. Very determined. She ran everyone's lives, always sure that what she was doing was for the best. She really believed that she knew best.

And that caused a lot of trouble in the lives of the people around her. Basically, everyone was afraid of her, and everyone did what she said. Even when she took over my life, either allowing or compelling my father to take me away from my mother, moving across the country, restricting my visits... Nobody had the guts to stand up to Doris.

And that's when the really serious damage was done to Little Debbie.

Now, this is actually so much water under the bridge. Like I said, I've had therapy. I made my peace with everybody, and I've moved on.

But I do have this weakness, this mood disorder. I've had more than one psychiatrist in my life. I'm in my early fifties now, and I feel like it's only in the last couple of years that I've learned to listen to other people's point of view. Pretty much all my life, I've been "certain" that what I was doing was "right."

Just like grandma. Because I learned that from her. That's how she got by in the world, and that's how I learned to get by. Even when I positively hated her, I still believed the same things she believed, about how people should be. Uncompromising.

Well, that didn't work. My first marriage crumbled shortly after my Daughter was born. And now my second marriage has gone by the wayside as well, though I do like to think my second husband had a part in that...

And who else is a victim of war here? Hubby. My second husband is also a victim of war.

His grandfather couldn't take care of his own two little boys because he was in service during the war, and they got separated, handed off to different distant relations. And all the horror stories we've heard about how orphans were treated when they were "taken in", how they were made to work long hours, were abused and neglected, weren't fed properly... all that came true for Hubby's father. And he, in turn, became a "hard man," who once told his own sons that the happiest time of his life was when he was in the navy. In the war.

A little boy who lost his mother and his father to different circumstances, but who also never learned to feel empathy for others, never developed close, loving relationships, became a hard man, and a difficult father, who never learned how to be around his own boys. An emotional cripple.

And his sons both suffered for it. I can't speak for Hubby's brother, but Hubby certainly has suffered, has learned to keep his emotions buried, never was able to let down his guard long enough to enjoy himself, always looking for the black cloud over his shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop... I used to joke that Hubby could find the cloud in any silver lining. But it's not funny.

And the pendulum of life has swung in every conceivable direction in all our lives ever since the first world war and the second world war turned men into killers and robbed them of their humanity. We, the children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren of these men, and the families they left behind, have suffered the loss of our patriarchs in countless ways. In mental illness, in obsessions, broken marriages, broken dreams, all of us carrying the scars inside, where they can't be seen, where they can fester and do the most damage.

And we, in turn, have handed down to our children and stepchildren, all our insecurities, all our fears and weaknesses that began so very long ago, in the killing fields of Europe, in India, in Africa and the Phillippines... It seems that we have taken the worst of humanity into our souls, like the bodies rotting in countless graves, our innermost beings have been sliced, blown apart, tortured, starved, mutilated, by what happens AFTER the wars had ended. By the inadequate society left behind. Still screaming inside, not even knowing what it was that killed our hopes, our dreams, our minds, our marriages and families.

LIke the bullet we never saw coming, we are injured in ways we cannot even begin to comprehend, by the loss of stability in our families brought about by whatever war was happening in our society at the times all our fathers were alive. And those wars changed our fathers, our families, our selves.

The fallout is much greater than anyone could have forseen.

The Witches' Ball

Well, some of you know this already, but as it figures in today's blog, I must confess my religion.

I am a witch.

Now, whenever I tell people that, they invariably look at me sideways, inhale sharply, back away a step or two, then they all ask me the same question:

"Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?" they inquire, quoting from The Wizard of Oz.

I usually pause for effect and then ask them, "Is there room in there for mediocre?"

Or, "Let's say I'm as good a witch as I was a christian."

In other words, I'm just not particularly good at all, but not too bad...

This, of course, is not what people are expecting. They want to know whether I am evil or not. For that you see, you have to wait till "Judgement Day" if such is your belief. Or for the historians of tomorrow.

A witch can be a man or a woman. The "religion" if you have to call it that, is commonly known as Wicca.

For me, it's a celebration of the various seasons. A "nature" religion, if you wish to put a label on it. Paganism.

I became interested in Wicca after I learned enough about it to understand three things:

1) I did not have to believe any particular thing,
2) I did not have to practise any particular thing,
and
3) I did not have to associate with any particular group.

"That," I said, "is MY KIND of religion!"

I am what is known as a "solitary," meaning I keep to myself and only occasionally join in public rituals. In point of fact, I only occasionally do any rituals whatsoever - but that's because I am lazy. This level of devotion - ie, practically nonexistant - suits me just fine.

However, when someone proposes something that promises to be FUN - well, I am right there! With bells on!

I love parties.

In point of fact, I've been known to throw a few good ones. No matter whether I was married or single, my parties have made the social headlines. Mostly, I think, because people are slightly surprised by how much fun they can have.

I once had a party where there were no fewer than 130 invitees. I put notes on all the apartment doors in a two-block radius, giving my neighbours three weeks' notice to either come or get out of town. I rented a sound system. I recorded music ahead of time, mixes. No long fadeouts, no overlapping. Just finish one song and start the next.

My former DJ hubby of the day informed me this was BOUND to fail, however, the 100 or so dancing fools up at any one time proved him wrong. I have a good ear for music that people like to dance to.

One couple met at this party and ended up getting married. A lot of my pals said they had wondered, they weren't sure if they'd come or not, but wow were they ever glad they had.

I clear space for dancing, I lower the lights and turn up the sound. I cook and plan and arrange scrumptious dishes. I get the windows open early so nobody gets too hot. I make sure there are plenty of places to put your drinks, and plenty of places to get more.

And I dance.

I have a button an old friend gave me - I think I might have been in my late teens. I believe the lady on the button is Emma Goldman, who was a Somebody even I had heard of. The button is a quote from her: "If I can't dance, I don't want to be part of your revolution."

Well, it's been a number of years since I threw a dancing party, since my most recent Hubby does not dance. Not even in private. And so I was thrilled when the local group of pagans decided to throw a Witches' Ball. How wonderful, I thought. I now have a Boyfriend who dances, I'll invite a ton of friends, this will be a blast!

I did begin to have some doubts when I found out it was to be a non-alcoholic evening. As Ogden Nash put it so succinctly in his "Reflections on Ice-Breaking":

Candy is dandy,
But liquor is quicker.

My friends and I polished off a bottle of wine before heading out. As we walked to the establishment where the Ball was being held, we passed a homeowner who was delighted to see us in our finery and masks, and she volunteered that she was putting out fifty pumpkins! So we were in high spirits.

The hall was large. There were not enough tables to sit at, chairs were in very short supply. Some poor inexperienced youngster probably thought that would make people dance. It doesn't. It makes them stand against the walls for support, wishing they could sit down.

It was too hot, nobody wanted the windows open. It was too brightly lit, something that I have found discourages dancing quite thoroughly, and the music wasn't loud enough for the hall. In fact, had I been playing the music at that volume in my own apartment, I don't think the people upstairs would have noticed.

Needless to say, in my opinion, the "Ball" wasn't much of one.

As outgoing and as fun-loving as I am, I am of that age group where people dance in couples. Like "the buddy system" in swimming, I prefer to dance with a partner. I don't care what genders they are for other people, after all, variety is the spice of life! But for me, I prefer to dance with a man. That what the word "dancing" means to me, and I can't get past it. I can dance with a female friend, but I have the most difficulty of all getting up and joining a group of people who I don't know who are already dancing. Feels too much like muscling in for me to be comfortable.

Fortunately my lady pal S guessed my discomfort almost immediately and got me up dancing. And from the dance floor one did get a slightly better view of all the costumes.

There was a fellow who had been painted red and black - his head and face. He was done up in a demonic look. I went up to him and asked him if he was, in fact, painted red all over... "Wouldn't you like to know?" he smiled back. Delightful! The evening was getting better!

Another fellow entered the party, one of the chief organizers of this event, a young man who keeps himself too busy to ever have to follow through on his flirting... Since I was costumed and masked and he had just entered the room, I seized the opportunity to go give him a welcoming kiss - a GOOD one - he laughed and exclaimed "Who ARE you!!!" Once I laughed, the jig was up. I dragged him to introduce him to my pals, and then he was off visiting all his admirers.

About this time the music became tolerable to our ears and BF and I got up with the crowd and did our stuff for a few numbers.

Thanks to the lack of open windows, the plenitude of candles, and the number of bodies, the room was becoming quite hot. Masks and costumes were being peeled off all over, and the music was clearly geared to bodies about 30 years younger than ours.

Finally a recognizable song came on, and I dragged BF up onto the floor once more. It was quite deserted, of course, but this was the first evening he and I had had a chance to dance together, and this sort of thing takes practise...

We had a good time getting our cues mixed up and bumping into each other, but he managed to spin me around a few times and I was loving every second of it. Finally the song came to an end and I abruptly realized that, not only were we the only people on the floor, but everybody else was standing around us in a circle.

And then they all clapped.

BF bowed, I curtsied... but GEEZ - how humiliating is THAT?!

I can just imagine what they'd been saying while we were up there:

"Wow! Look at that! Gee, I hope I can still dance when I'm their age!"

This experience did not dampen my desire to dance, but we did leave shortly thereafter. I gave my "busy" pal a pinch on the bum as I left (he was wearing a "man-skirt", so access was unimpeded) and waved as we flew down the stairs and out into the cool night air.

And walking home, and talking with my friends, I came to the conclusion that there were only about three or four people in that entire crowd who knew how to have a good time. Even though they were pagans... I mean, it's pretty bad when even the christians are having more fun than the pagans!

And by and large, I find that very few people know when to let loose, let their hair down, let it all hang out... Get up on their feet and start moving around, if not actually dancing then at least talking to more than the two or three people they came with!

Well, to each his or her own. I personally have decided enough is enough, and come spring, I'm going to throw a PARTY. Cocktails, finger food, loud music, and buffet at midnight, or one a.m.

It's time to remember how to have FUN.

Watching Cesar Millan

"As you know, an animal escalates in one second! So you have to watch every second."

I love watching Cesar do his thing with dogs.

Exercise, Discipline, Affection.

Rules, Boundaries, Limitations.

"We have not allowed the brain to escalate..."

When I first started watching Cesar, I quickly understood that his techniques were totally applicable on my Hubby, or Stepkids.
I also realized that what I wanted personally was a strong "pack leader." And that in all my relationships, I had not found that pack leader, and had been forced to fill that role. Because, as Cesar says, the dog says to himself, "somebody always has to be pack leader, and if nobody else is gonna do it, then I have to."

This is how we end up with problem dogs. Dogs that won't stop barking, won't stop chasing, won't stop pulling, growling, terrorizing everyone. We are not fulfilling their expectations of what a pack leader is.

And I ended up screaming, yelling, angry all the time, because nobody would take charge of the situation, take charge of the children, set up rules, boundaries and limitations. For them, for me, for the EX-FROM-HELL, for anything or anyone...

And here I am, on my own.

In a recent discussion with the Human Resources person and Administrator from work, since my job is eliminated as of December 31 of this year, I was discussing my limitations. I was talking about how I can deal with excess stress once in a while, but on a day-to-day basis, eventually I'm going to snap. "Bark" at someone. Yell. Scream. Throw things. Exhibit Very Bad Behaviour.

"You get to a point," says Cesar, "where there is no trust, and no respect. That means there's no relationship."

I was talking about how I can cope with stress, at work, in my life, for so long, and do just fine: and then - "SNAP!" I "escalate" in one second.

In one second, I go from normal to psycho. Without warning - or at least, without any warning an outside person can see.

Just like an animal. Just like a dog.

"An animal escalates in one second," Cesar said.

Wow.

My "disablility" has a prototype. Dogs. Canine behaviour.

And a solution. A strong pack leader.

Stay calm and assertive.

Another Hubby Story!

I know you've missed him! (Or at least, his antics.)

To be honest, I missed having him to complain about - I figured I could earn a good living as a stand-up comic, just telling stories about Hubby...

Anyway, today I'm borrowing Hubby's car, so this morning he came and got me and I dropped him off at work.

It's raining today, and being October, there are quite a few leaves on the ground. The route we take to get to work from my apartment is called "The Boulevard", one of the LAST streets in Montreal to have an English name. It's a twisty-turnsy-upsy-downsy-lumpity-bumpity road that goes over the mountain between NDG and downtown. In front of some of the most beautiful homes you could ever hope to see, nothing under several million along THIS route! Between the potholes and school zones, most of it has a speed limit of 30 km/h (that's about 15 mph, for those of you who haven't converted). Unfortunately, it's also quite wide most of the way, and that means virtually nobody follows the speed limit.

We were doing about 60 km, over one lump and down another, quickly approaching a 90 degree turn. Fifteen years of being a passenger in Hubby's car have left me with deeply entrenched behavioural patterns, and I suggested to him, okay, loudly, that maybe he'd want to take that approaching curve at a slightly reduced speed, given that it was wet and slippery even without all the leaves on the road.

"Oh yeah!" said Hubby excitedly, "I got the car SIDEWAYS the other day!"

Like he's discovered gold, or something.

He continued, "It was at the point, you know, where the back left tire starts to wobble?! Only this time it didn't straighten out - the car just kept going the way the back wheel was! Slid for almost twenty feet! It was great!"

"AUGGGGH!" I retorted, unable to help myself. "You know, MOST people, most SANE people, would not be so happy about that! MOST people would be at least a little shaken up, you know!

He grinned at me. I warned him I was going to blog about this. He kept grinning.

I guess, to him, it's his fifteen minutes of fame.

Hubby drives like a maniac. Correction, behind the wheel, he IS a maniac. It's his way of making up for being so placid and easygoing the rest of the time.

When he first moved in with me, all those years ago, he went digging in a box looking for something, muttering "I'm sure it's in here..." Then a loud "AHA!" and he triumphantly produced a faded certificate for my viewing.

It was the certificate that he'd received from Skid School.

"There!" he announced triumphantly. "That's my license to drive like a maniac!"

Over the years, many people have listened to my complaints about how reckless Hubby is, and then they ask the obvious question.

"Which of you do you think is the better driver?"

And the answer is complicated. I'm no slouch behind the wheel - Hey! A FRENCHMAN taught me how to drive!

But the difference is in our approach. I am constantly on the lookout for what could go wrong, checking the positions of other cars in relation to mine. Slowing when there's not a safe stopping distance. Warning of danger ahead by tapping on the brakes. Giving pedestrians the right-of-way. It's called Defensive Driving.

Hubby, on the other hand, is out for a thrill.

When it has snowed, he's not satisfied until he's got the ABS to come on. It means nothing to him that ABS was designed to help drivers cope in EMERGENCY situations.

Here in NDG, many of the north/south streets had posts installed this past summer on the one-way streets. Four posts - two on each side of the road. The first set is about two feet wider apart than the second set. This gives the illusion that the driveable space is narrowing, and drivers slow down. A friend of mine has assured me it has made a great difference in the street traffic, cars now going actually close to the speed limit, instead of 40 km faster than it.

But not Hubby. To him, it's a challenge! "Hey - there's a barrier up there! Let's see how fast I can go through it! Wheeeeee!"

So I used to answer that although Hubby was better equipped to get us out of an emergency situation, being both physically stronger and therefore more able to control the car in an emergency, as well as having been properly trained to use the correct reflexes and emergency braking procedures, he was, of the two of us, much more likely to PUT us into an emergency situation, something most sane people try to avoid.

He missed his calling, you know. He should have been a test pilot.

Disappointing my Public

Ok, I have to set things straight, if only to preserve my sanity.

Enough, already, of adoring fans proclaiming me the greatest pen since Shakespeare.

My grandmother did this to me when I was a kid. I wanted to play the piano. Specifically, I wanted to learn to play "Fur Elise" by Beethoven. She got me a piano, I did very well, I made it up to Fur Elise and the Moonlight Sonata.

At that point, I wasn't interested any more, but I was made to continue. For several years. Even though it was obvious to me, both at the time and now in retrospect, that I simply wasn't achieving anything remarkable, that I hated performing, that I was never going to be the concert pianist my grandmother and my teacher wanted me to be.

To be something like that, you need more than talent. You need drive. Inspiration. Determination. And I had none of the above.

I had a mediocre talent. Furthermore, the piano was never my favourite instrument. I had to be drunk to enjoy playing.

I still enjoy tickling the ivories from time to time, and for certain individuals who do not urge me to go back to music school and learn to play ever more complicated (and uninteresting) pieces. I play the stuff I like, and the stuff I wrote, for my Daughter, and only occasionally do I play for friends.

I don't want to be a concert pianist.

When I went to school, my marks were touted all around my community. I won a gold medal for having the highest all around marks.

Pfft. Big deal.

I learned the stuff, because I LIKED it.

When it was stuff i didn't like (take accounting, for example) I became your proverbial "two short planks."

I do not want to be an academic. Or a scientist. Or any other genius.

Now, I've started this blog, and a few others. I have friends who seem to enjoy it. I have friends who don't. I have well-meaning friends who want me to become something bigger, something better. They seem to think I have a potential for being a famous and rich scribe.

I don't want to.

I enjoy just ranting.

I used to enjoy quilting. Till I got off on the tangent of starting a quilting business.

Now I spend day after day trying to figure out the accounting. This is not fun at all, this is not what I set out to do.

I am not going to re-vamp the quilting world. I am closing my business as fast as I can, and good riddance.

I'd like to take up quilting again, as a hobby.

And this blog, this is my venting steam from daily life.

I am not going to be a great writer. Ever. Because I don't want to be.

I spent my childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood trying to run from the icon of me my grandmother presented to the world, to the family, to me. I can never live up to that hype.

Nobody can.

I have spent the last 30 or more years trying to right the wrongs that turned me into an antisocial, depressed, uptight prig. Trying to shed my statues. Trying to run from the "destiny" everybody wanted me to have.

I am making my own destiny. My own peace with reality.

I am never going to be famous, or rich. I won't turn anything on its arse.

I am an opinionated, ordinary person.

I am an "also-ran." Except I'm not running, not competing. In anything.

I want peace.

Sorry to disappoint. Please, everybody, go live your own dreams of greatness. I have a way with words, nothing more, and I want nothing more than to make people laugh and think.

I cannot, and will not, do more than this.

An Offensive Personality

Well, one of my recent blogs has offended an old pal.

It is true. He has sworn to never read another word I write. Oh well, you know what they say about not being able to please all of the people...

It gives me a pang, though, to have caused this distress in one I hold so dear to me. But I will go on with my ramblings, and when I have subject matter that some would call "doubtful" I will continue to put warnings in front of the text.

Interestingly enough, this same old pal understands the difficulties I have with my Father.

My Father, you see, finds most of the world offensive. Yesterday when I spoke to him, he was muttering about having cancelled his cable subscription, or his satellite subscription, something like that.

Apparently, an advertisement showed a naked body, and that was too much for Daddy. He picked up the telephone and told them to either remove the offending ad or pull his plug.

(Luckily for him, he still had a telephone from which to issue this missive, because he's also engaged in a take-no-prisoners war with AT&T, and is in daily danger of having his telephone pulled...)

My "old pal" and my dad have attitudes that I simply can't relate to. Now, admittedly, my dad is an extreme case... But I have great difficulty understanding what people find so offensive about reality, and about art.

For example, I recently watched a movie that had this viewer's discretion notice:

"The following program contains nudity, sexuality, violence, bad language, and adult situations."

"Wow!" I thought to myself, "FIVE stars!"

I hadn't intended to watch that show, but I did, based solely on the viewer's discretion notice! (I enjoyed it thoroughly.)

However, I avoid movies like James Bond whenever possible, because I find the violence not merely gratuitous, but unbelievable. For the same reason, I do not enjoy martial arts movies, where they have actors on wires, flying through the air. Even when watching science-fiction movies, if I see the laws of physics being broken, I lose all interest.

Art has to imitate life - to the nth degree - but art IS NOT life.

I've found that most of the people who are offended by sculpture, painting, photos, or movies fall into the category of those who cannot make this distinction. My Stepmom, for example, wouldn't let her grandchildren watch episodes of "Bewitched", because according to her, it was about witches. Now, there is no point in trying to explain to her that "Bewitched" is about as far from satanic witchcraft as you can get, that the show was actually about family values winning out time after time. It had the word "witch" in it, and that was that. Same thing with Harry Potter. There is simply no getting her, or that kind of person, past the SETTING into the THEME.

The rest fall into the category of prudes - people who don't even undress in front of their spouse after ten or more years of marriage, for example. People who will not answer you when you call out "Hello? Are you in there?" when they are in the washroom, because they refuse to admit that they use the washroom. (I am not making this up - I've know THREE people in my lifetime who do this!)

It takes a lot to offend me these days. Oh, I still have some prejudices which rear their ugly heads from time to time, but I do my best to overcome them when I recognize them. Boyfriend and I, for example, are engaged in a debate concerning alternate states of mind and their ability to affect reality. As I pointed out to Boyfriend yesterday, usually when I engage in that type of discussion with someone, I am rather condescending: Like a patient teacher trying to explain to a child what the constraints of reality are. "There is no such thing as magic, the easter bunny, santa claus, spontaneous combustion, god," etc.

But in this discussion with Boyfriend, I am able to speak to him as an equal, not as a patient schoolma'rm. I am able to listen to his point of view and actually keep my mind open, actually pay attention and seek to find common ground with his position. It doesn't necessarily happen - but the fact that I don't automatically assume the position of "All-Knowing One" is a miracle in itself...

I used to be quite a fearful person, back in the day when I was a "believing" type. Life, however, had different plans for me, and has taken me through roads rarely travelled. Some of my family, and some of my friends, know some of the roads I've been down. Two or three people know the whole story, because most people would find a great deal about my life offensive.

I am not afraid of people finding out the truth about me. I do, however, fear that some would find out a partial truth. Grandpa used to say (and I think he said he was quoting Confucious) "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing." And our prejudices are designed to snap us away from thoughts we find offensive, frightening, or challenging - very much like our physiological responses to touching something hot. We pull away, quickly, in self-preservation. And rightly so - if we burn to death, we learn nothing. However, some people - call them scientists, or explorers - go on to see what they can learn about the phenomenon, while most of us just run away.

Well, life presented me with challenges, and I got burnt, but I stuck it out. I am pleased to say I've been humbled along the way, and that most of my friends have stuck with me through this ride, even though they themselves have not chosen my particular routes.

Funnily enough, in some of the circles I now travel in, I'm considered so conservative as to be almost prudish!

No, it's true! Here's a new word for all the boys and girls out there: "VANILLA."

Vanilla is the world's most popular flavour of ice cream. It smells good to everybody.

It is thus used to describe people or behaviours that our society considers "normal." A vanilla person, for example, would never get a tattoo. Or shave their head, or part of their head. Or wear fishnet stockings and a bra - and nothing else - to work.

Well, a number of my friends DO have these things in their lives, and a lot more besides. And I will say no more, because this blog is my vanilla blog. I am not here to deliberately offend the people I love.

My point is, that from these non-vanilla persons' perspectives, I am "normal." Boring. You may think I'm wild and crazy, "out there", a true deviant: I assure you, I'm mild by comparison to others, whose worlds you haven't dreamt of!

I hope my dear Old Pal stays friendly with me, even though he doesn't understand my sense of humor, even though he seems to find my blogs offensive. It is never my intention to offend, I'm just spouting off: and it is true, that what comes out does reflect what's inside... But in this venue, I'm simply trying to be funny most of the time.

And the rest of it, I'm trying to wrestle with my own prejudice.

Everybody Knows... but Me

So, I got sent home from work yesterday. The "Administrator" (non-academic equivalent of the Dean) sent me home personally. I was in the lunch room, quilting, and she came to peek at my work, then took one look at me and sent me home.

She suspected the flu - THE flu, H1N1, that's been in the news for the past six months, and which she personally had about a month ago.

Now, I'm the LAST person to complain about getting a few days off. And I do have SOMETHING... I'm just pretty sure it's not H1N1. Because I'm able to do things. If you really have H1N1, you are either dying, or you want to.

I figured I'd do something I'd been putting off. Something that involves sitting down comfortably for hours on end and doesn't tax the body.

Figured I'd tackle my business accounting.

After all, if I DID have H1N1, I'd be dead soon anyway - so what's the harm in making myself WANT to die? And if I DIDN'T have it, I'd be one step further away from debtor's prison. What's not to love?

So, I dug out all my papers, found the "calculator" app on my computer, sharpened my pencil...

Recently, my "Beloved Future Son-In-Law" (hereinafter to be known as "B") offered to help me figure out where some of the numbers in my financial statements come from.

For those of you not in-the-know about the accounting aspect of business, it's a bit like leaning to do Calculus in Grade 2. The page looks so CLEAN, so CLEAR... Lovely numbers in a column, clearly labelled "Assets" and "Liabilities"... it looks so simple. It looks, in fact, too good to be true. And you know what they say about things that look too good to be true!

Except that all the numbers seem to come out of nowhere. What in the heck is "Due to Shareholder", and why is it a different amount than "Retained Earnings"? Oh, and wait till you discover the wild and wooly world of "Change in Non-Cash Operating Items." That one takes a whole day to figure out! "Cost of Sales", okay, that's what the shipping and customs duties cost me... hmm, maybe it's also the sales tax I paid... I wonder, does that include my guild membership fees, since I have to be a member of the guild in order to sell there, and don't forget I contribute 5% of the value of the sales to the guild... Ok, let's try it all three ways...

It took me about four hours to get through all the numbers that were supposed to appear on the financial statements and begin to tot them up. Of course, none of the numbers made any sense at all, and none of them balanced...In the nick of time, I remembered that I had given last year's papers to B, and realized I was working with starting figures from two years ago...

(And a darned good thing I remembered that, too, because I was just about to pick up the phone and hit the speed dial "S" for Satan, ready to sell ANYTHING in order to get SOMEONE, ANYONE, to take this off my hands!)

As mentioned in previous blogs, I do not possess the gene for understanding accounting. If I had enough money, I would ever so happily pay someone to do this stuff for me. Alas, I have champagne taste, but I'm on a beer income.

Accounting will never make sense to me. B has explained which numbers to add and subtract from each other in order to plug a new number into the financial statements, but it is seriously a "monkey-see, monkey-do" arrangement with me. I don't know WHY any of these numbers exist, I only know that I have to complete a Financial Statement before I can get anywhere near doing my business income taxes, and hopefully avoid jail time.

I figure (no pun intended) that accountants are an evil breed (perhaps related to the aforementioned Satan). They take something perfectly simple and turn it inside-out and wring it and shred it and reassemble it till NO ONE in their RIGHT mind could POSSIBLY understand where all these blessed numbers came from!

Job security, that's what it is! A clever plot on their part to compel us mere mortals to pay them what's left of our hard-earned cash to make the government go away.

Well, after I eat supper I'm going to give it another go, now that I have the correct numbers to start from. I have actually learned something relatively useful from this process, astonishingly enough! When I've finished it, I'm going to set up my books the way the financial statements are set up, so I don't have to think next time I make a sale or order something. I'll just write down the number and fill in the calculation. Next year, when I go through this, I won't have to think. I'll have done it all now.

Yeah.

An (apparently) heavy load...

WARNING: Contains scatalogical content. Most normal people would probably find this offensive - I know I do!

I have an affliction. A "thorn in my side." A particular difficulty that I don't know how to overcome... or indeed, if it even can be overcome!

I have problem poo.

(No - it is NOT funny!)

See, I keep plugging the toilet. (And no, I do not mean with paper.)

Invariably, the first "load" I deliver is of sufficient diameter to... well, I don't know if it would choke a horse - I'm pretty sure horses have more sense than to go for that shit - oh! no pun intended! - even though dogs do go for horse-shit...

Anyway, it doesn't seem to matter what the, ahem, "texture" is, be it hard or soft, it just goes straight for the opening and plugs it solid.

There's something in there about specific gravity. If it would float around a bit, maybe it would get pointed in the right direction, break in half, I don't know!

And yes, I have, in fact, tried modifying my diet and exercising. The results are the same.

It used to be worse. I used to... (oh god, the things I blog about!)

I used to save it up.

NOT, I assure you, intentionally! But on a day where I'm rushing around, nothing of that sort would emerge. If I had several busy days in a row, tough luck, I'd just carry it around, until I arrived at a day when I could relax and stay home.

Then the miracle would finally happen - and believe me, it was QUITE a relief by that time!

But it would plug the hole. Back when I was with Hubby, the standard Saturday-morning-greeting was "it's plugged again."

See, I am of the firm opinion that UN-plugging such devices is a job for a MALE.

(I am positive the gene is on the Y chromosome. It's in the contract. Gotta be there somewhere...)

Hell, THEY'RE the ones the designed the thing! The plumbing STACK is always a 4-inch pipe. What in the WORLD possessed them to make the pipes from the toilet only two inches in diameter? Job security? As Red Green used to say, "If the women don't find you handsome, at least they should find you handy!"

Hubby, of course, predicatably, finds my situation hilarious. Boys usually do: dirt, mess, smelly things, gross stuff - I've never met a man who was grossed out by much that has to do with... with the things humans produce.

"Your just full of it, Dear," he would say, if he could get the words out, for laughing so hard.

Harrumph. He should talk!

But nowdays, now that my life is slightly LESS stressed than when I was back there, I'm more... regular. Even on workdays!

But it still plugs the hole.

And no, I am not going to run outside in my nightie looking for a stick to poke it with. Neither am I going to use the item which should be used to clean the bowl to poke it with - let's get one thing straight: I AM NOT GOING TO POKE IT WITH ANYTHING. Point finale.

I do not own a plunger. As I indicated earlier, those are things BOYS play with. And POKING such stuff is definitely something boys do!

So, it has occurred to me that perhaps, inside, I am... different. Differently-shaped. Perhaps it's not my stomach that has grown large over the years. Perhaps it is my "large intestine."

Maybe it stretched, over the years, packing all that stuff and carrying it around for days on end?

Maybe I need a - do they even DO these? - a colon tuck.

Sort of like taking it out, wrapping the whole thing in duct tape so it's narrower, and putting it back in. The "Red Green" solution.

(I quite expect now that nobody will EVER invite me over to their homes again. If I haven't grossed out my very last friend or relative by now, I am sure that, at the very least, they will not want me gumming up THEIR works, so to speak.)

This is a serious affliction!

I want an outhouse.

Getting Over It

I know I'm not handling this latest "crisis" well. It seems that whenever I get a shock, I go shopping. Somehow that eases the pain, helps me connect to something... I understand it's origins, but not why it works.

The origin is the mythological tale of The Red Shoes. A poor girl and her mother eke out a subsistence living, the mother is a dressmaker or somesuch. The little girl saves scraps of cloth, and eventually makes herself a pair of red shoes out of the bits she has saved. But the mother dies, and the little girl must go begging. A silver carriage stops in front of her, and a kindly old woman offers to take care of her, feed and clothe her, give her an education, etc. The little girl is very thankful to be taken in. But she is a bit shocked to find out that all her clothes, including her shoes, must be burnt, for fear they've been infested by vermin.

She grows into a lovely young lady, and then an event comes along. In some versions it's her first communion, in others it's some other rite of passage. But the old lady, who is quite blind by now, wants her to have a new white dress and shoes to match. They go to the shoemaker's and the girl is told to find a pair of white shoes. But high on a shelf she spies a pair of shiny red shoes that gleam with unearthly beauty, and once she has seen them, her heart is full of longing, and nothing will do but she must have those shoes. So she tells the old woman that they are white, and hides them from the servants, and can't wait to be alone so she can put them on and dance around her room.

One difficulty - she finds that she can't stop dancing once the shoes are on her feet. Some versions of the story have her crying out for help, she gets rescued, they manage to pry the shoes off her feet, she confesses and promises to be good in future, and goes through the rite of passage with a new pair of white shoes. And then another rite of passage happens, and she goes through the same problem.

Eventually, the shoes simply will not come off. In a drastic attempt to save the girl's life, her feet are cut off at the ankles, and the shoes, her feet still in them, go dancing away across the moor all by themselves.

It is a story of capture, of living someone else's life, living by someone else's rules. Try as we might, eventually our inner selves catch up with us, or catch us up, and no matter how hard we try to fit into the life that's been set for us, we rebel, and go lunging toward our own particular doom.

In my case, I simply have to spend money. I was brought up very frugally, to say the least, and my Grandma would get quite angry with me if I managed to incur unexpected expenses. In fact, I always thought we were poor. Money, the wise use of it, the keeping of it, the management of it, was like a lens through which everything was filtered. It colored everything about my life that I can remember. I did indeed feel like I was locked up in a prison for a great deal of my early life, and when I got out - WOW! Stand back everybody - woman with credit card comin' through!

I am not alone in this particular weakness, and it is exhibited in other ways which are perhaps a bit more subtle. I remember a Friend commenting something to the effect, "Why is it that the moment a woman invites someone over for a special occasion, the house must be redecorated?" And it's so true! Every "state visit" is usually preceeded by frantic painting, re-arranging of furniture, new drapes... you name it.

Some people frantically clean their homes when stressed. Some redecorate. Some cook. Some go on vacations. But an awful lot of us go shopping. Whenever I have had a shock, or a fight with a loved one, or a nasty surprise, or suffered a loss, I am simply incapable of doing anything at all until I have made it into a store and bought something. Only then am I purged of my sense of panic, only then does the adrenaline stop coursing through my veins, only then can I finally make it home and collapse into a chair and rest. And the bigger the stressor, the bigger the bills.

Yes, it's counterproductive, to say the least! But let he or she among you who has never scarfed a box of chocolates cast the first stone! We all have our dark secrets... I'm talking about mine in an attempt to gain some sort of control over it. Now, the last thing I need is more criticism, by the way, lest you be tempted to "tut-tut" me and tell me I shouldn't do this. I already know that - telling me off only reinforces the feeling of being trapped, helpless, and frantic.

I have several Girlfriends who have trouble with food. Specifically, they restrict their food intake to the point where it is unhealthy. As any of you who have seen my physique know, that has never been my problem! I have other girlfriends who not only restrict their intake, but who exercise and work their bodies beyond reason (in my opinion). Interestingly, they are all good with money. As if it's either/or: in fact, if I could only develop their particular neuroses, my life would theoretically take on a healthy glow! I'd lose weight, I'd be in shape, and I'd pinch my pennies along with the best of them! Until, that is, I ended up in the hospital being force-fed...

Actually, the past couple of days I have not had an appetite. I've made myself eat because I knew I should, but for no other reason.

I've not had much energy, either. Home all day today, basically went from bed to kitchen chair to couch. Put nothing away. Did no quilting. Cleaned nothing. Cooked nothing. Didn't listen to music. Had the tv on but wasn't watching. Didn't even have enough determination to have a nap. No thrills, no excitement, no interest in doing anything. Basically, one of the worst days I've ever had. But quietly bad. No sobbing or theatrics. Just nothing.

I made myself go out after suppertime, did quite a lot of walking... but unfortunately brought my wallet with me...

And the rest is history.

Epigenetics

Say whaa....?!

Oh yes, there's more to DNA than genes, and more to genes than we ever guessed!

"Nova" is still on, but I'm cutting to the chase here and summing it up.

Nurture AFFECTS Nature.

The way you are brought up, the environment around you, the amount of stress inflicted on your during your developing years, actually CHANGES your GENES.

OMG - it's way too complicated for me to understand... But there are things called "markers", and they can be re-arranged... and it just blows my mind, but the basic truth is:

Moms, hug and kiss and tickle and sing to and sniff your babies. And rub their skin and kiss them again and again and again.

Anyway, that word, "epigenetics" is gonna be big in the next decade.

You heard it here first, folks.

Baseball Blues

Or, "I Remember Mama."

My Mom used to hate this time of year. I'd get a phone call sometime around the end of September or the earliest days of October, and she'd say:

"One hundred and eighty-three days, Deborah."

"I beg your pardon, Mom?" I would say, totally confused.

"That's how long I have to wait till the Blue Jays play again. For the next one hundred and eighty-three days, I have NOTHING to look forward to."

Mom was a Blue Jays fan. And I became one, simply because if I wanted to see my Mom between April and October, I had to watch the games with her.

Because NOTHING and NO-ONE came between Mom and her Blue Jays when they were on!

At first, when I started watching the games at my own home, I had an overpowering urge to iron and smoke, since that's what Mom used to do while watching the games. She's be ironing Stepdad's shirts, and smoking like a chimney. She'd pause sometimes, to watch a play, and it usually ended with "Good for you, Wells!" or "Christ!" when a play was missed. Then she'd light up another smoke, inhale, blow it out, and with it would come another expletive.

It was from my Mom that I learned the phrase "Built like a brick shithouse!"

And when Roy Halliday took the mound, she'd say, "Yes, Deb. That's how I know I'm not dead yet." Actually, that phrase came up more frequently than just Roy, but she and I agreed on Roy! Yep. Not dead yet.

Once I began to take up the cause, she gave me the book "The Official Rules of Baseball" for my birthday. It was a tough slog, and I didn't understand the half of it. But I did make the attempt. I should try to find it again, now that I have an inkling as to what's happening on the field! It might mean more to me now...

Mom had a Blue Jays lawn chair, a Blue Jays sweater, and several Blue Jays pins. She knew the names of all the players, even the ones on the other teams.

And she really had it in for Derek Jeter. He plays for the Yankees. His salary alone would do the entire Jays payroll. And man, does he EVER love to see himself on camera.

"Yes, Jeter, we see you, you little f***r! Now stop admiring yourself and strike out, for chrissake!"

(Except he doesn't do that very often... Usually only when Roy is pitching.)

Mom also knew the coaches, trainers, and umpires. Hell, she probably knew the names of the bat-boys! She knew the standings - something I can still only guess at.

By the time I twigged on to the idea of getting her tickets for her birthday though, she was too fragile and ill to go. "Maybe next year," she sighed, always hoping that she'd get better, always looking for a better day tomorrow.

It boggles my mind how I could not see her death coming. Looking back over all the events of the two years prior to the stroke that finally took her from us forever, all the markers are there. The special meds to slow down her heart. The fact that they couldn't stabilize her blood - it was always swinging from too thick to too thin. Her rapid weight gain because of the now slow heart. The fact that she now took naps in the middle of the day. And some days just went back to bed.

I should have seen it coming. I should have known we were on borrowed time, but I'm naive about that, or in denial. I missed out on countless opportunities when she was healthy, opportunities to go see her, play cards with her, yak with her. I only twigged on at the very, very end...

Like the announcers often say, "Caught him looking..." In baseballs terms, that means the batter was fooled by the pitcher and didn't try to hit the ball, but just watched it sail by. The batter was expecting a different pitch, and didn't swing. Hence, "caught him looking."

Well, this season is just about over for the Jays this year. I took a look at next year's calendar, and it is indeed exactly one hundred and eighty-three days from the 4th of October this year till the season begins again on April 5th next year. The Jays are not going to be playing any post-season games this year. Maybe next year.

Meanwhile, we can "kiss this one good-bye."

Walking the Dog

My puppy-dog, Kira, is visiting me this weekend.

Well, by "puppy-dog", I mean my 13.5 year old dog. People ask what breed she is. She looks like a shepherd, but is the size of a mini collie. Well, a very well-fed miniature collie...

Let's just say, Kira and I both love our food, and leave it there!

When I left Hubby and his alien-DNA-replicants last February, I had to leave Kira there, since I was not permitted to have a dog in my apartment. She did come for one overnight stay, and after that she seemed slightly less depressed.

Kira was MY doggy, you see. She would pace the floor if I was not home, preferring to stare out the window rather than lie in bed with Hubby. I was her Mommy, her pack leader. And she has been heartbroken since I left.

And I decided to ask to have her with me this weekend. The landlord and his wife is away, till October sometime. Kira doesn't bark unless somebody comes to the door, and there is precious little chance of that happening this weekend. My best efforts to scare up some company have fallen flat, as usual.

For my state of mind, it's a darned good thing she could be with me this weekend!

It's different here than in a house. For one thing, the landlady made it so clear that dogs were not allowed in the yard, that I don't even let her pee on this lawn. We walk across the street before I give her permission to let go.

And that means that I have to get dressed for the outside a minimum of four times a day, and physically get up those stairs, and walk at least a couple of hundred yards with her, and scoop all her poops...

I regret to say, I've walked more in the past two days than I did the past two weeks. Ouch!

We walked to the "beauty salon" today - I got her washed and had her nails clipped. It's about twenty blocks away. Twenty big-city blocks. When we finally got home, we both badly needed a nap! And no doubt we'll both be stiff as boards the next time we go outside... two very old dogs!

Bijou is beginning to be able to ignore her - especially now that the sun has gone in. "It's too cold to stay out, therefore, the best must be made of it, that is all."

And Kira has finally relaxed enough to fall asleep across the room from me. At first, she sat ON my feet, to make sure I couldn't go anywhere without her. Now she merely looks up from time to time, to make sure I haven't disappeared.

Yes, we both needed to be close to each other.

Kitteh Kitteh

My precious, precocious Bijou has been supplementing the healthy home-made food I give her.

For three days in a row, I have heard her sweet voice calling me to the kitchen window, where she has presented me with a tiny mouse.

A different mouse each day, you understand.

She is giving me the only thing she can give me. She is presenting me with a treasure beyond price.

And I make all the right cooing sounds and praise the mighty hunter, and set a bowl of cream out for her so she can be rewarded with something she absolutely cannot turn away from...

But alas - I haven't been fast enough to get the mousies away from her, and they have each been ingested in turn, right in front of me. She bites off the heads, crunch crunch crunch, then goes back to the cream to wash it down...

a Pal suggested to me that I mustn't let this continue, because one never knows if these are true field mice, or if they've been walking around somebody's house and eaten something nasty, like poison, for example.

Well, so far, Lady Luck has been with us, and there have been no ill effects. And, today being both a work day AND a quilting guild meeting night, I've decided to keep her inside. All day and all evening.

You would think, from her response, that she'd been imprisoned in Alcatraz itself for a hundred years... First it was 'thump!" from the counter to the floor, then up her tree/post, then "thump" back to the floor, then back to the kitchen window, then "thump" and another and another...

She's now sulkily coiled in her basket, ignoring me, planning her revenge.

And, just for today, the wee mice have a chance to change lodgings...

Living Color

I got into making "Thread Scarves" last fall, after watching an episode of "Fons 'n Porter's Love of Quilting." A guest had shown how to use water-soluble stabilizer as a base upon which you sewed a grid. Then you added embellishments, in the form of beautifully-colored threads and wools, put another layer of water-soluble stabilizer on top, and sewed randomly all over the piece to get everything locked together with stitching. Wash it, and Presto! You have a work of art that's soft, original, costs pennies, and looks terrific!

A number of my friends got these as Christmas presents. Including my little niece and nephew.

But when I telephoned my Brother on Christmas day, he said that he wasn't going to let little Nephew wear his scarf.

Seems it had a bit of mauve on it.

"It's too girly," said Brother, flatly.

"Aw, c'mon!" I said. "He's just a little boy! He's not even four years old!"

No dice. No son of my brother was going to wear mauve.

I have never understood my society's attitude towards color. I've seen men - REAL men, mind you! - who look absolutely to-DIE-for in pink. They're not gay. And besides, even if they were, they'd still look fabulous!

And a boy is not going to become gay if you put bright and soft colors on a scarf he wears.

People look at me when I ride the bus or walk down the street. It's hard to hide me - I'm taller than 98% of the population here. That's right - only two people in 100 are as tall as I am.

But I dress in color. Everywhere around me, it looks like the population is in mourning. Blacks are omnipresent. Beige has infected the world. Tans, browns, off-whites, greys - maybe this is one reason we're all glued to our color tv's in the evenings! It's just too drab out there!

I wear oranges and yellows and blues and greens and reds and purples... That's why people look at me. I'm a bright spot of color in an otherwise dull landscape.

A line from "The Lion in Winter" goes: "... dull as Plainsong. La-la-la, always on one note."

(For those of you who've never been to a Catholic church, "plainsong" is what the priest sings during bits of the service of mass. It is, indeed, always on one note. That way, guys who are tone deaf still have a crack at being priests, but I digress...)

This modern trend towards "neutrals" is bad for the soul. It started because people don't know how to decorate their homes. They don't know that their wood furniture would look fabulous against a dark green. No, they painted their homes white. Off-white. Eggshell. "White's a very complicated color," asserts one advertisement.

Everywhere we go over here in North America, people are terrified of color. What, they don't want to stand out? Be looked at when walking down the street? How the heck do any of these people get dates, for crying out loud?

Yo - Bro! Chicks DIG color! You want your boy swarmed by lovely ladies? Dress him in pink. I guarantee they'll come running!

Well, this attitude was recently relived by my Boyfriend. He's a Team Lead in his job, and part of his responsibilites involves making sure his guys have the tools they need. Since they're often away in foreign lands, he got them all cameras, to help them when they have difficulty describing wiring or equipment setup to support techs back home.

The cameras are mauve.

They were on sale. They had the right features. And, unlike most guys, Boyfriend isn't afraid of colors.

His team all stood around the box when he brought them into work. Apparently, there was a moment of silence. Then one of the guys said,

"Well... nobody'll steal them, that's for sure."

Boyfriend laughed. I find these guys completely and utterly and TOTALLY RIDICULOUS!!!!!

For crying out loud - if your performance in bed is threatened by the color of your camera, man, you have got a MUCH BIGGER PROBLEM than the color of your camera!

Not for me, the drab colors of winter, burying myself back in the crowd. I talk to people, I make friends, I laugh, and I wear color. Men look fantastic in bright colors. And pastels. It brings out their eye color! It makes their skin look good!

I don't want any dull-as-dishwater guys in my life! I want friends around me who love life, in all it's variety and spectacular color. People who aren't afraid to be noticed. To be original. To be unique.

Work: The Curse of the Drinking Class

I live, technically, alone. I have a cat, lots of friends, and a Boyfriend. And you will usually find me moaning that I don't like being alone, that I want some company.

But not tonight. Tonight is one of those times when I'm relieved that there is nobody here to care for but me, and Bijou. She's easy - splorp her food onto a dish and set it down outside, so she can dine al fresco this evening. After all, she was stuck inside this whole fine day while I was at work.

Me, I'm having crackers, cheese, and some antipasto out of a jar while I watch the Blue Jays... and water to drink.

Today, you see, is the proverbial "morning-after-the-night-before."

Yesterday I had my pal Mr. P over for the evening. Mr. P picked up dinner and a bottle of wine while I had a quick shower, dressed in my jeans, and dragged my open bottle of wine with me outside while I waited for his return. When he did come back, food and more wine in hand, we proceeded to down the wine with dinner. I am not known for my, er, moderation...

We watched an episode of Star Trek: Enterprise, then I made tea and we had, unfortunately, cake.

Queen Elizabeth cake, for those of you in the know.

For those you not in the know, the batter is made with dates - lots of 'em. They're sweet, they're heavy, they're scrumptious. And the icing is a brown sugar and coconut affair.

It's r e a l l y sweet, perfect for a couple of Brit-twits like P and me.

And one good piece deserved another.

So, we sat and watched a second episode of Enterprise, and ate our two pieces of cake apiece, and downed our tea. By 9:15 we'd seen our two episodes and felt like two beached whales. We "chatted" a bit: namely, moaned and groaned our way through our stuffed throats, till suddenly I heard Mr. P say "Are you snoring?" I denied it. But the next thing I knew, Mr. P was letting himself out. At some point in the middle of the night I got up and brushed my teeth and removed some of the more uncomfortable items of my clothing. At some later point I walked the floor for about an hour, desperately trying not to begin a session of worship at the foot of the Great White Throne. The worst finally subsided and I was able to lie down again, using two pillows, mind you, and that was it till 6:40 a.m. this morning.

Oddly, (or not) I wasn't very hungry today...

Sugar and alcohol, it seems, is a very nasty combination. That being said, it was pretty dumb of me to have a bottle and a half, even with a friend helping me out. Alcohol is a depressant - the LAST thing I need! Especially in that kind of quantity.

So, while tonight's dinner isn't quite "bread and water", it's water, anyway. And no sugar. And a very small quantity of food. Less, in fact, than is sitting on Bijou's plate.

A nice early night, and I ought to be back in fine running order tomorrow. Tough-as-nails, jokes flying, poking fun at the world once more. Relieved to be alive.

Stranger than Ever

Well, last weekend, the final fin-de-semaine of my elongated vacation, my Boyfriend took me to a B&B near Sandbanks Provincial Park.

(If you've never been to Sandbanks, stop reading and go - right now! White sand, blue water, sand dunes, trees, and waves.)

I was, in essence, taking him there, since I'd been there and he had not, but since he was footing the bill, I prefer to say he took me! Let's make one thing clear here - Boyfriend takes GOOD care of me...

For example, he owns a car, but it doesn't have air conditioning. So he rented a car with A/C, to keep me cool for the 4.5 hour drive. And it was a little ... fancier ... than his bazoo... he wanted me to enjoy all the hours we spent together.

I'm sorry - that's just plain classy! S i g h ...

Where was I? Oh yes, driving to Sandbanks with Boyfriend...

I then was the stunned recipient of a phrase that men the world over have learned to fear when they hear it from the lips of their wives and girlfriends - namely:

"I need to discuss something with you."

Almost as scary as "Some Assembly Required."

I swallowed hard, shoved my panicking stomach down, told the little screaming voices in my brain to STFU, and said, "Oh?", hoping my voice didn't betray the fearstorm growing like a supercell inside me.

After all, this was the beginning of the weekend. If he was breaking up with me, he'd have done it at the end, or not gone on the weekend, right?

"What's the matter?"he asked with genuine concern, having noticed me turn a ghastly green. Not a becoming shade at all!

We talked about the chord of terror those seven words had struck, had a serious hand-holding reassuring discussion, which I will not get into here.

Having stopped the worst of my dread in its tracks, he went on.

"It is likely," he began again, "that I will receive job offers in the States, or overseas. I have no family here, no particular roots, and I've worked in France before and enjoyed it. But you have put down deep roots here. You have a number of very close friends, and it looks like Daughter will soon begin procreating... How would you feel about coming with me? I love you and I want you with me every day, but I wouldn't want you to feel torn or uprooted."

Wow.

I hadn't been thinking beyond next week... Quite the reversal of the usual gender roles, with the man doing the thinking ahead and the woman caught off-guard.

Gobsmacked, in fact!

What a flood of introspection this discussion let loose.

Historically, I've been uprooted since I was five years old. The Great Divorce (with apologies to C.S Lewis) that took me 3000 miles away from my mother, the continual moving brought about by my father's job in the Air Force, his remarriage, he and my Stepmom moving back to Louisiana, where she was from, leaving me stranded with my Grandparents, who meant well, but who were two generations removed from my reality...

I've been shunted to and fro all my life, and pretty much all of it against my will.

I vowed to myself, when I became pregnant with Daughter, that once she was school-aged I would give her the one thing I never had: stability. I promised her (though she was but an infant and didn't understand a word of what I was saying as she sucked leisurely on my boobies) that I would stay in one place when she went to school. That she would be able to form friendships that might possibly last her into adulthood. So that she would be able to have friends to play with, fight with, do stupid things with, and grow with. Help her stand on her own two feet, supported by way more than my own inadequate ideas on how life works. I knew I was damaged goods: I wanted her to be able to have the help of her peers.

So, even though I was unemployed soon after her schooling began, I stayed put.

I, in turn, made friends of my own. Well, your kids make friends for you, as they say, and to a certain extent that's true. You get to know other moms, and some of them become friends. I did manage to take up with a few people who became part of the fabric of my life... Of all ages, too. Since I was raised by Grandparents, I have a hard time seeing age. I was in my thirties before I could tell whether someone I met was in their twenties or in their fifties, but I digress...

I told Daughter about Boyfriend's discussion, and her response was not at all what I had imagined it to be.

I had broached the subject of impending pregnancies, for example, and rambled on, half-theorizing, half remembering, the two blissful weeks my Mommy stayed with me when Daughter was born...

"Stop right there," came an imperious cry from Daughter.

"Pardon?" I asked.

"If you think, for one minute, that you're going to come and live with me for TWO WHOLE WEEKS right after I've given birth, you can think again!" she commanded. "I love you mommy with all my heart, but you and I drive each other NUTS!"

Oh.

It went on from there. I will be Granny, be a part of the lives of my Grandchildren, when the time comes, but Daughter doesn't need me to babysit, do laundry, clean or cook for her.

Come and visit, in other words.

Oddly, her reaction didn't help me understand if I wanted to follow Boyfriend to the ends of the earth or not. It merely reinforced that I'd done the job I promised. Daughter is independent, and happy. I, at this point, am basically superfluous. There would be no impediment from her end that would prevent me from leaving the country.

It just made me wish she wanted me closer to her. Oh well...

The next pal I tried to discuss this with was R, who I've known since taking filmmaking courses together when I was 17. R basically did what he's always done, especially back then when we were trying to come up with ideas... blasted me. "This is too theoretical" etc etc etc.

No help there.

I had my friend P over for dinner, who in his inimitable, logical way said, "The only question is, where do YOU want to be? Do you WANT to spend your time with Boyfriend or not? Figure that out, and you have your answer."

And oddly enough, a moment after my heart said "Of course I want to be with him!", that's when I started getting lonely. Started thinking about how I like to get together with my friends, if not every week, at least every second week. How together we ruminate the minutiae of daily life, only occasionally going somewhere that costs money, preferring each other's kitchens to places of interest.

It's not that I particularly LIKE being poor - it's that I'm used to it. Used to staying home. Used to having coffee in my friends' homes or mine. Used to watching rented videos instead of gala openings. Used to sitting on the steps and watch the sprinkler water the lawn and the searchlight passing endlessly through the evenings.

I'm not used to flying around the globe, staying in hotels, taking people out to dinner. A cup of tea with a girlfriend who uses her teabags four times to save money, that's what I'm familiar with.

Who would I be, who would I become, if I followed my heart and cut the ties that bind me to this little patch of earth called Montreal? Without my friends to chat with, how would I know how I feel? Am I strong enough to be myself in a relationship without the eyes of my friends keeping watch over me?

Is it possible to be happy, without roots?

Seems I've come back to my uprooted past, after all, or it has come back to me. I am already torn - hah! - "Torn Again", with apologies to the Christians... I already miss everyone. I'm already in seventh heaven in Boyfriend's arms, my hand in his as we pass through Customs at the airport, excited and eager for brand-new adventures. And I'm as lonely as I've ever been in my life.

And I haven't even left yet!

Just Shoot Me

So, this afternoon I swallowed my pride, dug my heels in, took a deep breath, and started gathering the papers I need to fill out my "past-due-since-the-cretacious-period-you-oughtta-be-in-jail-lady" business taxes for the period ending February 20, 2008.

My Grandmother was the office manager to a team of chartered accountants for I forget how many years. Centuries, considering the number of times that fact has been thrown in my face...

I'm afraid I'm a great disappointment to Grandma, not to mention Revenu Quebec...

I do not possess the gene for accounting.

Or the organization gene.

I gathered anything pertaining to the business off my desk. That was easy - nothing. Heaving a reluctant sigh, I entered "The Room."

"The Room" is where I keep my sewing stuff. If I could actually sell this stuff, or god help me, MAKE something with all of it, I'd probably be rich. Heck, if I even knew WHAT I had in there, I'd be so far ahead of myself I'd be meeting myself coming and going!

Somewhere in there was a box of papers for the approximate taxation period, and I had to climb over everything and find it.

I did, interestingly enough; and I was soon sitting at the table, letter opener in hand, ready to open all the bills and statements and invoices from oh-so-long-ago.

I slit open the first envelope in the box and was immediately overcome with nausea, one of the reasons I am not an accountant, or a secretary.

"Just Shoot Me," my brain said to me. "None of that," I replied grimly, putting down the Mastercard bill in the appropriate pile. "We have to do this, there's no getting out of it. Just shut up." With that, I opened the second and third envelopes, and so on.

I had to fight back tears a couple of times in the ensuing three hours, but I doggedly made it to the end of both boxes. Now I have a box for the period ending February 29, 2009, several piles from the March 2007-February 2008 year piled neatly on my diningroom table, and no fewer than seventeen letters from the provincial and federal governments pleading, nay, begging me to please file a f***g return!

Poor Gran is turning in her grave, I am sure. This kind of thing was all so simple to her. She possessed both the genes - organization AND accounting. She could never understand why I didn't want to be an accountant, or at the very least, a secretary.

"The Secretary," she told me often, "is the secret-keeper of the company!" Woot woot. This kind of thing really turned her crank, but all it does is make me vaguely suicidal. As far as organizing goes, I am dumber than dirt. And for accounting, I'm dumber than even that... so, whatever that could be, it's pretty darned useless.

My brain kept firing pictures at me of things I could be doing with my afternoon - quilts I could be making, food I could be preparing, friends I could call, but I stuck with it. For that, I'm going to reward myself with something, not sure what, and take the evening off.

Tomorrow, it's back into the room to find what I'm missing. At least now I have a clear idea of the three or four items yet to show up, so when I do find them, I'll know I can stop digging.

After that, the fun really starts - preparing the tax return. Yay.

Please, somebody - put me out of my misery!

Dinner and a live show

This is not Deb. Really. She has insisted that I make that clear, least you mistake my senseless ramblings for her sleek and hilarious postings under the influence of....who knows? At the risk of being thrown out of Canada, I have high jacked her blog, and do so with no shame. Could it be the vodka?

I am not sure how many of you have been been treated to a meal chez Deb. You arrive for a 5 o'clock (yes, I do mean 5pm or 17h as you Canadians like to call it) dinner and she greets you at the door cursing, sweating, and threatening to shove one tool or another up the arse of one friend or another. Tonight she was engaged in an exotic dance with the A/C unit. I caught only the tail end so I can't say how many strikes she was down...but with a few encouraging words and a helping hand....she managed to win the battle, and I sighed gratefully as she unleashed a ice cold stream of air into her somewhat steamy apartment. Go Deb! Who needs a man anyway? (her quote not mine...I continue to actively seek one, or two, or three....)

Worrying because she is now 15 minutes behind schedule....Deb decides to do the utmost of multi-tasking....cooling down from her strenuous labor while preparing a gourmet meal. This includes a semi strip tease where she rips off her cute little gingham top and tosses it on a chair somewhere. Leaving me gazing at her beautiful new navy and white polka-dot contour bra, stuffed to the max with her ample and lovely chest. Let me tell you....this was better then my usual late night marathon of CSI:Miami, back when I was pregnant with twins and stuck on the sofa unable to sleep due to acid reflux and pre-eclampic legs the size of tree trunks. David Caruso has NOTHING on Deb's bosom. Yee-ow! I declined the offer to join her and remove my own top since I was 1. not even sweating 2. in a very non-sexy sports bra that had just supported me through a run and 3. well, she was expecting a visitor or two at any time. Need I any other excuse?

Dinner was an AMAZING salad per my request, always my request. I LOVE her salads as much as I love her nuttiness. Deb has a knack for making salad, as well as a knack for finding a way to incorporate alcohol into any type of meal that she makes for me. Breakfast: mimosas, Lunch: beer, coffee break: beer, Dinner: wine, beer, and vodka mixed with "some kind of juice in the bottom of the fridge I think is still good!" I am starting to worry that she only enjoys my stellar company after I am a bit snackered. She even went as far as to say she had dessert. Which I at first thought was going to be a face-plant into her ever present and semi naked chest....but she assured me "these are not for dessert, dear, you're allergic to milk, remember?" Thank God for small miracles.

The lemon meringue pie which she worked so hard to thaw and serve hits the dessert plate with a smack that resonates like my ass when it used to get slapped (willingly) by my Martinique ex-boyfriend. One would think that three hours of daily triathlon training would take the jiggle out of any white girls bum. But alas....it seems to move just like the white topping of the pie when I shake the dessert plate. Ah well....time to move to the Caribbean.

Dessert and coffee leads to more talk of mutual friends....one that Deb hooked me up with a year ago as a potential roommate. Our co-housing lasted a year, and as fun as it was....I am still chasing him around looking for some final payments. I was asking if she had seen him around so I could collect the last of the overdue bills , when she perked up and said that she would be happy to pay his share for him IF he would perform " certain favors" for her. Now that the A/C is all in order perhaps she is referring to those shelves she needs installed??

In conclusion, I do believe that if we all made dinner at least once a week in our skivvies (I seldom make dinner but I do spend much of my time walking around in my undies) the world would be a better place. If Deb is not the finest example of how it is the simple things in life that keep us excited and aroused .....then dammit....I'll take off MY shirt for our next dinner together.

[signed] C

Where is that motivation?

I am not a morning person. If anything, I'm "mourning" every morning. Mourning the fact that I should be getting out of bed.

If I don't have something fun to look forward to, good luck keeping me up. Bijou, my puddy-cat, dragged me out of bed today at 6 a.m. I'm trying to make myself stay up, even though my eyes feel like they'd make a good litter-box right now.

I've seen lots of movies with bodies being dredged from a river. That's what mornings feel like to me, most of the time. I'm the dead body, and even though I set the alarm clock, have plans and a schedule to follow, it still feels pretty chancy most days whether the grappling hook or the weeds will win. I get turned over, but sometimes the hook misses, and down I go again, spinning back into unconsciousness.

I envy Morning People. Heck, I even envy the obsessive-compulsives!

Back a few years, when I was married with Stepchildren, we used to hear Stepdaughter wake up every morning. (This was before she became a teenager.) We'd hear her take a deep yawn, hear her roll over, yawn again, then - Boom! She was up. Thud-thud-thud-thud her feet would go down the hall. She was wide awake and ready for action, setting off from her bed in a running start, looking for signs of life in the world around her, and cheerful.

And I'd g r o a n , and roll over and bury my face in the pillow, thinking, "Oh god, not another day!"

I talk to people who are older than me, like by twenty years or so, and they all have variations of a theme: I woke up, therefore I'm alive - hooray!

I envy them.

Oh, there are days when I wake up eager to be up and about. Days when I've got somewhere to go that I WANT to go, like a trip somewhere. Or people I love are coming over to see me, or I'm invited to a friend's place, or I'm going out to a movie that night...

I envy some of my female friends who wake up with mental lists running through their heads of all the things they could get done - before leaving the house for work!

When I have to work, I lie in bed mentally calculating what I could SKIP doing before I have to leave! "If I pack a peanut butter sandwich, I don't have to eat breakfast... If I have my shower first, I can let my hair air-dry, so I won't have to style it with the blow dryer... If I use a frozen dinner, I can stay in bed five extra minutes so I won't have to search for stuff for lunch..."

And on a day when I'm not working, the question "Why?" looms very large next to the little voice that says "Come on now Deborah - you should get up now."

Or sure, I've got things to do. Like my business taxes, for instance. I've got to find my receipts and papers and file my business taxes within the next ten or fifteen days, or be fined something awful like, six thousand dollars.

Be still, my beating heart. There must be some needles I could poke into my eyes first...

Today seems to be especially difficult - it's grey out. About as grey as when I close my eyes. The only difference between my eyes being open, or my eyes being closed, is that my eyes hurt less when they're closed, and I don't have to pay for the electricity to run the lights.

Oh yes, I wish I could wake up with a little enthusiasm. Because right now, when I wake up, my reaction is...

What's the point?

Too much vacation...

I never thought I'd see those particular three words together, much less in a sentence that pertains to me.

But I now believe I've been on vacation too long.

I learned a new word today. It's in the fine print at the bottom of a card attached to a one-of-a-kind, hand-made bag. The designer is (was) Laurel Burch, who passed away in 1995, coincidentally the year I took up quilting. Laurel Burch was an amazing fabric designer, or just designer, period. I'm a big fan of her work. I wish they would re-run her fabrics, but apparently that's not going to happen.

The card has a greeting from Ms. Burch, and in the fine print on the back, the company who had the license to use her designs on its bags makes this disclaimer:

"On certain hand woven and hand printed fabrics, a slub or an imperfection may be found. This is an attraction of something hand made not mass produced."

While I would have inserted a comma or two, one word leapt out at me.

Slub.

I have done very little "work" today. I paid a bill, rode my bike, made the day of a couple of salesladies, and one of my purchases was this Laurel Burch bag. Other than that, I reheated week-old leftovers, watched the Jays lose a ballgame, talked rather incoherently on the phone with three people, since I can't really carry on a conversation when the tv is on.

I am, at least today, a "slub."

Funny, a lot of people have complimented me on the blog, asking me why I don't write for a living.

Heck, I'd rather sit here and write than do ANYTHING! At least, I'd rather write than work. Or sew. Or clean.

Slub.

Lookin' Good

Ah, what price, beauty?

I am writing this, coffee mug at my side, as I wait for the peroxide, and other environment-killing harsh chemicals, to work their magic on my tired old hair and turn me into a raving beauty in approximately 25 minutes.

Taking years off my look, and probably my life as well. Statistically speaking, women who color their hair have higher rates of cancer. Reds are the worst - that's why I went golden brown, FYI.

But I wonder who "they" are getting these stats from, because I don't personally know a single woman who DOESN'T color her hair, once she reaches her forties. Some of us stop - I did, for a while... Decided to embrace my inner crone, look my age, knew I could be beautiful without the addition of streaks, or even what they're now calling "monocolor"...

("Monocolor", for the benefit of the ladies who might chance to read this column, is simply hair color by another name. Today, you see, it's not enough to put one color in your hair, you have to add highlights. A second, third, and fourth color is often required. Sort of like the new razors. I remember when Bic came out with a disposable razor, and then when they added a second blade. We're up to "Mach 3" now... I wonder how long they'll play this card...)

Then I got a good look at myself, and the rest, as they say...

In all the tv ads, in all the posters and pictures and movies that surround us, the models have glorious, shiny hair. No matter how long the hair is, there doesn't appear to be any breakage. It's sleek, bouncy, flowing, silky, soft to the touch...

And you don't get that from nature. What you get from nature is split ends, grey hair that is the texture of fishing line, or electrical wire, and lots and lots and lots of breakage.

It takes CONDITIONER, folks, to give your hair that shine. Mousse to make it bounce. Cream to smooth the broken ends into the rest. Spray, mist, milk, gel, foam, special brushes, special combs, and god-knows-WHAT, to make your hair look like that. Oh, and a good airbrushing doesn't hurt.

Personally, I find the only conditioner that makes my hair beautiful comes in the package of l'Oreal Superior Preference hair coloring.

Yes, that's l'Oreal, the one that tests on animals...

Yes, I am a complete and utter moral failure. But I digress...

Around about the same time as I began, once again, to color my frizzy locks, I began to take an interest in my skin, specifically the skin on my face. The bulk of my skin (no pun intended) is not available to the viewing public. However, the skin on my face is out there front and center every day, and it was scary...

I know just how ugly I are
I know that my face ain't no star
But still I don't mind it,
Because I'm behind it -
It's folks out in front get the jar!

I began in general to improve my appearance. Who knows the ugly truth behind whatever hidden reasons I did so: for some people, this is part of grooming. Something basic, something simple, something you learn to do every day before you're a teenager. Taking some pride in your appearance.

Giving a shit.

Well, one thing I HAVE learned, is that this looking good is an expensive business! No wonder all the tv ads say "Because you're worth it!" They're trying to con us out of our money, for sure, and desperately trying to convince all of us that we need to spend megabucks on our appearance, in order to be accepted just in general, never mind by Mr. or Ms. Right! And if you're trying to attract members of the opposite sex, baby you've gotta be "hot!"

Besides the lotions and potions and colors and dyes and powders and creams and gels, there is clothing to purchase. Oddly, the most expensive items are usually the ones that, again, the viewing public doesn't actually get to view: underwear. Specifically, the undergarments that hold a woman's boobies up...

... off her stomach, when you reach my age.

Sigh. Gone are the days of the "over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder". Nothing is casual now.

Gone are the "Cross-your-heart" bras of my mother's day. No more "When I'm looking good, I feel good, and when I feel good, I look GREAT!" (Extra points for you if you can remember the tune!)

Virtually unknown and extinct is the sports bra - ironically, in this particular day and age of the "health and fitness" fad.

Oh no, we shall have underwires, ladies. (Just for fun, I would love to see someone invent an underwire ball-holder for a man to wear during HIS business day, and see how long he could go without being "bitchy"...)

Today we have what I choose to call the "goddess" bra. It's colorful, it's molded foam (no doubt chock-full of formaldehyde), it's straps are meant to be seen, and it has a major underwire.

I discovered this type of bra when I went into my fave store with intent to purchase a new bra. The saleslady took my choices quickly away, and instead pressed firmly into my hands a totally new size, in the molded cup style. I told her it wouldn't fit. I told her she was nuts. I told her a different saleswoman, from this very establishment, had fitted me before with the sizes and styles I had picked. Finally, I put it on, to show her just how wrong she was...

... and was BLOWN AWAY by the reflection in the mirror. OMG! A GODDESS was staring back at me! She took my breath away! Imagine what she could to do an unsuspecting MAN...!

I bought 8 of them.

(Well, each "second one" was 40% off, and you need to have enough of them to wear a clean one every day...)

My god, if I'd had one of these in my twenties, no one would have stood a chance!

For the members of the hippie generation, I must remind you all that though, yes, what's on the INSIDE is way more important, you've got to get someone to want to look there if you're ever going to find that lover/friend/significant whatever...

You may be a delicious steak, but ya still gotta SIZZLE, babe!

Perhaps, if my Mom had been able to raise me, none of this would seem so strange and unusual to me. I never saw my Mom look frumpy, till she became unable to care for herself, which was very shortly before her death. Up to that point, she was always neat, clean, well-groomed. Always had her hair taken care of, always put on her makeup, did her nails, pressed her clothing.

Perhaps, if she'd brought me up, I would have learned these skills at far younger an age. I'm 52 now, and a simple thing like coloring my hair or buying underwear is for me an agony of indecision rife with guilt, whereas, as I have said, for most people, it's simple grooming.

"Don't ya know about the new fashion, honey?
All ya need are looks, and a whole lot of money!"
Billy Joel

Yes, looking good costs money, lots of it. And it takes time - lots of it - out of your day. It's no wonder that young working couples with children have no time to learn to cook their own meals! I'm still stunned that so many people I see on the bus every morning are so well-dressed, so well made-up, and have DRY hair... Unlike me, whose hair is still wet from the morning shower...

All this stuff takes time, planning, thought, energy.

The question is, is it worth it? Aye, there's the rub. It takes me ages to look my best. I have to plan days in advance what I'm going to wear, make sure the underwire that matches the blouse will be clean on the exact day... I have to plan to not drink coffee the night before, so I'll be able to get up early enough to get my hair dry AND styled... And have adequate time to stay calm, unhurried, so I'm not sweating off the makeup as I attempt to apply it! To leave my house by 8 a.m., I have to get up at 5, and keep moving without pause, if I'm going to look my best. That's three HOURS out of my life. (I'm pretty sure no MAN has ever had to put that much time into his looks, even if he shaves his balls!)

Gender inequities aside, each of us has to decide whether all this fuss is worth it. Whether looking this good actually makes me feel better about myself, actually helps my self-esteem, actually makes people want to be in my company, at least long enough to discover my quirks...

And even though it's a major undertaking (oh, no pun intended!) for me to get to the point where I'm satisfied with how I look, by gum, I'm going to keep at it for the conceivable future... Maybe one day it won't take me so long, maybe it'll always be difficult...

But I'm going out trying to keep up appearances.