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!
Friday, August 28, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
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!
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!
Monday, August 10, 2009
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
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?
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?
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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