What Does 20 Years of Marriage Mean?

May 16, 2013 By 22 Comments
Marriage Quote by Rita Rudner

Marriage Quote by Rita Rudner
Celebrating 20 years of marriage

 

Twenty years. What can a person accomplish in 20 years?  Well, apparently, and somehow, against all odds, being the child of multiple divorces, I have accomplished a marriage.

 

Today is my 20th anniversary.

 

Twenty years ago today, I was wearing a gigantic white satin Eve of Milady dress that was so large it required it’s own bedroom in my Mother’s house, and three people to hold it up so I could pee, and chomping at the bit for my turn down the aisle. I was excited. No jitters for me. This was my moment.

 

20 Years of Marriage

20 Years of Marriage

 

The party was planned down to every last detail, including tiny white rosettes which were glue-gunned onto black and gold napkin rings made from the same ribbons used in the bouquets. My event was going to go off without a hitch. Never mind the band didn’t know how to play OUR SONG, More Than Words by Extreme. Everything else was going to go great. Not to worry that my father was late, and I walked in on him and my mother in the bathroom and after 20 years of divorce she was helping him get dressed, which was completely weird. That was all secondary.

 

20 years before: under the Chuppah

20 years before: under the Chuppah

 

It wasn’t even just about the wedding. It was about the marriage. Me, and Jack, and making a family. I knew that a lot of brides lost sight of that, but I wasn’t going to.

 

Happiness at the wedding

Marking 20 Years of Marriage

 

I knew that I was getting MARRIED.

 

That I would be a WIFE.

 

That it would be WORK.

 

That there would be UPS and DOWNS and even SIDEWAYS. I knew all these things, but I really had no idea what they would mean. I was 25 years old, in love, and excited to embark on a grand adventure. One that was beginning with three weeks in France and Italy. That’s reality.

 

Twenty years. Three children. Four dogs, two houses. Jobs, careers, career changes, romance, arguments, making up. Socks thrown (better than books or dishes, right?) screaming, laughter, tears, and love. Roadblocks, understanding, headbanging, wallbanging (you know what I mean), making out, making up, and the odd “Get the hell out.”

 

Twenty years of compromise and respect, and the occasional disrespect. And understanding that you can love someone but not like them for that moment.

 

All those years, and I didn’t really get it. I mean, I got it a bit, because we’ve made it through some pretty interesting times. But, until last week, I didn’t understand the depth of it. The reason it’s lasted 20 years.

 

Have you read The Gift of the Magi by O.Henry? I have read it so many times, but it has never truly resonated with me. Until now.

 

In the story, James and Dilla want more than anything to buy each other the perfect Christmas present. But, they don’t have very much money. Life is tough  but they have one another to lean on. This one time, though, they want to do something special for their true love, to make them happy with a ‘thing’. But, as they find out, it’s really the thought, the mutual sacrifice, that really matters.

 

The Gift of the Magi, the irony of the gifts that James and  Dilla gave each other, the offerings that they would make to ensure their partner’s happiness above their own. That is what marriage truly is.

 

After 20 years, I know this. Because I’ve just experienced it.

 

So, I believe, that’s why we stay together, no matter how many fists are clenched in frustration, how many nasty retorts are bitten back or complaints are made about an unloaded dishwasher or a forgotten call home. When we’re both stressed to the max and have nothing left over, when we ask too many questions, or not enough. When all we can feel and see is that feeling of “Who IS this person? And why? Just why?”

 

No matter all of that, when my husband would sell his proverbial watch to buy me a jewelled comb for my hair,  I know that he loves me. That we’re meant for each other.

 

That is what you can accomplish in 20 years.

 

 

Filed Under: Getting Older, Life, Life Lessons Tagged With: , , ,

Ladies! It’s Time We Love Ourselves Like the Dove Real Beauty Sketches, Men Edition

April 18, 2013 By 2 Comments
Dove Campaign for self esteem

Chickymara (that’s me) and daughter in the Dove Campaign for Self-Esteem

 

A long, long time ago, before I had wrinkles, my daughter and I were in one of the first Dove Campaigns for Real Beauty.  It was the most amazing experience, and ever since the day of that shoot, where they made my awkward, pubescent 11-year old feel like the movie star that she is, I’ve been a huge fan of the brand. I really like what Dove stands for when they support self-esteem, diversity, and the innate beauty that is on the inside and outside of every single woman.

 

The picture above was during the shoot (the t-shirts weren’t ready, so they added the logos later). The picture below was used again, last year on the Yummy Mummy Club as part of the Dove Celebrate Moms program. (Imagine my surprise to see it pop up again 8 years later. We do NOT look like that anymore…)

 

Dove Campaign for Self Esteem Mothers and Daughters

Me (Chickymara) and my daughter in the Dove Campaign for Self-Esteem

 

Dove’s newest campaign is called the Real Beauty Sketches. Truly eye-opening, this video is intended to be a wake-up call. It truly shows the vast disparity   between how we perceive ourselves and how others see us. How they see our real beauty. Right after I watched the video, I ran to the mirror to compliment myself on my bright eyes, Marie Osmond Smile, and still lush hairline.

 

Watch the video, and then go look in the mirror. Come back and tell me what you see.

 

 

Of course, with every great video comes a parody. And so, someone has made the Dove Real Beauty Sketches-Men. Hmmm… Wonder how men perceive their own attractiveness vs how women see them…

 

 

‘What would you say is your most prominent feature?’

Umm.. My bulge…

My Mom says I have really nice teeth.

I have a balanced face, almost like aWhite Denzel Washington…

The older I’ve gotten, the more stunning I’ve gotten.

 

And when the women were asked what the men looked like…

 

He looks dirty.

His face looks like a lawn gnome.

He looked like he smelled. And he did.. Really bad, actually.

 

All kidding aside, don’t you think women should take a page from the men?  LET’S START TO LOVE OURSELVES LADIES!

 

men vs women: it's time women love ourselves like men do

Love Yourself Like a Man Loves Himself Photo source: brucesallan.com

 

Can you tell me three things you love about yourself, MAN-style?

Filed Under: Embarrassing Situations, Fun, Getting Older, Humour, Life Lessons Tagged With: , , , , ,

20 Reasons That I am Not Really a Grown-up.

December 4, 2012 By
20 Reasons that I'm not really a grown up

20 Reasons that I’m Not Really a Grownup

A lot of people think that I’m very mature and grown-up. There is circumstantial evidence, after all.
I own a home & I’m not behind on the mortgage payments (although that fact is completely due to my husband’s diligence. If it weren’t for him I’d be in debtor’s prison. Like in The Tower. Or The Stocks.) Said home is fairly clean and not overrun with cockroaches, (also not because of my elbow grease, although I did hire the cleaning lady…) even though the stacks of paper that I must-keep-just-in-case are probably a fire hazard.
I can make food that doesn’t poison people. In fact, I can make some fancy food that tastes much better than it looks. My food will never appear on Pinterest. But, that’s because it will be all eaten up.
I have, in conjunction with a husband of nearly 20 years, raised three children to their teens. Not only have I never lost or otherwise harmed or misplaced one of my own kids (or anyone else’s), I also have never forgotten to pick up carpool, or left a kid at school even though I wanted to. Ever.
I hold down a job. I have never missed a deadline at my job. It has been said that I’m even good at what I do, which is more than winning on the Internet and stringing words together.
I nag my kids, (often to do things that I have no intention of doing, but that they should learn how to do so that they can be productive members of society one day)
It’s all an act. I’m not really a grown-up. It’s true. I’m actually a practicing Immaturian. There’s evidence:
  1. I do not own hand towels.
  2. I stamp my feet when I get mad.
  3. I delight in making a mess but mysteriously find something else to do when it’s time to clean up.
  4. I don’t want to get up on school days.
  5. When I want a new whatever, I just break the one I have.
  6. I throw my clothes on the floor and just step over them. Related, I don’t clean up my closet, and like to play the ‘If I don’t look at it, I don’t see it game’.
  7. I like to go to the mall with my husband, point at things and say, ‘Can I have that?’
  8. I can’t seem to keep a meat thermometer. Or gloves.
  9. If it’s 3 pm, I might still be in my pyjamas.
  10. I use my sleeves as oven mitts and my oven mitts as trivets (although knowing the word ‘trivet’ may point me towards adultness, yeah?)
  11. I dance like nobody is watching. Even when someone is watching. Especially when someone is watching.
  12. I laugh at and say inappropriate things and then look at the victim to see their response. I try to look ashamed or embarrassed but I can’t.
  13. I love sleeping but don’t like going to sleep.
  14. The more someone asks me to do something, the less likely I am to do it.
  15. I revert to child-like sullenness when arguing with my mother or siblings.
  16. I am giddy and extremely enthusiastic. I sometimes squee and have to be told to calm down.
  17. I don’t make the bed on the premise that I’m just going to mess it up again.
  18. I like to watch teenager TV shows and it’s not to spend time with my teenagers.
  19. I don’t like to answer a lot of questions.
  20. BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO BE ONE.
  21. Because it goes to 21

 

Are you a grownup? Do you even want to be? Because being a practicing Immaturian is REALLY good for the skin.

 

PS this post was impossible to tag, so if you want anyone else to read it, please share and share alike. Please and thanks. Use the hashtag #PracticeImmaturity. Because it’s funny.

 

 

Filed Under: Fun, Getting Older, Humour Tagged With: , ,

I Love Myself or How I Overcame my Insecure-niacism

October 25, 2012 By

be who you are, love yourself

 

Oh crap. I’m just going to spit it out. I think I’m amazing.  Stop laughing. It’s true.

 

I’m fantastic and I know it.  You could say that I’m newly conceited.  Proud possessor of a swelled head.  Full of self-adoration. Possibly a self-stalker.

 

I’ve been putting off writing this post because I didn’t want anyone to think that I thought too much of myself. Self-love is not socially acceptable. That is unless you’re watching a porno. But then I couldn’t hold my feelings in any longer. I’m throwing caution to the winds. Putting it all on the table, as it were.

 

You see, I’m a recovering Insecure-niac.

 

Never heard of Insecure-niacism?

 

Insecure-niacism: n. a condition where one is full of self-doubt, unsure of one’s value or abilities, or that anyone even likes one (because why would they?) Usually brought on by life experiences including bullies, mean girls, and generalized personality silliness. Symptoms include fishing for compliments, refusal to accept compliments on the basis that they are unfounded, the seeking of approval from others, and denial of insecurities.

 

Lately, though, I’ve become aware that I’m quite awesome. I’ve found my niche. I’m living the Why The Hell Not List. My dreams of Jewprah are slowly coming true, and I’m pretty sure I have fans after my stellar speaking engagement (ok fine I was on a panel) at ShesConnected 2012 .

 

I know that it sounds like I’m really high on myself (which I’m pretty sure I am). But, it’s required that I share all of these findings and accomplishments with you as part of the TEN STEPS that form the structure of my Insecure-Niacs Anonymous meetings.

 

(I’m not naming names or anything, but there are a few celebrities who are also doing the steps…)

 

Tom cruise is a recovering Insecure-niac

 

sally field oscar acceptance speech they like me they really like me

 

I have to tell you, I am really digging being completely self-absorbed.  I highly recommend it.

 

Because I’m generous, and to thank you in advance for going off to  tell everyone how great you think I am, here is the 10 Steps to Loving Yourself Program.

 

  1. Tell yourself you are really good.
  2. Tell yourself you’re gorgeous.
  3. Tell haters to go suck ass.
  4. Say what you want to say and stick by it.
  5. Ignore the naysayers.
  6. Smile a lot. In the mirror.
  7. Wear your fabulousness like a purple glittery feather boa. Wave it in people’s faces.
  8. Be proud.
  9. Know that they’re laughing because they’re jealous.
  10. Tell everyone. Toot your own horn. If you don’t believe it, they won’t.

 

By the way, did you know that this song was written about me? I mean, listen to the lyrics.

 

Who can turn the world on with her smile?
Who can take a nothing day, and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile?
Well it’s you girl, and you should know it
With each glance and every little movement you show it…

 

 

How much do you love me? Seriously!  And, more importantly, how much do you love yourself? If the answer is not enough, go do the steps and report back.

 

 

Filed Under: Getting Older, Humour, Life Lessons Tagged With: , , , , , ,

When You Step in a Pile of Dog Crap, You Make Hummous

October 11, 2012 By

don't let your dog poop in front of my mailbox

 

It’s not every day that you can step in a pile of dog shit and walk away with clean soles.

 

A few days ago, I was wearing my favorite new boots that I bought in last August in New York City. They were marked down to $30 from $599, the only pair like them, and in my size.  If you believe in fate and that some things are meant to be, then you can believe that those distressed brown leather ankle-height riding boots were my beshert.

 

And not meant to be insulted by wayward  dog turds blatantly left in front of my super mailbox. Yep. An inconsiderate jerk let his obviously large dog relieve his or herself right where I’d be likely to step in the mess when picking up my mail in the dark.

 

I felt the squish, and cringed.  My boots were doomed. And then I realized that the grass was still damp from the rain. I had a choice. I could become one with the crap, or risk water damage on my boots.  Without a second thought, I stepped from the pavement into the wet beyond, squished my heel around a few times, and hoped.  When I got under the street light, my heel was clean, but the leather was darkened with water.  But, I didn’t stink of a dog’s dinner anymore. The poop was gone. The next day, thankfully, the leather had dried good as new.

 

It all worked out for the best.

 

A couple of days later, the husband and I reluctantly made the decision to cancel our family trip to Israel. We’d been planning for three years to take the whole family on an epic adventure for our youngest son’s Bar-Mitzvah.

 

He was going to read from the Torah on top of Masada.

 

It was going to be amazing.  Because of a variety of circumstances, we haven’t taken our kids away on many family vacations, and even the 18-year old  been on an airplane just three times in her life.  In fact, this isn’t the first time we’ve booked a getaway and then cancelled it.  They’re almost grown up and they’ve never even been to DisneyWorld for goodness sakes. I’m so tired of disappointing my kids. I’m so tired of being disappointed myself. Time is running out.

 

First world problems, I know, but I was really looking forward to the time together, especially as my girl has gone off to University.

 

When we decided to call the dream trip off, I went through my own version of the Stages of Grief.  These are my defence mechanism, and are well practiced when things don’t go my way.  They are:

 

1.Avoidance (I don’t want to talk about cancelling the trip. It’s not happening. I can’t hear you.)

 

2. Mock cheerfulness accompanied by nonchalance (Oh, whatever. Who cares anyways. I didn’t really want to go anyways. In fact, I’m happy it’s off. Relieved really. Just cancel it. Big smile.)

 

3. Depression (Oh, woe is me. Why do these things always happen to me? I was really looking forward to this. I’m so sad. Nothing is ever going to turn out for me.)

 

4. Apathy (Whatever.  I don’t care about anything. I’m like a shadow moving through the day.)

 

I know, healthy. Right? Especially stages 1-4.

 

Somewhere between depression and apathy, after I dried my tears and before I started to not care about anything, I went to get my mail. That big turd was still laying there. Right in front of my mailbox. With a perfect indent from my boot.

 

Still there. Me stepping in it didn’t make it go away.

 

And that crap didn’t ruin my beautiful boots.

 

Just like this other crap isn’t going to ruin my life.

 

A new addition to my Stages of Grief.

 

5.  Reluctant Acceptance (We’re not going.  We’re not going. We’re not going. There will be other things. Other trips. Other opportunities.)

 

I think I’m a grown-up, even though I’m fighting it.  Shit happens. Literally. Whether you step in it purposefully, or not, that’s just the way it is.  Luckily, this time it was just the cancellation of a longed for vacation.  Everyone in my family is healthy. We have a home. We have food to eat. Other than the luxury of a transatlantic jaunt, my kids are well provided for.

 

This trip was important to me.  But not going on the trip won’t ruin my life. There will be other trips, and we will find another, quieter way to celebrate our son’s Bar Mitzvah.

 

Maybe we’ll fly away to a beach.  Somewhere a little less adventurous.  After all, you don’t need to go to Israel to have a good time. We’ll be together and that’s all that matters.

 

I’ll just make sure the resort serves hummus.

 

PS. I hate. hate. hate. hate. hate. disappointing my children. Did I say hate?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Filed Under: Family, Getting Older, Kids, Life Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,

A Letter To My Bullies

October 3, 2012 By

Pen to paper photo source: londonmet.ac.uk

 

This is a letter to my bullies.  Why am I writing it?  Because I think it’s time that we let bullies know that their behaviour, actions and words are NOT ACCEPTABLE.  That they cannot hurt us anymore.

 

Because at momfaze.com, my friend Randi Chapnik Myers courageously wrote a letter to her bully.  And, I was inspired to do the same.  Write your own.  You’ll feel better. Link it here.

 

Writing this less is especially important after this week’s out-ing of a cowardly bully who felt the need to comment on Jennifer Livingston’s weight, and last month’s example of how Whitney Kropp’s community took control and kicked a bunch of school bullies’ asses.

 

It’s time to speak out.  To let go. To change the balance of power. To take back the reigns. To step up.  To make the bullies know it’s not ok.

 

Dear Bullies,

 

This is a global letter to all of you who have treated me with a lack of respect, with no kindness, with malice.  I don’t even remeber some of your names, and to you whose names I do remember, I won’t give you the satisfaction of a mention. You are not worth it. Because, with this letter, I release you.  From my memory, from my feelings of bitterness, from my history.

 

You had no right to tease me about my body, my weight, my hair, my clothes. You had no right to pretend to be my friend and then drive by me laughing. You had no right to tell all the kids at camp to call me ‘hairy moron’ after you sneaked a peak at my pubescent private parts.  You had no right to scar me for life, to destroy my self-esteem, my worth.

 

What made you think it was ok to make fun of me, to take my friends and leave me alone?  To talk behind my back, to stab me in that same back? Was it ok to make me feel bad for my enthusiasm? To take credit for  my work, to bad mouth me to my colleagues, to steal my ideas, to get me fired?  No, it was not ok.  You had no right.

 

Yes, I’m annoying sometimes. Aren’t you?

Yes, I talk to much. Don’t you have flaws?

Yes, I went through puberty.  Doesn’t everyone?

Yes, I make mistakes.  I’m human.  

Maybe I’m too nice, to easy a target.  You should only wish you were.

 

Don’t say I was asking for it by leaving myself bare.  Look at yourself.  WHY DID YOU DO IT?

 

I wonder. Did it make you feel bigger to make me feel small?  Where was the satisfaction in hurting me? Did you go home at night and think about what you’d done? Have you taught your children to treat others like you treated me?

 

To you, the bullies who have invaded my life with your negative energy and bad karma and sour dispositions, I tell you this. I tell you that it’s over.  You’re done.  You are nothing to me.

 

I’m out.  Hope you’re having a nice life. Because I am.  

 

Signed,

 

Hairy moron aka the nerd, aka the girl with fat thighs who talked to much

 

Don’t forget to link your post at momfaze.

 

 

 

Filed Under: Embarrassing Situations, Getting Older, Life, Life Lessons Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

Happy Birthday. No Midlife Crisis Here.

August 16, 2012 By

One should never trust a woman who tells one her real age. A woman who would do that would tell anything.

Oscar Wild, A Woman of No Importance.

 

I never claimed that I was good at keeping a secret.

 

Baby, this is what 44 looks like.  And acts like, well, according to my friend Dee Brun on Slice.

 

Blogher12 CheeseBurgher. You know it.

 

Give me a party and I’ll do anything. Except crafts.  My CheeseBurgher hat was the ugliest one in the room, ribbon and glitter-free. However, Mara-style, it read:

 

Make it McSnappy

 

This is also 44: Dorky smile, sun spots, and all kinds of under eye disturbance (caused by staying up too late reading. Some things will never change.)

 

photo credit: coherentWords (Wendi Percival)

 

People say I haven’t aged, and that I look the same.  But, I really have gotten older. And, I’m proud to say so.  Every battle wound, whether physical or emotional has been well-earned, with lessons packed away for future reference.

 

I’ve got sun spots and wrinkles, cellulite and stretch marks.  I’m told I’m thin, but I still see the chubby child in the mirror who reminds me that one bite of cake is enough.  I’m pretty sure that exercise is good for me even though every time I try it, I hurt myself.

 

I know that I have value, and that if you don’t want to be nice to me, if you don’t like me, well, that’s your problem.

 

Blogher12 Aiming Low body art

 

I’m lucky to have amazing kids who have made it to the teenage years without driving me completely bonkers (just sort of bonkers). I’m fortunate to have finally found my life’s work, and that several false starts are just the way it goes because after all with technology everything moves so fast anyway.   Contrary to what people say is ‘healthy’, my life’s purpose was discovered 18 years ago when my first child was born. No matter how old I get, I will be a mother before anything else.

 

I know that even though my Daddy is gone from this world, he’s always with me.

 

Blogher12 Aiming Low body art

 

At 44 I like to laugh. No, I love to laugh. I’m silly most of the time, and even when I’m lecturing my kids I feel like giggling. I just got a tattoo (and in year 43 did some other out-of-comfort-zone things like entering a contest and hanging with actual writers.)  I appreciate a nice set of abs.

 

At 44 I still need my best friend.  I still need the validation of others because that’s the way I’m wired.  I still need my parents and my kids, and my doggies and a big hug from my husband when I’m crying.   I still look to my siblings for a good tussle and to remind them that you’re never too old for sibling rivalry.

 

I’m not having a midlife crisis, mom. I’m being 44.  I’m being me.  I’m the same. Just more saggy with hot flashes and some female bladder incontinence.  Sure, I’m a bit more mature. In the literal sense.  But never in the figurative sense. Because, no matter how old I get, this 32B chest will never sport a bubbie shelf.

 

Now, since calories don’t count on one’s birthday,  I’m off to eat some french fries and red velvet cupcakes.  Catch ya on the other side of the wrinkle cream…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had a debate with someone on Twitter about the

Filed Under: Getting Older, Life, Life Lessons, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

A Happy Wife is a Happy Life

June 8, 2012 By

 

I’ve fallen in love again.  With my life.

 

I don’t remember ever being so happy.  It’s like an unfamiliar feeling swelling in my chest.  It’s like my body is full of swirly, twirly things like giggles and somersaults.  At first, I didn’t even know what the feeling was.  I thought I had the flu or an episode of acid reflux.  Maybe it was even an anxiety attack, which makes me feel all whirly inside, but not in a good way.  Actually, I sort of felt drunk, but I knew it wast that, because the last time I looked, there was no alcohol in coffee, tap water, or caffeine-free Diet Coke, my daytime drinks of choice.
“I am still determined to be cheerful and happy, in whatever situation I may be; for I have also learned from experience that the greater part of our happiness or misery depends upon our dispositions, and not upon our circumstances.” 
- Martha Washington 

 

I realized, after the feeling persisted for days on end, that I wasn’t in a manic phase of my imaginary manic depression.  I was happy.

 

Usually, I’m cheerfully defiant of all the miscellaneous bad crap that happens to me .  Someone said to me yesterday, ‘Why is it so weird that you are feeling happiness? You always seem so positive.’  Shhh come close. I’ll let you in on a secret. My cheerful demeanour is all an act.  Much of the time I’m navy blue inside.

 

But not any more.  Now I’m bright pink. And red, orange, yellow, green blue, purple.  The colours of the rainbow. Like Holly Hobby with a rainbow. And glitter.

 

I was just at the Women in Biz Conference, and a speaker, Susie Parker of Sparker Strategy Group, spoke about intuition and facing fear. She asked a series of questions designed to help us connect with our deep feelings about our lives.  We were to answer first impulsively, and then she asked again, but we were to reflect.

 

What are you happiest about?  She asked. First word that comes to mind.

 

My job. I wrote.

 

What is your greatest goal?  She asked.  First word that comes to mind.

 

Write a book.  I wrote down.

 

What are you happiest about?  She asked. Upon reflection.

 

My job. I wrote.

 

What is your greatest goal?  She asked.  Upon reflection.

 

Write a book.  I wrote down.

 

“The secret of happiness is not in doing what one likes, but in liking what one does.” 
James M. Barrie 

 

Who is most happy about their job?  Finally, at the age of 43, outside of my children, my husband, I have something that I do that I love.   I have found my place. It may have took a while, a lot of experimentation, determination, intuition, and of course the trouncing of fear.

 

But, to wake up every day, excited, and happy to get to it.  What a great gift. I seriously recommend finding fulfillment outside of your family. Whether it’s through work, volunteering, or a hobby, just do it.  My Dad was right;  fulfilling yourself through your children is self-defeating. They will grow up and make their own lives, and you’ll be left talking to your dog.  A wife needs to be a woman and a person too.

 

“Happiness lies in the joy of achievement and the thrill of creative effort.” Franklin Roosevelt 

 

The second answer.  Write a book.  A daunting prospect.  A childhood dream?  Who knows.  But, again, doing it.  I wrote about submitting manuscript pages to The Humber Writer’s Workshop last week.  I got in. They read my pages and didn’t laugh. Instead, they said this.

 

 

When I received the email, my husband didn’t ask about the cost, he didn’t ask who else got in, or anything else.  He said, ‘You want to do this?  You’re good at it, so do it.   I want you to be happy.

 

A happy wife.  Has a happy life.  For herself. Finally.

 

How will you find your happiness..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* I’m not listing the bad crap because this is a post about happy. That’s behind, this is forward.

Filed Under: Getting Older, Life Tagged With: , , ,

The Sisterhood of the Time-Travelling Short Shorts

May 26, 2012 By

I have a pair of the most amazing shorts that I bought at a vintage store when I was 21 years old. Those shorts travelled throughout Israel, Egypt, Greece, and then on to Germany.   They finally landed in the traveller’s corner of London,where they resided for another six months before returning to Canada.

 

Israel and Greece backpacking trip

 

Can you find the shorts? They’re second from the right, first row.

 

Look at my LEGS!! There’s definitely something to be said for schlepping a 70 lb backpack around Israel’s uneven terrain. Oh, and also for Egypt’s water. Aah, the Tourista.  Wasted on the young and firm.

 

Unfortunately, the shorts were shrunk.  The cause? Not hot water, that’s for sure. Beer, chocolate, a distaste for exercise, babies, and a love of junk food and television ensured that those shorts were a couple of sizes smaller than my body.  Sadly, my amazingly cool shorts ended up in a drawer.  For a very long time.  But, I kept them. You know, in case they ever un-shrunk. Luckily for them, early on they were disqualified  from the closet organizing mantra ‘If you don’t wear something for one year, toss it’.  My shorts survived endless closet purges that my peasant tops, tie-die dresses and clogs did not.

 

When my son was small, I fit into the shorts once again, probably 10 years after their first go-around.   How?  Blame it on the kid and his unique brain.  I’m not proud of my tactics for managing a toddler who turned out to have ADHD, but I used to put him in the gym daycare so that I could have two hours without him workout in peace. Consequently,  I was in pretty good shape.  Stairclimbing, weight lifting and body pump classes worked just as well at the back packing, although they weren’t nearly as much fun. (Did you know they don’t serve cocktails at the gym?)

 

After a while, I got bored of my workouts, renewed my love for movie popcorn, and sadly had to place  the shorts right back into their drawer. Oh, sure they sort of still fit for a while.  But only when I was in the mood for a denim wedgie.

 

Another 10 years passed.  I still didn’t throw those shorts out.

 

In the last year I’ve dropped about 10 lbs.  Apparently the combination of losing a job, having the stomach flu twice, and hot yoga work like the trifecta of appetite control. Last weekend, I worked up the courage to try the shorts on.  And, they fit.  I thought I looked amazing.  Those legs shorts represent 43 years just fine.

 

 

Following the excitement of being able to easily zip up the time travelling shorts, after posting braggelicious ‘look at ME in my shorts’ pictures on Instagram, and tossing my head in derision as my daughter coveted my denim, I decided to go outside and plant a garden whilst wearing them.

 

And I asked my kids to take pictures of me gardening.  You know, for the BLOG.

 

Big MISTAKE.  Probably the biggest one EVER.

 

I learned a valuable lesson yesterday.  Listen carefully.  I will only say this once.

 

Do not look at pictures of yourself gardening in your 20-something short shorts, especially those taken from behind. 

 

Personally, I’m happy to maintain the illusion that what I see in the mirror is a 360 reality.  Most of the time I like the way I look from the front.  Sometimes I like the side view (sans muffin tops).  But, generally, I choose to believe that there is no view from behind.  I’m just like those babies who hide their faces when they’re doing something naughty, ‘If you can’t see it, it isn’t there…’ I’m good with denial as I head into the second half of my life.

 

Thanks to the miracle of digital cameras, the offending pictures are gone.  I’m lucky. I’m not a movie star, and nobody put my bent over, cellulite-ridden, short-shorts-clad tuches on the cover of Star Magazine.  I’m lucky that there is no permanent record of my rear view that day.

 

However, I think it’s time that the most amazing shorts and I part ways.  First, to ensure that there are no more pictures of me wearing them. But also, because it’s time to move on, to let them (and me) have new adventures.  In the spirit of the Sisterhood of the Travelling Shorts, I’ve passed them on to my daughter.. After all, she’s got the legs for them.

 

 

 

Filed Under: Getting Older, Life, Teenagers, travel, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

Welcome to Peri-Menopause Lane.

May 18, 2012 By

the fun of perimenopause

 

Supposedly I look really young. But, somebody forgot to tell nature.  And my knees.  Apparently, my body has decided it’s time to get old. er.

 

I’ve begun what’s clinically called the Peri-menopause, and what’s anecdotally called, The BITCH YEARS.

 

This is going to be a fun decade plus five. I can just tell.

 

This is what ‘The Change‘ has done to me:

 

Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin. Yep, there’s one big, black hair growing out of my chin.  The first time I saw it, I was driving and I had pulled down the mirror to check my lipgloss. And, there it was, virtually six inches of vibrissa (that’s a word. go look it up.)

 

Hello, Witchie-poo. My paltry lady acne is probably nothing to complain about.  Except, I’ve never had pimples. I went through the teenage years virtually zit-free except for one beauty that would show up monthly between my eyes like a hot red bindi.  Now, I get eruptions.  Usually on the tip of my nose.  My daughter calls them horns. Today, I have two that have situated themselves like warts right underneath my mouth. They’re pretty.

 

Pain. OH.  Have you met Dr. Mittelschmerz?  I’ve known him for a long time. Except now, the Doctor makes house calls to my ovaries on alternating months accompanied by a jackhammer and a red hot poker.  The agony causes me  to take to my bed. And swoon.

 

Bloody Hell!  I was blessed my whole life with irregular periods. Now, goddamit, I menstruate every 28 days like clockwork.  What a freaking inconvenience.

 

Is it hot in here?  Before, I was always freezing cold, now I’m tempted to wear ice packs in my brassiere.   If I could walk around in my scanties, I would. Except that might be illegal.  Or frightening.  There’s nothing like drinking a delicious hot coffee and having it cause a river of sweat to drip down in between your bosoms.

 

Sexy Mama. There’s something going on, but I feel sexy even in sweats.  No more self-conscious for me. I wave my 32A cleavage around like I’m Chesty Morgan.  It’s true what they say about Cougars being in their prime. Also, and not at all embarrassing, I have become an ogler. Of the young male merchandise. It doesn’t matter if its live, on film, or TV.   I guess its my swaggy lady hormones.

 

I may be able to rule the world.  There’s something else that comes with age other than tendonitis.  I have confidence.  I am woman, I can roar (see next point).  I’ll bet when Catherine the Great took control of Russia she was menopausal too.

 

The Bitch Years.  Sometimes I want to murder people with a large shiny cleaver. By people, I mean my husband.  Usually, he’s doing something benign like laying on the bed minding his own business.  That kind of laziness really incurs my ire.  Other things that make me angry are everything, dishes not put in the dishwasher, people, mud, voices, dust, and everybody.  Also, I think I have caused a couple duct cleaning telemarketers to commit hara-kiri.

 

Cry-baby.  I cry. All the time. Even more than before. And, I was a weeper.  I cry if I see someone else crying. I cry during Say Yes to the Dress. I cry during American Idol.   I cry if my kids are sad. I cry if my kids are happy. I cry if my husband is mean by accident (but not if he’s mean on purpose-see The Bitch Years).

 

Are you jealous?  I know you are… admit it.  You wish you had my pituitary gland, don’t you.

 

Filed Under: Embarrassing Situations, Family, Getting Older, Humour, Life Tagged With: , , , , ,
« Older Posts