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: , , , , , , ,

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: , , , , ,

Just When You Think You’re Good at Yoga

December 2, 2011 By

I was at yoga today and the instructor led us in a completely different routine than I was expecting.  The poses were all out of order and she did some that were completely new to me, and that I had trouble with because of my hamstring injury.  I got irritated, which isn’t the purpose of yoga, OBVIOUSLY.   Also, her core exercises were really hard, and that pissed me off too.  I went to that class looking for a Friday Zen, and instead, I was reminded about how much work I have to do.  In retrospect, that class reminded me that one mustn’t rest on one’s laurels.  I was thinking I was getting pretty good at this Yoga Stuff.  Then, I got reminded, that sure, I can do the regular Moksha sequence, but there is WAY MORE OUT THERE to learn.

The instructor also said that if you’re going to yoga just for fitness or to get a ‘yoga body’ then you should think twice, and expand your reasons. There’s a lot more to be gained, even more than having a legit reason to stock up on Lululemons.  For example there’s the insight into myself I learned today, which is that I THINK I’m really easygoing and adaptable, but I’m ACTUALLY a creature of habit.  Also, I discovered that not being able to do the poses she presented made me mad.  Since I finally found an athletic pursuit I as good at, I forgot what it’s like to be a beginner.  It was good be reminded (since I’ve never actually been good at a sport before), that I’m never really more than a beginner at the next level of my development

It’s funny that this happened to me the day after I read this article Adam Levine and his philosophy and reasons for doing yoga exclusively to any other ‘fitness’ activities.  He talks about the physical and mental benefits that he’s gained, and they are ones that I’d like to achieve also, but only if I take my practice to the next level.

Adam Levin: One hot yogi

Adam agrees and disagrees with my instructor.

He said, ‘”I don’t like how people bullshit about how yoga is not about vanity.” Not that he doesn’t appreciate the spiritual benefits—Levine sees his routines as a therapeutic antidote to the distortions of his career. “Playing a show before thousands of people is a highly unnatural state,” he says, “and when I get on the mat to do an hour of yoga before the show, I come out physically relaxed.”

My favourite thing he said, which I totally identified with, when talking about how his gym routine was a dead end, was:

“Weights made my neck thick, and I would be like, ‘I’m turning into a monster!’ Yoga takes what you have and molds and sculpts it, which is a much more natural way to look and feel.”

I totally agree with that.  I used to work out 2 hrs a day. But, it was boring.  And I was trying to turn my body into something its not.  As I get older (and yes, I’m well into the Cougar years), I want to look like me, only AWESOME:  lean, and fit, and strong, and confident.

That’s why I do yoga now.  And, I should thank the instructor today for reminding me that if I want to get better, I need to keep going out of my comfort zone.  Or else, I’ll never be able to do this:

Adam Levine: One-Legged Koundinyasana II:

Enjoy this little yogic musical interlude.

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

I'm no Ma'am, I'm Yo Mama (who makes veal sandwiches)

April 10, 2011 By

 

source: iappfind.com

I went food shopping today.  Mother Hubbard’s cupboard was bare, having been denuded by teenagers as well as seven full days having elapsed since the last time I made the hated journey to the money pit I like to call the grocery store .  I was trying to mentally meal plan for the week.  Obviously I hadn’t written it down, well, because I’m me.  My nanny (definition is in this post ) had made me a list, which said.

  • Snack bags
  • Alphagetti
  • Bacon

She’s not very good at lists.  Everyone has their faults. Anyways, I was pretty sure we’d need more than that to get us through the week.

I roamed the aisles, umm, meal planning (code for Tweeting, and bbming), mentally running through my cupboards, and knocking over displays of chips and boxes due to the tight layout of the store and narrow turning radius of my cart. Why they don’t make carts one-handed steering so that people can properly text and shop, is beyond me. Anyways, it was their fault I left destruction in my wake.

I decided to make veal sandwiches since my family keeps wanting to take out from California Sandwiches at least twice a week. At nearly $10 a pop, I thought I’d give it a shot in the homemade Chicky way. I efficiently haphazardly zigzagged through the store collecting my ingredients, and made my way to the check out.

When I was checking out, the cashier, who was a teenage boy, called me MA’AM. Like 17 times!  Then, he asked me if I needed a CARRY-OUT.  I felt like swatting him with my pocketbook or my cane.  When I got back to my car, I checked for greys and wrinkles, but saw my usual face staring back at me.  I decided that the poor young man was delusional and had neglected to take his meds.  There was no ma’am in the car. Just me, a HOT MAMA.  (that’s ma’m with the letters re-ordered, in case you were wondering).

Despite my deep and complete devastation, I did manage to carry-off homemade Italian Veal Sandwiches.  You can too:

Ma’am’s Veal Sandwiches

Slice 4 large soft Italian buns in 1/2 and lay on a plate.  Shred 2 cups of Mozzarella or Provolone (or buy the preshredded italian blend). Have these at the ready.  Preheat the oven to 325 degrees, and have a cookie sheet with parchment ready.

First, slice 1 lb of mushrooms, 1/2 red pepper, 1/2 green pepper, and sautee them in olive oil until soft.  While cooking, season with salt and pepper and some hot pepper flakes.  Reserve for topping sandwiches.

You’ll also need about two cups of prepared tomato sauce.  You can make your own, or buy a good quality jarred one (there are those with just 3-4 ingredients, and those are the ones to use. Stay away from jarred sauce with added sugar).  Warm the sauce gently while cooking the other stuff.

Prepare your breading bar:  In one plate, place 1 cup of flour seasoned with salt and pepper.  In the next one, mix up 3-4 eggs.  In the next one, place 1-2 cups of Italian Seasoned breadcrumbs.

Season 4 large Veal cutlets with salt and pepper. Preheat a large non-stick skillet and drizzle olive oil in it.  We want to brown the cutlets but not deep fry them.  Dip each cutlet in flour, then egg, then breadcrumbs.  Place them in the hot skillet but don’t crowd them.  Cook the cutlets until the breading is crisp and brown (about 2 minutes), then flip and cook on other side for same amount of time.  Transfer to cookie sheet and put in oven to keep warm while cooking other cutlets.

When everything’s done, assemble the sandwiches.  On each bun, spoon 1/4 cup tomato sauce, a handful of cheese, and a couple spoonfuls of the vegetable mixture.  Lay a cutlet ontop.  The cheese will melt.  Or even better, put it all out on the table, and let them make up the sandwiches themselves.  Take that Grocery Boy!

Homemade Veal Sandwiches

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