I Moved My Blog!

Alert the media and adjust your bookmarks! I have migrated to Wordpress. Follow me at http://thisjusthappens.wordpress.com/

See you there!

A Step Above Ogre

You meet some interesting people at continuing education workshops. Some challenge you, some inspire you, some you like, some you don't. Others, well, they leave you scratching your head and wondering whether or not you're on a hidden camera.

I met Mr. Personality (not his real name) a few weeks ago for the first time at a workshop. He is a professional and, how shall I say it, very pleased with the way he has turned out. In designer clothing from head to toe he asked me how my summer was. My response was brief but positive and friendly. I reciprocated the question and he responded with great detail (in his accent that was a combination of Professor Snape and Prince Charles on a downer) that he had "submitted to my paaahssion for luxury [pronounced luxry] sports cars [cahs] and purchased [puhchased] one with which I explored [exploooored] the island. I also bought a motorcycle and chaps and became part [paaaht] of the riding culture [cultcha]". Well, goody for you.

Mr. Personality and I met again at a second workshop this past weekend where during a break he sat next to me and struck up a conversation. To be clear, his idea of a conversation is hearing himself talk. "I visited my daughter who is pursuing her mahsters degree in urban planning in Sweden. That she was quite busy proved beneficial to me as I met a professional musician with whom I have developed a relationship. Though we are apaht most of the time we have managed to see one anothah in various paaahts of the world on occaaasion. We met for a weekend in Paris and a week in Bahcelooona". He then proceeded to talk about dating as a mature adult and claimed that "as long as one is attractive, dresses well, and can speak well, one should have no trouble. Like you, I suppose: you have a, um, [pause, stammer] nice, uh, face and [pause again] you can talk". Putting my clearly superior verbal abilities to work I said, "I do ok." He replied, and this is the kicker, "well, you're not handicapped or anything."

It was as if he was telling me that even a poor, homely, pitiful, mare like me should hang onto hope that someday somebody might come along who will love me in spite of my being a tiny step above ogre.  Thankfully, my confidence is strong as is my ability to laugh at people like Mr. Personality. Karma's a bitch, dude. One day those designer jeans are gonna fade.

Towels

You'll learn more about my family as time goes on but for now suffice it to say that they lean heavily toward the crazy side of the fence. I've toyed with the idea of lacing their summer drinks with Prozac or Valium and often wondered how they'd behave after eating some of those special brownies. You know what I'm talking about. But then again, they are so entertaining on their own that I don't think I'll ever need to resort to such subversion. One of the things that has been a consistent bone of contention, believe it or not, is towels.

Towels were the subject of the biggest blowout in my uncle's relationship. That people were using other people's towels at the backyard swimming pool was something my future aunt simply couldn't abide. That it bothered said aunt so much was a source of confusion for my laid back uncle who thinks that people should be able to use whatever towel they like. She insisted. He wouldn't budge. It became their everest, much to the amusement (well, it's funny now, not so much then) of the family. The solution came from my mother who sided strongly with my aunt. Number the towels. That way everyone would be assigned a towel labeled with a specific number and nobody would use the wrong towel. End of discussion. Beginning of endless digs, jokes, side comments, and quiet acceptance from the rest of us.

My mother went out of town once when I was a teenager, leaving my father and me to fend for ourselves. Her last words of instruction, and there were many, were that the yellow towels in the bathroom could be used until the end of the week at which point we must change to the green towels. This was an imperative. In no uncertain terms were we to use towels of any other colour at the wrong time. We thought she was kidding...no such luck. So we had some fun with it. On the first morning of her abandonment my dad left a sticky note on the bathroom mirror: "Do not, under any circumstances, use anything but a yellow towel today", it said. The next day another note was added to the first saying "Yellow towels again today. God knows what might happen if you use a green one. Let's not take any chances". I wrote a note for the next morning that said "First it was the Day of the Triffids; then it was the Winter of our Discontent; now it is the Week of Yellow Towels". It was a huge source of amusement for dad and I and the notes continued until mom's return. I wonder if he still has them?

Mom and I like our towels folded a specific way. It is nice to have them uniformly shaped and stacked in the linen closet so that the round folded edges are all facing outwards. It looks tidy and organized. We still haven't figured out how to organize our lunch/leftover containers but we sure as hell win the prize when it comes to towel origami. When I got married I showed my husband how I like the towels folded. He thought I was insane but would humour me and ask me to show him time and time again. You would think that after nearly twenty years together that he would clue in to appropriate towel handling techniques but not once did he do it proplerly. In fact, he would fold a basket of freshly laundered towels - all differently. It made no sense to me. It frustrated me beyond belief. I mentioned it to my mother and she said that she has the same issue with my dad. They just don't get it. I wonder, though, whether they purposely folded them wrong so that they wouldn't have to do it at all. Kind of like doing a shitty job washing dishes every time so that someone else will end up doing it every time instead. There may be a method to their ineptitude.

What got me thinking about towels, though, is my partner (the one who makes me so damn happy I can't stand it). I never ask him to do the laundry but he does it anyway because he's just that kind of guy. Risking coming across as neurotic I demonstrated to him the art of the towel fold and stack technique. He basically told me, while grinning and shaking his head, that I was neurotic. And then he did it right. And he's done it right ever since. Not because he wants to do it that way, but because it's what I want. It might not seem like much, but it is huge. He does it for me. I kinda like that. And my linen closet looks magnificent.

Makin' It In The Hood

-->

Getting used to a new neighbourhood has been an interesting process. I always imagined myself in my own home welcoming neighbours as they dropped in for a drink and a chat. My house would always be fresh and clean and it would be warm enough to sit on the deck on which I would have to-die-for patio furniture and hummingbirds making regular visits to the feeder. I would be able to offer a choice of beer, wine, sangria, or gin & tonic and would throw together a pleasant plate of edibles that would impress my guests so much they would brag about their visit with me to the rest of the hood, who would immediately figure out a way to wrangle an invitation to the home of the new, hip neighbour. If they happened to pop by in the morning, the house would be filled with the warm, nurturing scent of freshly baked cinnamon buns that I was about to frost with a cream cheese icing that I just whipped up from scratch. I’m creative like that. My new best friends and I would borrow cups of sugar from one another, wave enthusiastically when our paths briefly crossed on the road, and share books. Maybe we would even form a book club. You know, one of those book clubs where you never really read or discuss books but drink, smoke weed, and gossip instead. This is exactly what my new neighbourhood is like.  Except that it isn’t.

I am not a popular neighbor. In fact, I think that people secretly cringe when they see me and avoid communication by pretending that they don’t see me. It might be because of the times that I blast music and dance while I’m cooking. Maybe that bothers them. Maybe they’re jealous of my awesome musical taste and repertoire or my superior dancing skills. OK, probably not my dancing skills because really, I couldn’t dance if my life depended on it. I look like an epileptic lizard. Except that I have arms with which I play a mean air guitar. Lizards can’t do that. If there were lizards in my neighbourhood they would clearly be jealous of me.  Perhaps my neighbours don’t like me because the previous owners of my house were The Best Neighbours Ever and I can’t compete with that. Maybe they all heard me that time I screamed at my kids while sobbing about how hard this is for all of us and can you please please pleeeeeease do your homework? I haven’t seen social services show up at my door yet, but maybe they’re waiting for video or audio evidence. I must remember to keep my windows shut when I’m angry from now on. What they really hate about me is my dog, Tinny. I love my dog. They can kiss my arse.

Tinny is a Whoodle, which is embarrassing. I don’t mean that she is embarrassing, but the hybrid Poodle-Wheaton name is ridiculous. But she is a sweet, affectionate, stubborn dog who has gotten my kids and me through many a confusing, lonely, tough time.  She doesn’t always come when called, she shits on the floor whenever she doesn’t like a particular houseguest, and she snuggles close to us when she knows we need comfort. At first, I would let her go for a neighbourhood jaunt all by herself since she always came back. Being such a sweet dog I couldn’t imagine that she would make anyone feel uncomfortable. Rather, I thought that she would become like the hood mascot; the communal comforter; the resident playmate for all the kids. In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have given her free reign because all of a sudden she started to act like a diva and that just got on my nerves. There is only room for one diva in my house and that would be me. Anyway, one day a neighbour rang my doorbell. Oh how I wish I had cinnamon buns in the oven! I happily welcomed her in and introduced myself, thinking we would be great friends and would soon be sharing a pitcher of sangria and talking about Steinbeck and Hemmingway. Instead, she began to speak in the most loudly abrasive voice I had ever heard. She informed me that my dog was terrorizing her children and that they would likely be scarred for life from the horrible creature that attacked them day after day. [I point to the fact here that Tinny weighs about 15 pounds].  She informed me that she was going to call Animal Services and have her taken away and that the whole neighbourhood was angry about the disruption that my dog was causing. I expressed my regret and apologized with sincerity while promising her from that moment on I would ensure Tinny would always be tied on when she was let outside. For normal people, that should suffice. For insane freaky chalkboard voice lady, it wasn’t. She had to repeat her accusations three more times before she was convinced that maybe her point was made and I was sufficiently beaten down.  I politely repeated my assurances to her through gritted teeth but in my head I was telling her that I’m not so stupid that I didn’t get the fucking point the first time and by the way, that hat you are wearing looks like it was knit for a three year old. Badly knit, I might add. She finally fucked off back to her minivan that she had left running on a downward slope with her kid alone in the car. And she thought I was the one endangering her child.

So, now Tinny gets tied on. She is not necessarily happy about it and lets everyone know of the terrible injustice that is being imposed on her by yapping. Incessantly. This has not made me any more popular. I am no longer seen as a person; I am seen as an extension of the yapping. I am the yap. It is completely my fault that my dog yaps and I have destroyed the foundation of what was once the idyllic, zen-like hood. I am the lone Harley Davidson amongst a sea of pretty red scooters. There is nothing I can do about this other than limit the time that the poor thing stays outside or find a way to secretly insert earplugs in everyone’s ears without being caught. Since there is an inherent risk of being found out and being labeled the creepy neighbour from whom kids run screaming because their parents told them I might touch their ears inappropriately, I chose option one.

With Tinny tied on regularly and her outside interaction limited, I was starting to feel that maybe the neighbours would see how hard I’m working to keep the peace and would start to like me. I went outside to unhook her from her leash the other day while my neighbour immediately to my right was out enjoying the sunshine on her veranda. As soon as she saw me she spoke to my dog (doesn’t she know that dogs can’t respond?) and asked, “Are you the dog that keeps shitting all over my lawn?”. Tinny, being the polite Whoodle that she is, didn’t say a word and looked all around to see who else she might be able to blame it on. Kind of like when you fart silently and look disgusted at the people next to you to make it seem like they were the ones responsible for poisoning the air so violently. Well, it turns out that Tinny’s leash extends precisely one foot onto their property and that is exactly the space in which she chooses to defecate.  Again, I apologize profusely, losing all hope that we would share a soup recipe one day, and proceed to pick up poop on their lawn while being watched by my neighbour who thinks that dogs can talk. Can it get any worse than this? Why yes, it can. I was already having a bad day after seeing my ex-husband’s Facebook updates on his wonderful trip with his new cheap and whorish slut lady friend. There I am, with a bag of dog shit in my hand that I had subserviently picked up, when I started to cry. Now, not only am I the person with the ferocious, yapping, site-specific shitting dog, I am also the incoherent, pitiful, blubbering idiot holding a bag of dog shit. I am the crazy lady. This is fucking great. Looks like Tinny and I will be sharing many a pitcher of sangria over the next few years.

I suppose I should be grateful for the one neighbour who likes me. Problem is, he likes me as in likes me and he makes me want to throw up as in projectile vomiting. I often wonder what his wife would think if someone told her about the tactics he has been trying to use to get into my house (e.g. to paint my walls, to join me for a drink, to help unplug the drain. That last one sounded dirty; I think I just threw up a little in my mouth) or how he always squeezes my arm when he is telling me how pretty my eyes are and how I must be a bit feisty since I have red hair (I made it quite clear that the red is not real. But I have to admit that it does look fantastic). It might piss her off to know that he is always asking about my boyfriend status, trying to ask if I’m gettin’ any by not actually saying “are you gettin’ any?”.  The final straw, in which she burns his belongings and bobbitizes him, will likely come when she hears of his catalogued knowledge base of times when I am alone, when I have a visitor, and when I am out. I can have him looked after, tho, because I know people who have a No Questions Asked policy. And they owe me a favor for that time I told the cops that I hadn’t seen a thing when I had actually seen the deal go down. Ok, that’s not really true and to be frank, I don’t really know whether a deal going down is a good thing or a bad thing. Semantically, it could go either way.

It is possible that by reading this post you could construe that I am not comfortable in my neighbourhood. I can honestly say that the opposite is true. The quirkiness and fascinating personalities add a color and richness to my little part of the world; I get the feeling that some of them quietly watch my back because they know I am alone sometimes; I shared a bottle of wine with one neighbour one evening and we had a wonderful l talk about kids, marriage, and strippers; I only had to shovel my driveway twice last winter because it had been cleared for me by an anonymous superior human being. I found out who this superior human being is and it turns out there are two of them on my street who push their snow blower down to clear my driveway when they are finished theirs. That’s even better than being brought a welcome casserole or being invited to bring a dip to the neighbourhood block party. Which I know is totally not going to happen because they have a strictly enforced No Crazy-Sobbing-Uncoordinated-Socially-Unskilled-Unable-to-Control-the-Yapping-Dog-Allowed policy. I have other plans anyway. At least, that’s what I’ll tell them.

Going Fishing

My kids found out that we had separated when they opened the Plenty of Fish app on my husband’s cell phone, thinking it was a game.  I’ll tell you more about that shortly. Then again, maybe I won’t. You can imagine how that went down. Yes, it was awful. Let’s just say that our kids did not nominate us for the Parents of the Year award.

I set up a dating profile just out of curiosity; to see what this new and exciting world of singledom had to offer from which I could choose. I was also secretly hoping that I might see someone I already know who I always thought was cute and now he is single too and he used to want to ask me out but he was too shy and oh my god we have so much in common this is totally gonna happen. That totally didn’t happen.

The pickings were slim, to be honest, but I probably set my standards too high and narrowed my search too much. I did not cast my Plenty of Fish net wide enough. Over time I was contacted by many men (and one couple) who thought I sounded intriguing. Some of these men obviously had nothing of substance to say as well as hugely over-inflated egos because they sent me pictures of their you-know-what. Unsolicited. Unwelcome. Uncool. And one of them, whose hand was holding what he just knew was a magnificent obelisk of lust and passion upon which I would surely want to mount and ride like a bronco, had dirty fingernails. I notice that stuff.

Strangers were asking me what I was wearing, my cup size, and whether or not I liked to wear nylons (because, and I quote, “I loooooooove nylons! Love ‘em!”). One man said that he is orally bi-curious and would I like to explore that with him? Someone said I had cute dimples, others complimented my hair, but most of them just wanted to have a dirty chat. That grows tiresome within seconds.  I have an open and adventurous mind, but dirty talk with an anonymous stranger doesn’t do it for me. One night I was checking through the listing of my latest matches when a gorgeous, familiar face looked me in the eye and smiled. I knew immediately who he was. I knew that his profile would be articulate, witty, and charming, and that he likely was overwhelmed with requests from the female Plenty of Fish barracudas whose swarming behavior around good-looking bachelors resembles a deep fryer when a basket of fries is lowered into the oil. This man was about to become a very busy man requiring quick development of the skill to chat with many women at once, remember who was who, and never lose the train of thought in any of the conversations.  This man was a good catch. He was a handsome, well-educated professional with a lovey smile.   This man was my ex-husband. What hit me was not just one emotion but a loud crash of heavy boxes falling to the floor. I was deeply sad knowing that someone else would enjoy his charming conversational skills and undivided attention. I was slightly amused that he was presented as a good match given my profile and our clear incompatability. But most of all, I was crushed that all the pictures he had in his profile were ones that I had taken of him during happy moments in our marriage. The person he was smiling at in all those pictures was me. And now, he was smiling at everyone except me. I cried for hours that night. And the next night too.

I can’t even remember how long the crying lasted. I cried for my children and how their whole world was turning upside down. I cried because I thought I had failed. I cried because I was lonely and had felt lonely for years. I cried because I was, all of a sudden, alone. I cried when I was going through our belongings to get organized for the change we were about to make, each item I picked up a memory of the only life I had known for nearly two decades. I silently cried myself to sleep every night and sobbed with abandon uncontrollably when I was in my car alone. I got shitfaced drunk and cried like a baby while listening to Adele. Then, one day, I stopped crying.

And here we go...

So, my marriage is over. It doesn’t matter why anymore. What matters is now and how I can wake up and feel fabulous every day. I’m not talking about feeling fabulous in a new outfit or having a good hair and make-up day; I’m talking about walking tall, exuding confidence, knowing what I want, looking damn fine, and knowing that I’m exactly where I should be. That, my friends, is fabulous.

I was married for 15 years and knew at about the 5-year mark that it wasn’t going to last forever. When we finally said the words that we had tried not to say for so long, I was devastated. Afraid of being alone, afraid of disappointing others, nervous about finances, heartbroken for my two boys, all combined with a complete lack of self-confidence and self-worth, resulted in the shedding of enough tears to burst the Hoover Dam. I thought my life was over and that I was doomed to live the next few years in an insecure, lonely fog. I could not have been more wrong. Realizing that I had to take control of my life was nothing short of frightening. But taking control of my life and my body has been more cathartic than I ever would have imagined. Little did I know of the incredible confidence that only those of us in our 40’s can possess, coming from years of experiences, lessons, proverbial kicks in the ass, introspection, and perspective. I can say, “yes, please” or “fuck, no” to whatever and whomever I want and I can rid my environment of everything that brings the remotest hint of negative energy to my mental space. It’s all about embracing the moment and letting go. And feeling great. Oh, and good sex too.

 The first time I had sex after we separated was crazy. I had met and chatted with a man online who seemed harmless, made me laugh, and was sexy to boot. We agreed to meet for a coffee at lunchtime. Needless to say, I was excited and nervous but determined to play it cool. I dressed casually wearing dark wash jeans, a fitted blazer-style jacket, a feminine shirt, and of course I threw in my knee-high black boots ‘cause they’re so damn sexy and I knew he’d like them. I was ready to share witty conversation, give him a playful look here and there while politely sipping my coffee, make plans for the next meeting (of course there would be a next meeting), and maybe share a kiss and a quick feel before saying good-bye. I was not remotely prepared for what transpired. When he walked in and looked at me he literally stopped in his tracks. He stared at me for a couple of seconds, during which I smiled demurely (yes, I was demure), and then he walked to where I was in the line-up. We gave one another a brief kiss on the cheek and said hello before choosing a table. Once seated, he was like a nervous schoolboy. He would reach for my hand and look right into my eyes and then turn away as if he was about to be caught doing something naughty. After some small talk, he told me that I was absolutely gorgeous, even more gorgeous than I appeared online. “Fuck, you are absolutely beautiful”, he said. “Wow!”, he exclaimed. “I had no idea,” he gushed. Had I received such compliments a month before, I would have felt like crawling under a rock like a slug and hiding, thinking that such words would never be spoken to me and not believing that could be true and being embarrassed, or even ashamed, by them. But now here I was, single, feeling kinda sexy and curious, and I lapped it up like a regal golden retriever. I sat straighter, I held myself differently, I batted my baby blues that he said were so pretty, and I strategically changed positions so that a little breast would be revealed. It drove him crazy, which of course, turned me on and gave me that unfamiliar but exhilarating feeling of power. Whoa, I liked it. And he liked it. He grabbed my hand and said, “let’s go”. We left our full lattes on the table, went to his car, drove to a semi-private place, and let the games begin. This should have caught me off guard given the fact that my husband and I had let our sex life slide so drastically and neither of us had showed much interest in a session of lovemaking for a very long time. I had felt unattractive, unloved, and unworthy. Yet here I was in the back of a car talking dirty and hungrily participating in a hot, steamy romp with a guy I had just met. It was magnificent. I felt like a goddess. We finished just in time for me to go pick up my son from school. When I arrived at the school, a good friend of mine took one look at me and told me that she hadn’t seen me looking so happy in months. In a quiet voice that was at least an octave higher than my usual tone I said with pure glee, “IJUSTMETAGUYFORACOFFEEANDWEHADAQUICKIEINHISCAR!”. She laughed like a demon, hugged me, and sadly informed me that her lunch consisted of a cup of tea and a bowl of soup. I win.