I’ve Been Dumped for a New Model

someecards.com - Thanks for dumping me. I'm off to the tropics.

My husband has dumped me for a new girl.  And I’m thrilled.

He can’t wait to see her, and rushes home early from work to climb on her back.   He likes to polish her chrome and caress her till all hours of the night.

He’s been buying her gifts, and dresses up in fancy leather jackets just for her.

He even asked me to take a picture of them together.  The nerve.

my husband sitting on his new true love, his motorcycle

My husband and his lover

You’re thinking Midlife Crisis.  Well, that would make sense, except that this isn’t the first time he’s had one of those.  He’s had a 1/3 life crisis, a five years after that crisis, and now this one.

We’ve been through guitar lessons, professional photography, kite boarding, running and cycling.  Usually, if I humour him, his interests seem to burn themselves out pretty quickly, even though they quickly drain our (not) disposable income.

This is the second time the motorcycle, or as I like to call it, ‘my road to riches from insurance money’, has entered the equation.  The first time I was able to nag talk him out of riding the hog  This time, not so much.  Maybe I’m losing my touch.  Because while I didn’t actually give my blessing, I protested the bike in such a milquetoasty way that he chose to interpret my apathy as acquiescence.

Anyways, there really are more pros than cons to this motorcycling, when I look at it from my perspective (isn’t it always about me?).

And, since obviously, I’m going to have to ride this one out (get it?) I’m  look over the rainbow reflecting off the Zayde’s Angels Patch he’s sporting on the back of his jacket, and straight into ‘how does this thing benefit me’ land.

The cons:

  1. Its really dangerous.
  2. He’ll be gone a lot on the weekends (oh, wait, that might be a pro)
  3. Its expensive (oh wait, that might be a pro also)

The Pros:

  1. He’ll be having a lot of ‘HE’ time.  I won’t have to feel guilty when I want to go to yoga, or get manicures or go shopping for hours or merely hang at the BFF’s.
  2. He’ll be having a lot of  ‘HE’ time and will be feeling guilty about it (because I will make him), and will thus have to make it up to me.
  3. He bought himself a motorcycle.  That covers the next 40 years of birthdays, anniversaries, and Fathers Days.
  4. He bought himself a motorcycle.  He cannot object to anything I want to buy myself for the next 40 years or so.
  5. Since he’ll be riding his motorcycle, the daughter will no longer nag me for my car, and I won’t be trapped at home.
  6. Since he’s got himself a solitary totally narcissistic hobby called the motorcycle, he cannot harass me about mine, which is Twitter.
  7. This motorcycle give me eternal AMMUNITION.  ‘You bought a motorcycle..so…’

See, way more Pros than Cons. That’s how our marriage rolls.  Give and take. And manipulation.

Sayonara Easy Rider, I’m off to the Spa.

When I Was Famous for a Second

I'm almost famous

This close...and Almost Famous

First, sorry for my absence. No excuses other than I’ve started a fabulous new job and a fabulous new website and have continued being a fabulous procrastinator.  A while ago, I talked about my career goals, which included being the new Oprah, or rather, Jew-prah.  Well, folks, I finally MADE IT ONTO THE electronic babysitter, the idiot box, the mesmerizer.  Yes, I was on TV!  And on the news, funnily enough, since I don’t watch the news.

The progression of events (which from #2 on, happened between Wednesday and Friday):

1.   I had the opportunity to write a Guest Post for Chapters/Indigo about The Hunger Games.  Obviously, I didn’t pass that up as there’s nothing I like better than books and bookstores.

2.  CBC’s The National was doing a story about the Hunger Games Canadian Premiere, and they asked Indigo for someone to interview.  They suggested ME.

3.  Producer called, yadayada, and obviously, she’s interested.  The one glitch? They want my son as well, and since he’ll be up in Collingwood visiting my mother at her new home (1.5 hrs away!), I’ll have to pick him up early.  She’s not happy, and it’s a pain, but anything to grab my 5 minutes in the sun.

4.  I don’t have anything to wear.  I go shopping (obviously) to a favourite store, Fashion Wear Boutique, where the owner styles me via spycam (she lives in Montreal).

5.  Thank goodness they want to film on Friday, because Luisa comes on Friday.  And everyone knows that Operation Housewife was a huge failure.  So if they came any other day than Friday, my house would have looked like a dirty flophouse on TV.  But on Fridays, it gleams.  Thank GOD for Luisa, that’s all I can say.

6.  My mother is 20 minutes late at the drop off point, although while I’m waiting, I fill up the Flexie with discount Costco gas.  I did put buffer time into the strict schedule, knowing she would be, so I arrive home,  after tooling it down the highway 20 km over the speed limit,  30 minutes before the journalist, Ely  Glasner, his producer, and the camera man are supposed to arrive.  Except, they are already there.  And, while I tamed my mane before the emergency retail event, my face has not been spackled.  I’m no where near camera ready.

7.  I layer on my hag-be-gone friends:  Nanoblur, Korres Brightening moisturizer, Marcelle BB Cream, Dior Nudeskin Concealer, Smashbox Starburst, slap on some eyeliner, mascara, and blush, swipe some gloss over my pucker, and shazaam.  I’m ready.  I offer coffee to everyone, except there’s no milk.  They forgive me.

8.  The filming proceeds smoothly, except for the fact that I keep looking at the camera, and banging my bracelet on the chair we’ve put next to the counter where my son has to sit because he’s way shorter than the other kid who’s come over to be on TV. (I forgot to mention the Producer, Ilana, asked me if I could procure another mom & daughter, which I did, thanks to Twitter).  My son, who is extremely verbose (can’t imagine where he gets it from), and a HUGE reader, completely clams up, forgetting his whole vocabulary except the word, ‘UMMMMM”.

9.  Everyone leaves.

Monday Night.  The reckoning.  I’m so sure that they’ll edit me out from the piece.  My reason for thinking this?  NONE.  Because I’m crazy.  I’m sure they’ll cut my son, because nobody is really interested in ummm…. hearing about….ummmmm…hummmmm…..

But they don’t cut me (nor do they cut him.  He’s sitting behind me staring into space, probably thinking pensively. He doesn’t talk, but nor do most deep thinking pensive people).

Oh yes, I’m in the piece.  They just get my name wrong.  GET MY NAME WRONG. They call me Maria.  My moment in the sun, and I’M SOMEONE ELSE.  I don’t even notice, but we get phone calls from people who actually watch the news and not because I called and told them to.  I tweet the producer and the error is quickly corrected.  In future clips their misnomer becomes my real nomer.   I know this, because I’ve watched it a few-ish times.

So have I found my calling? Tell me what you think.. (click the link, the dang thing wouldn’t embed)

A Woman of Substance and Grace

Gladiolus:strength of character

There is in every true woman’s heart, a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but which kindles up and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity.

WASHINGTON IRVING, The Sketch Book

Today is International Woman’s Day.  Today I  share a story about a woman that I truly admire. Whose quiet strength, warmth, and kind nature inspires me.

Last year, my daughter was sick. The kind that gets a mom worrying, and where you go to the hospital, where you’re laying awake at night thinking about it.

I tweeted out that I was really worried about my girl, about her abdominal pain, and that the doctors and hospitals didn’t know what was wrong with her.

Within minutes, I received a response from Heather Hamilton, also known as @TJZMommy.  She said something to the effect of, ‘I’m very familiar with stomach problems. My son has spent some time at the hospital.  Here’s my number. Call me.’

CALL ME.  I don’t even think I’d met Heather once.  We’d tweeted a few times, but were really mere acquaintances.  She reached out to me, when I was scared and worried.

CALL ME.  Her son, Zackie had more than been in the hospital a few times.  He was born with a genetic abnormality and had spent MONTHS in hospitals.

CALL ME.  Her own son was sick at the time and was to pass away about two weeks later.  But, she still took the time to talk to ME, whose child was going to get better.

CALL ME.  Heather spent an hour on the phone, calming me down and sharing her wisdom.

I will never forget that phone call, never forget that day.  

When you meet Heather, she exudes a warmth and strength that belies the struggles she has encountered.  She meets you, and every situation, with a quiet elegance.  What strikes me the most is her ability to take a situation that might break someone else, like the loss of her beautiful child, and turn it into an opportunity to help someone else, to give, to share, to make someone else’s struggle less.

And so she begat Zack’s Dream Room, in support of York Central Hospital. The Hamilton’s dream was to raise $25,000 to cover the renovations of a paediatric room at the hospital.  The room would be decorated with an Elmo theme, to remember Zack’s most favourite character.    Immediately, fundraising began, and in a very short time, the initial goal of $25,000 was reached.  Heather upped the ante and set her eyes on a second room renovation. Friends, colleagues, acquaintances all banded together and the next target was quickly reached. But, Heather didn’t stop there.  She continues to remember, raise money, and spread the joy of her son’s too short life.

Heather is now experiencing the anniversary of her son’s last fight. She is sharing her experiences on her blog, writing her stories with both love and sadness, but also healing.

Heather is someone I admire.  She is a woman of substance, of grace, of true beauty that comes from within.

The next Zach’s dream room event is on March 18th, where the Hamilton Family is screening ‘Being Elmo:  A Puppeteer’s Journey‘ a documentary about the creation of the character  Elmo.  To purchase tickets, or make a donation to Zack’s Dream Room, click the picture.  

Elmo, Zack's dream room

I’m a One Woman Gal. Sort of Like a Gibbon.

women and friendships, best friends

Are you a best friend kind of person?  I am.  My whole life I’ve had a best friend.  Not always the same one, but always there’s been that one special person.  Or, as they Meredith and Yang say on Grey’s Anatomy, my person.  I’ve had best friends that were boys, but those don’t seem to last (can men and women really be friends?).

A lot of people have the same person since childhood.  Some just grow apart, and others have had best friend break ups. I’ve had both. But, with my current BFF, now I’m set for life.

My best friend from Grade 1 to Grade 3 was named Lisa.  You can read her book if you want. She lived across the street from me, and we went to the same school.  We did everything together, from playing Mother May I to Barbie Camper.  There was a bump in the road when she and my brother decided to go in the basement and be boyfriend and girlfriend, indulging in a prepubescent game of Playboy Photographer, but we got through it.  We both were devastated when her parents decided to move her family to California.  We exchanged letters for a while, but being that I’m a total procrastinator and also rather forgetful and not the best complier, I forgot to write her back.  Luckily, after stalking her on the internet for months, I found her on Facebook and if we ever see each other face-to-face, well, lets just say, the reunion could prove to be epic.

I had other best friends through the years.  For years after Lisa left, I was tossed between two sisters who were a year apart .  Our school had split grades, so one year I’d be the older one’s friend, the next the younger ones. We stayed friends till high school…but again…my keeping in touch skills being less than stellar, we lost touch.  We’re friends again, but not in the same way.

Throughout High School I had a few very close friends, some whom I spent most of my time with.  But, I had one bestie that ebbed and flowed from age 13 to my 30s.  When we were ON we did nearly everything together.  She was even present at the birth of two of my children.  How did our friendship stall? With her, it wasn’t a lack of staying in touch, but a disagreement that took on a life of its own.  Sometimes, friendship is like the Grand Canyon-so beautiful, but with chasms so deep they can never be repaired.  You may be able to build a superficial bridge out of Facebook Likes and coffee dates, but the distance just grows to great to shorten.

Do I have a Person now?  You betcha!  It took years to find just the right one.

She’s bossy and pushy and fun and stubborn.  She completes me, to the point where sometimes people think we’re sisters, and other times they think we’re each other.  We laugh together. A lot. That is, when she’s not telling me what to do. We have had huge fights-once we didn’t talk for six months.  it was horrible.

Sometimes I want to kill her, or she the same to me.  Mostly I don’t, but she does more often than I do.

We like to lie in her bed or on my couch drinking wine and making fun of people on TV.  My husband isn’t impressed with that particular activity as he doesn’t have a place in the proceedings.

The other night, after sharing a bottle or so of red wine on a school night, I wrote this list:

Why I love my Best Friend
We love all the same foods except I like movie popcorn and soup and she doesn’t.
We just laugh and laugh.  
She makes me go to yoga when I’m too lazy.
Sometimes she leaves her bra or her shoes at my house (don’t ask).
When her daughter marries my son we’ll actually be related.  He likes to be bossed around, just like me, so its perfect.
She has candy at her house.
She loves latino men and as such isn’t trying to steal Robert Downey Jr. from me.
She always sticks up for me, even when I’m wrong.  Then, she still has my back but gives me shit in private.
She makes fun of my husband on my behalf.
She always likes my status on Facebook, even though she doesn’t read my blog.  But, to be fair, its because she doesn’t actually  know how to use a computer.
 
At my advanced grownup-ness, why do I feel the need to have a Bestie, especially since I have a husband?  

My husband is awesome.  He’s there, always when I need him.  But he’s a fixer, not a listener.  He likes to give OPINIONS. He’ll tell me the actual right and wrongness of a situation, even when it’s me who screwed up .  Sometimes that’s not what I want to hear.  Girls listen, they sympathize, they soothe, they write cryptic, passive aggressive posts on Facebook to further your cause when you’ve been wronged.

A husband doesn’t do that.

A husband cannot be a girlfriend.

Life’s got lumps.  What you need is someone to smooth them out.  My friend’s greatest strength, (and occasionally her biggest downfall) is her incredible sense of loyalty.  Since I belong to her, she will go to the ends of the earth for me.   Plus, we have matching Wine Drinking T-shirts.  So, we’re sorta mated for life.  Like Gibbons.

Do you you have a best friend?

The Real Queen Bees of Cougar Ville

cougars, single older women

source: hotel chatter.com

**Warning:  Some content may offend.  Sexual Content.**

I know I‘m an old married lady.  An old, apparently priggish one.  My lips are pursed just thinking about how puritanical I am.  I can feel the wrinkles forming.

I’m no party-pooper.  I know how to have a good time.  But, the fact is, I get uncomfortable when the privacies of the bedroom (or the living room or the kitchen counter) are discussed in frank and casual detail in front of me.  I’ve got a big ‘C’ (for Mrs. Cleaver) pasted on my chest. According to my contemporaries, I should crawl back into the Victorian era that I came from.

Once, I was cajoled into going to one of those passion parties.  This woman had brought all manner of vibrators and gels and other love toys.  She DEMONSTRATED (in a manner of speaking) a little gadget that fit over your finger, and which was apparently so discreet you could use it in the car. USE IT IN THE CAR!  Wouldn’t that be driving under the influence?  Can you imagine picking up carpool and as the kiddies got into the car, ‘Hello. HEllo. HELLLLOOOOOOO. KIDS!!’  Anyways, after she finished showing all the gizmos and gadgets, girls went into another room, and while every one else was snacking on cheese and crackers, ordered their ‘dessert’ for brown-paper-bag delivery later.  Not exactly my thing.

I know its surprising, since I’m pretty much an open book and a total over-sharer about everything else, but I’m not a big on public discussions of affection.   I’ll listen, all right, red-faced, and squirming in my seat.  When pressed I’ll eventually blurt out a detail or two.

I can’t say the same for some of the divorced women that I’ve recently met. They seem to be re-experiencing the sexual revolution.  Very verbally.  I know I’m a self-admitted conservative in this area, but still…I think maybe they’re going too far.

Cher said, ‘The problem with most men is they’re assholes.  The problem with most women is they put up with those assholes.’

Until they get a divorce.

Then, women are free. Like butterflies.  Or honey bees.

‘The queen bee in a honey bee hive is encouraged to be as promiscuous as possible. During a single mating flight, a queen bee can mate with up to forty drones. The more sexual partners a queen has, the more attractive she is to the worker bees that keep her hive running.’  (Huffinton Post, Lindsay Armstrong)

Once single, the ‘honey bees’ are freed form the constraints of monogamy.  Of husbands. And set free into a veritable smorgasbord of carnal delights.  I know this, because they tell me. Unprompted

One woman I didn’t event know announced, out of nowhere:  ‘I love to suck c*ck! I just love it!’

Another, telling a group of us about her weekend: ‘Its fabulous having a young man. The one I’ve got f*cked me 7 times in one night. Its the best. He didn’t stop.’

And, also, a lady who likes her freedom: ‘I don’t want a relationship.  I just want to get F*cked. Like a lot.’

Ladies, just because we can, doesn’t mean we should.  Talk about it. Like that.  

Now, don’t get me wrong.  Everyone is entitled to have a lively, satisfying, and yes, energetic sex life.  Use as many toys, materials, accessories, and partners as you’d like.  No problem. However, as I say to my kids, its your privacy.  Just like I don’t want to hear about my parents doing it, I don’t really want to know your intimate details. I have no need to live vicariously through your white hot nights.

I honestly believe that comments like these actually set women back.  They’re too forced.  Too open.  These are things you might confide in a best friend. Not announce boldly to strangers at a party. We’re not 18-year-old boys bragging about our conquests.  We’re mature women: gorgeous, smart, strong.  Comments like these just feed the caricaturization of ‘Cougars on the Prowl’.

My question is this:  Would you want your DAUGHTER talking like that?

When Bullying has Become a Buzzword

pink shirt day to stop bullying and anti-bullying

Stop Bullying

I don’t know anyone-child or adult-that doesn’t have a bullying story. I talked about bullying before here. And, just after the Oscars, I wondered if commenting on weight is bullying.

I’ve been bullied. My kids have been bullied. My friends have been bullied. The children of my friends have been bullied. Like actually been bullied. As in, ‘I don’t want to go back. I’m afraid’ bullied.

Unfortunately, though, that’s not always the case when the word is used, or rather overused. I’m concerned that we’ve lost sight of what true pervasive malicious meanness is.

We’ve forgotten that in this world, sometimes people say mean, teasing, or stupid things. And that’s not bullying. That’s just life. Crappy, dorky, normal, everyday life.

Accusing someone of bullying has become a tool for kids to get someone in trouble. Employing phrases like anti-bullying measures and zero tolerance have become a way for people to pay lip service to stop bullying without really doing anything. All the wolf-crying is diluting the message. And children are suffering in so many ways.

I’m so scared the word bullying is losing steam, and the true horrible destructive nature of the action will get lost amongst its buzzword-ness. That scares me.

I had to threaten to call the police before the school stopped another boy from kicking and punching my son to the point he wouldn’t go to school anymore. That’s bullying.
 
Boys told my kid his shirt was funny looking. That’s not bullying. Its just mean.
 
I was FIRED from a job by the very person that was tormenting me at work. She stayed, I went. That’s bullying.
 
My kids observed other kids making fun of SPECIAL NEEDS kids. Nobody said anything. That’s bullying.
 
A girl told another girl she wasn’t invited to her party and couldn’t sit at their table for lunch. That’s not bullying. Its just mean.
 
A teenager spread rumours that a boy was gay and posted it all over Facebook. That’s bullying.
 
A car full of teenage girls drove by another girl, laughed at her, then drove off. That’s not bullying. Its just mean.

I’m GLAD people will wear pink tomorrow to make us aware that we have to DO something. But, I hope they don’t think wearing a t-shirt is actually DOING SOMETHING. We’re all aware that we, as a society, have a problem. But, the the solution is hidden in what we as human beings do after we take the t-shirt off.

What can you ACTUALLY do to stop bullying?

1. Teach your children NOT to bully. Teach and MODEL kindness, compassion, empathy, and acceptance for ALL people.

2. TAKE YOUR HEAD OUT OF THE SAND! Everybody’s kid screws up! If you know your child is being nasty, TAKE CARE OF IT! You aren’t doing your precious flower any favours by not seeing their weaknesses as well as their strengths. If your child is bullying at school, they are obviously in need of help from you, their caregiver. Do your JOB.

3. Teach them that COOL kids are not the bystanders, but those who stand up for others. Let them know that being a bystander is JUST AS BAD as being a bully.

4. Let school administrations know that ZERO tolerance doesn’t mean ‘we’ll investigate.’ Controlling destructive behaviour is not the time to be politically correct. We’re growing up people, and we need to teach them that there are consequences, not just conversations.

5. Teach your children to advocate for themselves, and not be afraid to tell. Take the power back from the bully.

6. Teach your children the life skills they’ll need to manage not nice people, and help them to discern between bullying and meanness. Give them the tools to answer to nasty words, and the power to rise above. Encourage them to seek out friends who will value them and stick up for them, as opposed to those who may blow like the wind when the opportunity arises.

I’m still wearing pink on this February Leap Year Day. Because I believe we have a problem. Its a mean world we seem to have created. And it’s got to stop. We need more than awareness. We need action.

For more information, go to PINK SHIRT DAY.CA

What do you think? What are you doing to stop bullying?

Let’s link up to other posts about bullying. Please put yours in the comments or send me a message and I’ll put a link.

Whispered Inspirations

Notes from the Cookie Jar

Did You Know Canada

Multi-Testing Mommy 

Thrifty Mommas Tips

My Real Review 

Shasher’s Life

PhD in Parenting

Commenting on Weight isn’t Witty

Worrying about weight loss

Last night during the Oscars, I made a comment about Angelina Jolie.  And how thin she looks.  I got called out.  Even though I’m not the only one who was laying in on my sofa, eating chocolate cake , or as Neil Hedley pointed out, in sweats and a dirty t-shirt (although I wasn’t) and commenting via Twitter on the show. Even though it wasn’t just me, I have people who feel close enough to me to tell me when I’m being an idiot.

For the record, I wasn’t only making negative comments.

I gushed over Emma Stone, and Robert Downey Jr., and enjoyed the cymbals and white tails of  ‘the silliest men in Hollywood’ Jonah Hill & Will Ferrell (there I go quoting myself again…)

I did mention that Nick Nolte was looking a little like Col. Sanders (but really I thought I was being witty not mean when I said he ate too much fried chicken).  But, I guess I wasn’t.  Unless he actually is preparing to play the king of chicken in a movie, what’s really happening is that he’s getting older. And greyer. And heavier. It happens.  Its going to happen to me. Like soon.

I slid down a slippery slope.  This little tweet started a BIG conversation:

Tweet about Angelina Jolie at the Oscars

Tweet about Angelina Jolie

I meant that comment. I really did.  I didn’t mean to be catty.  I wasn’t jealous of how thin she looked.  I really was genuinely concerned about her unrealistic size and its affect on others.

I’ll admit that I make comments about people’s sizes, and not always in a nice way.  I’m not proud of it.

Mostly I do it out of insecurity about myself.  Often times its because I’m actually jealous of them.  I’ve suffered with weight  and body image issues my entire life.  I have body dysmorphia.  I have starved myself, binged and (attempted to purge) and have spent lost hours counting calories and staring at myself in the mirror, critiquing individual body parts and their failings.  I don’t like wearing bathing suits.  I have issues with food. Big ones.

But, when I made the comment about Angelina Jolie, I was thinking and worrying about her size, the thinness of her arms, and how she is perpetuating the idea that in order to be beautiful one must be so terribly thin.

When I opined, I forgot about people’s feelings, especially those who are naturally thin.  Or who are thin due to sickness. Or who are larger and have been made to feel self conscious about it.  Making fun is making fun. I hate bullies, and even though I meant well, in a sense, I was being one.  Because my words were hurtful-whether they were to someone who’d never hear them, or to others who did.

Someone I respect called me out first.

@scatteredmom tweeted back:  It makes me angry when people judge solely on weight.  Too thin, too fat, both should not be targets.

She’s right.

From @ChibiJeebs:  We should also be teaching children that judging /shaming / commenting on ANYONE else’s body is not cool.

She’s right.

From @scattteredmom again:  my friend told me about someone she knew who had Crohns.  Super Skinny.  People gossiped that she was anorexic.  She wasn’t.

That’s sad.  And it spurred an eye-opening conversation about health, and perceptions, and judging.

From @bumpandhustle: (I was) bothered because they wouldn’t believe that I was in pain. that it wasn’t a ‘diet’. haha #ouch.

There are people who think someone would lie about having the pain of Crohns in order to lose weight?  What is WRONG with us?

From @CLBuchanan:  ppl judge without knowing all the time.  Chrohns is also known as an invisible disease.

and she said a bit later:  ‘When I was diagnosed it was fairly rare and people used to say I was faking all the time.’

WHAT? 

And @Merry120:  Its like so many things. You’d never say ‘eat a sandwich’ to someone IRL.

She is so right. Or do we? I have. So maybe I’m not a hypocrite or hiding behind my keyboard.  But is it right to do that? 

The conversation turned to whether its ok to pull someone aside and tell them you think they look too thin or too heavy.

Both of our Crohns suffererers said it was ok, if done with true concern and privately.  Both @merry120 & I had had that happen to us when we were underweight.  What’s sad it that we both said,

‘I thought I looked great, but people were pulling me aside telling me I looked sick, and were worried there was something wrong with us.’

We liked being told we were sickly thin?  I can’t speak for her, but I found that to be a COMPLIMENT.

What’s WRONG with our society that I thought that ‘you look sickly thin’ was a compliment?

And then, it turned:

@CLbuchanan the other side of  this is now that I’m heavy I get judged as well.

@bumpandhustle ppl just like to judge.  I gained 20 lbs & heard how big I was.

Seriously?  This is whacked.

I know that some of the Oscar comments are made in fun. And, us plebes feel free to dissect celebrities’ lives and bodies and fashion.  But, what we (I) forget is that we (I) may (are) affecting others who are listening to our (my) words and internalizing them.  Plus, when we get in the habit of commenting on folks that we don’t know, it’s a slippery slope to comment about people that we do know.

There’s the crux.

And that’s why I’m ashamed.  Because my words resonated with someone. Not in a positive way.  Not really what I was going for.  I’m not Joan Rivers. Its not what people (I ) expect from me, and it’s not what I expect of my children.

I don’t want to be a hypocrite.

For the record, I do think that Angelina Jolie is too thin.  I don’t profess to know why she is so thin (maybe she has Crohns, maybe she has lost weight for a role, its possible that she has anxiety, or it could be that she just thinks she looks great).

But regardless, its not my business to say. And for sure, since I’m far from perfect in the area of body image, not my place to JUDGE.

If  I want to give my opinion on her craft (I think she’s an ok actress).  Her behaviour (I think she’s a home wrecker and I don’t respect her), then that’s my prerogative. She’s an actress and has put herself in the public eye as such.  Otherwise, when it comes to body, off limits.

One of the last tweets

And it was. 

I’d love to hear some opinions.

Do you think its ok to tell someone you think they look too thin, too heavy, too tired, too tanned, too ANYTHING?

Is it mean to comment about celebrities?  Or is it just part of the publicity machine (any press is good press).

 

What’s Really Sexy: The Truth About Marriage

Snow Heart

Ever think about why some people stay married (or in relationships) and others don’t?

Well, I do.

I’ve been married for almost 19 years to a not particularly romantic guy.  We’ve actually been together for what will be 22 years come May.  That’s a loooooooooooooong time.

Before I started dating the young fella who was lucky enough to marry me, I’d never had a relationship longer than 3 months.  I used to go for the BAD BOYS. You know the type.  The ones who’d say things like:

‘I’m breaking up with you. Its not you, its me.’

‘I know its two weeks before your prom, but I just need a break, ya know, to find myself.’

or, howabout, ‘I need the freedom to follow The Dead.  I can’t be worrying if I need to call you or something.’

This was the last one before I met my husband, and the reason I went for a ‘NICE GUY’ finally:  ‘Its not that my boss necessarily wants to date me, but its more that my friend says I shouldn’t be so tied down by a girlfriend right now.’

Its evident that I had great taste.  In jerks. I could spot them a mile away by their asshole attitude and carefully ripped jeans.

I was having a chat with my manicurist today (I have fake nails and I’m not gonna lie, they’re awesome).  She is this absolutely STUNNING Italian woman, who is, at 34, still single.  She’s been through the rounds of dating and refuses to settle just to get that white picket fence. She’s not overly picky, and in fact, can’t understand women who are looking, fruitlessly, for the imaginary trifecta comprising the perfect man:  money, personality and great abs.

She just wants a fair, respectful, and equal relationship, along with a little love magic, and hasn’t found it yet.  Anyways, we were talking about marriage and relationships and why people split up, and why people stay.

‘I think people mistake lust for something that’s permanent,’ she pointed out.  ‘That fades, and when its gone, they want to leave. Lust doesn’t last 30 years, but companionship, friendship-those do.’

I agreed.  ‘The grass isn’t always greener.  What happens when you find a new lust and then in a few years that burns out too.  What do you do?  Keep leaving?’

We commiserated.  Then, I told her what my husband had done for me just that day.

‘This morning, I went to turn my automatic starter on to warm up the car so I wouldn’t have to scrape all the snow off, and you know what the Man did?  He cleaned all the snow off the car and moved it into the garage.’

She laughed.  ‘That’s amazing.  What I’d like to say is Why shouldn’t he?  But I know that most men would never have thought to do that.’

‘You’re absolutely right’,  I replied. ‘That’s the reason I married him.  No matter how annoying he is 43% of the time, he always thinks of me.  It’s the small things that remind me why I fell in love with him the first time he kissed me.’

We both sighed.

So, back to the beginning, here’s my take on why people stay and why people leave.  Marriage is hard work.  Really, its all about being around one person for a long time, and having to make decisions together and raise people, and handle money, and go through ups and downs and love handles and muffin tops and temptation and the green grass on the other side.   That stuff is not sexy.  And, a lot of sex but no talking, and only caring about yourself and your own happiness just isn’t going to cut the mustard.

Marriage is about compromise, and a lot of thinking about the other person before yourself. When you both do that, everybody is taken care of just fine.

Personally, I think people have got to get a little boring sometimes.  Be happy laying in bed together watching TV (I’ve been with this man for 22 years and we have a TV in our bedroom and we’re STILL together).  Be happy just hanging out.  Be comfortable in your own skins and each others.  Don’t hold a grudge, and understand that there is no way in hell you can ever like someone all the time.

Lastly, I’d like to point out to all the men that moving the car into the garage during a snowstorm, that right there turns you into a sex machine more than any abs could ever do. Besides, abs only last as long as you keep doing sit-ups. But, being a Mensch is forever.

Why I Blog

Why I blog

This is my 101st post.  A momentous occasion, right?  I have to say, even though I’ve stuck with this ‘hobby’ for a while, sometimes I wonder why I blog.

I’m about 10 millionth on the Alexa rankings. They can’t even pull data on me, my stats are so low.

But, still I write.  I get great joy out of sharing my words and hopefully providing somebody, somewhere, a laugh, a chuckle or an aha moment.  Sometimes, though, when I realize that my father-in-law and 3 other people are my primary readers, I consider dropping the whole thing and writing a diary.  If I did that, I could seriously put down whatever I wanted without worrying about insulting anyone.

When I look at my numbers, that’s when I think things like that.  I also think about it when I feel like writing rude things that pass through my head but since I have common sense, realize would be disastrous to my ability to make and keep friends if published.

And then, I get a taste of my own medicine. And someone, out there in the internet-verse, provides me with an aha moment of my own.

I was busily writing another fun and frivolous post about Pinterest (which I’ll publish tomorrow or so) and then I received this comment on a blog I wrote last October about missing my father:

I found your blog here–and this entry in particular–because I was feeling similarly. Two nights ago we lit a yartzeit candle for our son who we lost during childbirth one year ago. His candle lasted more that 26 hours, but now that it is out I am left with emptiness. Your poem is beautiful. The flame is a reminder, but not a substitute. We who have lost our so very dear ones continue and learn to live this life without them here. Their memories and essence are with us, but there is an emptiness that I do not know if ever can be filled.

When I read that, I got shivers down my spine, goosebumps up and down my arms, and tears in my eyes.  Reading of this woman’s pain, and that in someway, throughout the inter webs, I was able to ease it, bridge a gap, make her feel she wasn’t alone, well, that was a flashing arrow to the real reason why I blog.

Sure, I like to be silly, make people laugh, throw out a random thought or two.  But truly, I feel I am a successful wordsmith when my words resonate;  even if its with just one person.  If I’ve impacted just one person’s life, made one person’s day better, caused one single person to laugh so hard they snort Diet Coke out of their nose, then it’s all worth it.  All the writing, the editing, the searching for the right word, the best phrase, the perfect picture.  All completely and totally worth it.

So, I won’t stop. Even if today, nobody reads except my friends the spammers. Because, someday, one day, one person might Google ‘Why should I blog’ and find this piece, and understand.

And, that’s why I blog.

I’m a Rockstar Risk Taker. Like William Hung.

I Wanna be a Rockstar!

I’m a total American Idol fanatic.  I’ve been watching since the first day of the first audition of the first season.

Maybe its because I always dreamed of being a rock star. The only thing that held me back from achieving pure musical stardom was my tone deafness and complete inability to dance with any rhythm.  Also, my fear of making a fool of myself, my indecisive nature, and that fact that my daddy told me no.  But, mostly, it was the singing.

Luckily, with the advent of reality TV, I can live my life vicariously through watching singing and dancing make-me-a-star shows such as So You Think You Can Dance, Idol,  America’s Got Talent, and The Voice. I don’t watch Dancing with the Stars because…well.. they’re already stars and in no need of my adulation.

Once of my most favourite American Idol ‘stars’ was William Hung of Season 3.  William shot to fame with his expert rendition of She Bangs first made famous by Ricky Martin.

Do you remember this?

William Hung was so bad he was good.  Plus, he was so personable, and so innocently nerdy and untalented, you just couldn’t resist his charms. Inside though, I was a bit horrified that he’d gone on tv and sang She Bangs all the while gyrating like a robotic noodle man.  I was mortified for him.

Then, I realized that Mr. Hung took himself to Idol to act foolish.   There was no way in heck he actually thought he was a good singer.  Nobody forced him to go on national television and sing and dance like nobody was watching.

He craved stardom, just like me, and a jillion other people.   But, unlike me, who listened to everyone else who was telling her to stop singing immediately, William took the microphone by the proverbial horns.

( I know you were wondering whether I’d put up a video of me singing at this point. And now you know..I won’t. But not because of my fear of embarrassing myself. It’s because I recently received a lecture from my teenage daughter about boundaries and the concept of locating some.)

I’ve been thinking that the hardest things in life to do are those that seem scary, or crazy or giant leaps of faith.  I’m tired of hesitating before making decisions, waiting, pondering, mulling.  Often times, I stay in difficult or unpleasant situations because I’m just too chicken to get out of them.  I can see how people stay in bad marriages because they just can’t find the courage to leave.  I can say from experience how people (like me) stay in unpleasant working environments because the thought of not having that paycheque, or of people thinking you’ve failed (nobody likes a quitter)  is way scarier than what waits in the office each morning.

I’ve decided to be a little bit more like William Hung, and do things that make me happy, consequences be damned.

I need to honour myself, my needs, my sanity.  I’m done getting physically ill from stress.  I’ll officially put it out there that I’m a patsy no more.

The other day, I extricated myself from a situation that I’d let go for too long, but in actuality not as long as I normally would have.  I was unhappy, was completely frazzled to the ends of my last nerve.

I debated, vacillated, and and then I took the plunge.  For the first time in my life, I took to my Idol stage like a true rockstar wannabe, bit the bullet, and took the bull by the horn, never mind the consequences or the ill will my actions might cause.

After I did the deed, my husband looked at my face, and said, ‘You look just like William Hung’.

HA! No he DIDN’T!

What he said was, ‘I can see the relief on your face. You did good.’

PS to all those people who are used to me, I’m still a people pleaser. Just of the crap-free variety.