Would You Rather…

Watch hockey or curling?

I’m not sure what’s happened, if earth has ripped us a new axis or what but lots of people are coming out of the wood work and proudly declaring their love of curling.

What?

Hockey I can understand. You can be loud, proud and well, loud. Curling just seems so subdued. Like golf but with more innuendo. If you listen to the game without watching you’ll hear what I’m talking about. Try adding, ‘that’s what she said!’ to the commentary. Trust me, it’s way more enjoyable than actually paying attention to the game. It’s almost as much fun as the Lost drinking game which requires taking a shot of something something when certain moments occur like when Flocke (fake Locke) says, “I can tell you what you want to know” or Jack looking up skyward in angst (Jack’s depressed, CHEERS!)

But sit down and follow the commentary for curling. Voices are not raised, the commentator does not get breathless and make rushed pronouncements just subtle remarks that set up the line beautifully. But don’t take my word for it, you have to play along. Today when you hear things like “he’s digging in the corner!” or “oh, so close!” just add the line “that’s what she said” and tell me you didn’t giggle like a ten year old boy.

Then try it during a curling match. Same thing but longer, slower, with more dulcet tones…

(that’s what she said heeeeeeeeheeeeeeheeeeee!)

Epic Fail

(love that phrase!)

Had a chance to see the nephew do his eel impersonation at the U of T swimming pool. All the Canadian Universities compete in a bunch of different heats and the coolest part is you’ll probably see an Olympic swimmer in the process of getting to their best time. UBC and Calgary share the top 3 spots with U of T generally. The nephew is in his 10th year at UBC (childhood prodigy -from my brother’s side, obviously).

I did the math. That’s probably why we failed to see one race. Twelve races, with awards after every three races. Starting at 10 am… we showed up at 12:45pm to see everyone clearing the building. Argh. I was trying to do the right thing by picking up the dark force of evil (my mother) and delivering her to the pool. (Students in one hundred years from now will give that sentence Lost-like analysis of evil vs good, evil going to the waters to be bathed in redemption -but that would never happen because hello have you met my mother?) We missed everything including the golden boy’s golden boy and she was not pleased. Epic fail, as I said.

Awkward silence followed for hours. When the husband finally suggested we take the dark force of evil home, she (of course) decided she would bring herself back, alone, and elderly to witness the finals in the evening and sought out tickets for the event, on foot. She asked me twice, “Do you want to come back and see the finals?”. Both times I said no. Epic fail the sequel. More passive aggression as the dark force plotted her punishing retort.

We pulled up to her place and hit the eject button.

(I wish).

“I’m sorry” I offered.

“Yes, I’m sure” she hissed.

If it’s not one thing it’s your mother.

Being Fifty…

Talk about an exercise in aversion.

Even typing Fifty just feels wrong. But it’s there, it’s square … root is… math … and right or wrong I’ve hit it and it was unresponsive, frigid, even. Except, that’s a lie! Fifty IS responsive! It responds to touch in a flaccid, saggy way. It folds into itself creating a wave of ugly wrinkles when poked. Gravity pushes down on it and everything kind of congeals in a mess in the middle. But, heck, it’s still a response!

The consultant looked at me, frowning. Well, you couldn’t really call it a frown, the skin around her eyes barely moved.

“Yes, I have Botox in my forehead. I started at 37 and kept getting the shots so I wouldn’t develop the deep worry lines like yours my grandmother’s.”

She did a quick tour of my lines with her calculator. My face would cost approximately $1200.00 to plum up and freeze into a youthful glow. That’s $350 for the worry lines between my eyebrows, $400 for the lines beside my nose and $450 for the lines that go from the sides of my nose to my lips. I don’t need Botox at the corners of my mouth, yet, she informed me (take away $350). But that’s not all! Botox only lasts around 4 months, the other plumping stuff may last up to six months. That equals a whole lot of math per year that I could be spending on a vacation! A really GOOD vacation with meals and everything!

“Is the price ever going to be affordable to average women?” I asked, naively.

“Why would it? Women will pay whatever it takes”.

Suddenly I was disgusted with myself, my vanity, my insecurity about aging. I know better, I do and yet I’m falling for the biggest, cruelest marketing trap geared to women.

“You’re STILL not good enough”!

Every ad geared to my age category reminds me of my flawed appearance. A WRINKLE? A GREY HAIR? Your death awaits you, welcome to the end! But if you rub it, dye it, lift it, fill it with poison, or just cut it off, you will achieve eternal youth.

Valerie Bertinell didn’t just lose weight she had a TON of surgery done to her body and face to tighten up the leftovers but the message to us is ‘SEE? You too can look like Barbie.’ That toy model we grew up with never aged, sagged, drooped or wrinkled. She is still impossibly proportioned and as perky as ever. I know this to be impossible, I’m a free-thinking female yet I was seduced by the message that I could STILL improve and that I should improve because everyone else is doing it!

So I lost weight. Again. Losing 40 pounds to free myself of hypertension and high blood sugar wasn’t good enough. Losing weight didn’t turn me into a swim suit model (I didn’t expect it to but dammit, all the messages bombarding my brain gave me the illusion of a swim suit body). On the practical side I did it with a doctor, covered by our provincial medical system (yay, Doctor Daniels!) There were no meetings, nobody telling me I had to make losing weight about going to meetings, creating a secondary lifestyle - yuck! No supplements, no weird drinks, no special, expensive food plan, just common sense and the accountability of seeing a gruff, unsmiling man looking at the number on the cattle-sized weigh scale asking me if I exercised during the week. Hey, whatever works -my blood pressure is down and THAT should be good enough.

I can’t afford to tighten up the leftovers or pay to temporarily reduce the effects of aging on my skin. Clearly there has to be an alternative to all the noise, the negative messages, the stereotyping and it’s all up here (points to head). I looked at the old lady looking back at me in the mirror and made a decision, a vow as it were. I promised NOT to buy into the false advertising that I need to rid myself of any signs of aging at tremendous expense in order to feel good about me. I will look after my health.
It’s amazing how a virtual trip around the world (virtual is the key word, I’m in Waikiki today), a bit of concealer for the dark circles and a little blush can make a difference. I’m also going to treat myself on a regular basis to the easiest, cheapest facelift in the freaking world. Smile. Seriously go look in a mirror and do it! The change is amazing! And if anybody asks, yes, I invented the cure for aging and I’m giving the secret away to you for FREE! Do it. Go on, really. You’ll thank me.

The Line…

… between boy and brat is very thin.

Sure, you can have that heart to heart talk, explain things with proper terms and watch him concentrate on your words, nodding as he absorbs each new point, processing the information. You can ask for assurance that your words won’t become weapons on the playground, that all you say will not be shared. You count on those momentary glimpses of maturity and understanding to step forward and be the grown up boy you hope he’ll become. That composed boy who thanks you for explaining all those strange terms and things is the boy you are so proud to know, proud of how he handled all the new information. How he…

screamed out “sexual intercourse!!!” as he slid down the school yard hill last week.

The line got thinner as I heard the principal explain the ‘zero tolerance’ policy that the boy violated. She seemed to feel the need to explain that the school cannot abide any inappropriate talk of sexuality or homophobic remarks. She doesn’t know me very well. I too cannot abide. I vowed the boy/brat was going to regret saying anything. A storm cloud hung over the car as I drove home from work, planning what I would say. I would be calm, even, I would not allow emotion to take over.

“YOU ARE IN SOOO MUCH TROUBLE!” I said loudly (OK, I yelled a little).
“HOW COULD YOU? I DEMANDED.

His answer was incomprehensible, he was obviously upset.

I growled at the husband who started to ask a question.

“GRRRRR!” This was my moment. Calm, even and unemotional didn’t have a chance -I was raving. I circled the prey glancing back at the husband to make sure he stood back.

At some point it occurred to me that the boy was never going to understand because the husband was no better at keeping information to himself than a ten year old. The big boys can gossip way more than any women I know. So who’s to blame? I handed the boy the best information he would ever learn and what did he do? He didn’t just tell his friends, he screamed his knowledge out for everyone to hear at recess. This shouldn’t have been a surprise.

I grounded him for the entire weekend, which lasted one day.

I grounded myself for being an idiot telling a ten year old the facts of life when he asked.

“I Want You…

I want you so ba-a-a-ad, babe!

I want yououououou…”

The house vibrates, shakes, rattles, the voice strives to reproduce John’s resonant perfection.
But the 13 year olds vocal chords just can’t reach down low enough- give it a couple of more years. Maybe by then his ear will develop and he’ll notice when he sings the whole thing half a tone below the lead guitars sultry notes. The drums sound uninspired, but accompany the discord obediently.

“She’s so.”

(wait for it)

“Heavyyyyyyy.” The harmonies are lost as the singer hits all the notes in order. By himself. Suddenly the drums are gone and it’s just one voice trying to hit the high note. The ten year old leaves to make a cheese bagel for lunch. I guess the discipline thing hasn’t kicked in yet, the second guitarist comes up for a snack, too.

My ears hurt, my head hurts, I’m crabby but this isn’t about me it’s about giving the boys a chance to be boys being a band in a basement. The ever-increasing amplifiers prove the dad gene is alive and well and festering in these young pups. Bigger will always be better -car, amplifier, other, etc and with ‘it’ comes increasingly more confidence.

They switch to an uneven interpretation of “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”. A range of guitar effects are presented after each musical stanza, testing, annoyingly. One day they may do another garage concert for their friends and the neighbors. A proud mom may still insist on video taping all of it. A proud dad may upload it to You Tube and their legend may begin. Until then its a mere afternoon of vibrating, shaking and rattling, and plenty of pain medication.