In the summer of ninety four, I had a brilliant idea. In preparation for my high school reunion, I would dye my lashes. That way, I could cry freely without worrying about make-up. Unknown to me, thick black eyeliner was also applied. "People love this," the beautician assured me as I walked out the door, stunned and blinking into the light. "Oh my God," my husband said when I got home. "You look like Nana Mouskouri." The ensuing tears did not damage the dye. I finally took a toothbrush to my eyelashes and removed it all.
My next brilliant idea came about ten years later. I wandered into a Winnipeg store that offered an instant all over tan. The small cubicle resembled a phone booth. I felt like Clark Kent, about to transform into the real me. Spray shot from the walls, coating my entire body. Wow, I thought. This is amazing. There was no mirror. Next, the clerks offered to tattoo make-up onto my lips and eyes, their faces the examples of their success. But their permanent lip and eye liner was so outside the lines, a three year old could have done better. "No thanks," I said uneasily, starting to wonder about my fake tan. When I got back to my sister's house, my mother met me at the door.
"You look like you've been living at the dump," she said. I walked over to a mirror. My eyebrows were twice their usual size, and extremely dark. There were streaks around my hairline and brown smudges on my forehead and chin. I looked like a person who had not bathed in a very long time. This time, I used a much bigger brush for the cleanup. The kind you keep under the kitchen sink for dirty pots.
I have a fondness for self improvement. A desire to tweak the Judy design by giving myself some kind of upgrade. When I was very little, I liked to cut my own hair. And Susan's. But never mind about that. I enjoy self improvement books. I like to meditate with Oprah and Chopra. I probably need a new wardrobe. And really, I should try yoga again. But I hate to shop, and I'm not very flexible.
We all yearn for what we don't have, even when we like who we are. It's part of the human condition for everyone except Jesus and the Dalai Lama. And there's nothing wrong with a make over, if that's what you really want. But I've found that, lately, if the mood for change comes over me, its better if I just clean the kitchen sink or wash the car. I still have to use a brush, but at least it doesn't hurt. And with that chore accomplished, I feel really good. Which is the whole point.
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Friday, June 19, 2015
The Summer of 61
I turned 61 this year and the symptoms are settling in nicely. For example. A few weeks ago I twisted my knee. It didn't happen during Zumba, where we contort ourselves into every possible position while moving to a Salsa beat. It happened, sadly, and with a hint of cliché, while I was weeding the garden.
My inner self, the real me, has immense energy and a sunny outlook. But my body insists on remembering every dumb move it ever made. Every klutzy moment and resulting injury insists on making a fuss long after it should be over. Ahem, they say, fighting for the turn to speak. Remember me? Like two years ago when I jumped off the garden wall and told Clarence to catch me. My back was out for three weeks. His fared slightly better. And remember when sun screen wasn't invented yet and fair skinned people got sunburned so badly our skin looked like a futuristic dystopian plague?
My body has imposed martial rule over my dietary choices. No bread. No sugar. 85% chocolate for a treat. Lots of salads and healthy fruits and vegetables and not a lot of beef. Hardly any junk food, unless you count a few rice crackers every now and then. Because I get hives if I break curfew. And anemia. What, you may be wondering, is my payment for all this good behavior? Twelve pounds. A twelve pound gain in one year. But no hives, and I feel healthy, so. Sigh.
It's annoying how my outer self refuses to match the inner me. My dad warned me about this. "One day," he said, "you'll wake up, look in the mirror and wonder who that stranger is." I'm not quite there, but when I get out of bed in the morning and walk like I have no joints in my legs, I understand a little of what he meant. On the other hand, if I was born in the early 1900's, I'd have been dead ten years ago.
So. I will continue to count my blessings every day. I will remember that my mother lived large until the very end. She wasn't one to dwell on aches and pains. She didn't remember much about menopause. We didn't worry about that, she said, and couldn't understand all the fuss about childbirth, either. Women of her generation just got on with it. That included grieving. I should have paid better attention when she lost her parents.
I will remember the summer of 61 for many reasons. For the day I buried my last parent. For coming to terms with my own mortality. And of course, for the army worms marching through our small town. But that's a complaint for another day.
My inner self, the real me, has immense energy and a sunny outlook. But my body insists on remembering every dumb move it ever made. Every klutzy moment and resulting injury insists on making a fuss long after it should be over. Ahem, they say, fighting for the turn to speak. Remember me? Like two years ago when I jumped off the garden wall and told Clarence to catch me. My back was out for three weeks. His fared slightly better. And remember when sun screen wasn't invented yet and fair skinned people got sunburned so badly our skin looked like a futuristic dystopian plague?
My body has imposed martial rule over my dietary choices. No bread. No sugar. 85% chocolate for a treat. Lots of salads and healthy fruits and vegetables and not a lot of beef. Hardly any junk food, unless you count a few rice crackers every now and then. Because I get hives if I break curfew. And anemia. What, you may be wondering, is my payment for all this good behavior? Twelve pounds. A twelve pound gain in one year. But no hives, and I feel healthy, so. Sigh.
It's annoying how my outer self refuses to match the inner me. My dad warned me about this. "One day," he said, "you'll wake up, look in the mirror and wonder who that stranger is." I'm not quite there, but when I get out of bed in the morning and walk like I have no joints in my legs, I understand a little of what he meant. On the other hand, if I was born in the early 1900's, I'd have been dead ten years ago.
So. I will continue to count my blessings every day. I will remember that my mother lived large until the very end. She wasn't one to dwell on aches and pains. She didn't remember much about menopause. We didn't worry about that, she said, and couldn't understand all the fuss about childbirth, either. Women of her generation just got on with it. That included grieving. I should have paid better attention when she lost her parents.
I will remember the summer of 61 for many reasons. For the day I buried my last parent. For coming to terms with my own mortality. And of course, for the army worms marching through our small town. But that's a complaint for another day.
Monday, June 8, 2015
A Little Don Time
I'm in a funk. It's a beautiful day, but there's a fire somewhere and the smoke is burning my throat. So I put away my garden tools and check to see if the coast is clear. Then I slink into the house, turn on the TV and let Netflix load.
Binge watching TV has replaced afternoon drinking as the way to avoid the boring things in life, like chores. I'm a serious reader with an obligation to my local library, but Don Draper keeps calling my name. His slicked back hair, immobile face and no nonsense tone compel me to drop what I'm doing and tune in. Especially when he says, "Betty, its going to be fine." I know, Don. And thanks for the reassurance.
We have a complicated relationship, he and I. For one thing, I can't trust him. These Mad Men and their lying ways. They spend their days making up stories about products, and their nights lying to their wives. "Just off to meet a client, honey." Sure thing, Don. Roger. Pete. All you lusty, smoking, hard drinking men with your pressed shirts and suave ways.
Supposedly the series is a comedy. Well, I'm not laughing. Neither is Don's wife, Betty. In fact, I think she only smiled twice during the first three seasons. The show was produced by AMC, who also made Breaking Bad and the Walking Dead. Of the three series, this one is the darkest. Sure, Jessie is chained in the basement cooking meth in the first. Zombies are trying to kill off the remaining humans in the second. But still.
Misogyny. People who smoke and drink day and night. (My chest gets tight just from watching.) Men who lie without turning a hair on their brylcreemed heads. Women named Sweetheart and Dear who choose to believe them. Characters so complicated, no therapist can ever sort through the dark closets of their psyches.
Remember this. If you're going to binge watch Netflix shows, make sure you have a plausible story lined up. Grab a dust cloth. Take out the vacuum cleaner. And be careful. Once you fall down that rabbit hole, its very hard to find your way out again. To help kick the Netflix habit, find a supportive group. Once you've shared your concerns and confessed your darkest fears, there just might be time left over for to turn on Netflix and find a new series.
Binge watching TV has replaced afternoon drinking as the way to avoid the boring things in life, like chores. I'm a serious reader with an obligation to my local library, but Don Draper keeps calling my name. His slicked back hair, immobile face and no nonsense tone compel me to drop what I'm doing and tune in. Especially when he says, "Betty, its going to be fine." I know, Don. And thanks for the reassurance.
We have a complicated relationship, he and I. For one thing, I can't trust him. These Mad Men and their lying ways. They spend their days making up stories about products, and their nights lying to their wives. "Just off to meet a client, honey." Sure thing, Don. Roger. Pete. All you lusty, smoking, hard drinking men with your pressed shirts and suave ways.
Supposedly the series is a comedy. Well, I'm not laughing. Neither is Don's wife, Betty. In fact, I think she only smiled twice during the first three seasons. The show was produced by AMC, who also made Breaking Bad and the Walking Dead. Of the three series, this one is the darkest. Sure, Jessie is chained in the basement cooking meth in the first. Zombies are trying to kill off the remaining humans in the second. But still.
Misogyny. People who smoke and drink day and night. (My chest gets tight just from watching.) Men who lie without turning a hair on their brylcreemed heads. Women named Sweetheart and Dear who choose to believe them. Characters so complicated, no therapist can ever sort through the dark closets of their psyches.
Remember this. If you're going to binge watch Netflix shows, make sure you have a plausible story lined up. Grab a dust cloth. Take out the vacuum cleaner. And be careful. Once you fall down that rabbit hole, its very hard to find your way out again. To help kick the Netflix habit, find a supportive group. Once you've shared your concerns and confessed your darkest fears, there just might be time left over for to turn on Netflix and find a new series.
Tuesday, June 2, 2015
Ode to a '64 Rambler
I was seventeen the first time I drove uptown in my mother's car. It was old. A nineteen sixty-four mint green Rambler with standard steering and brakes. At five foot two and a hundred pounds, I had to throw my whole body against the wheel just to turn the corner. When I got uptown, I remember wondering, "What the hell were they thinking, letting me take the car?" Driving that thing was the equivalent of a chipmunk trying to steer a Tyrannosaurus Rex. "Go that way, dammit,' I'd squeak. Sometimes the car would obey.
My friends and I spent hours in it listening to the radio. When you share the house with six other kids and two parents, you have to be creative in finding your space. My dad would holler through the garage window, "You're running down the battery!" Sometimes I listened. Sometimes I ran down the battery.
Like all cars built then, it was extremely spacious. On family vacations, Linda would sit up front with mom and dad. Joni would lie in the back window. Bill would sit on the floor on some kind of board system, while the rest of us shared the back seat. Any fighting that took place was purely recreational.
My first incident with the Rambler happened on the way to Denare Beach. I was stopped by the RCMP for a reason I can't remember. Probably because I look about ten years old. My friends in the back, each holding a case of beer, wore expressions of such innocence, they might have been preparing for their First Communion.
Meanwhile, I had to follow the cop back to his car for questioning. In the next minute, like a slowed down insurance advertisement on what not to do, the Rambler rolled backward and hit the patrol car. It was a gentle roll. I didn't get charged with anything, just told to fix my parking brake. "My mother's parking brake, you mean." I was quick to grant her ownership of the car when it was convenient for me.
For the next incident, my grade twelve biology class was on a field trip on the North Star road. After wading through weeds looking for God knows what, we were driving back to class when the Rambler left the road, almost of its own accord. The roll downhill seemed to happen in slow motion.
There were no seatbelts, so there was a lot of head bumping before we finally stopped. After a brief moment of hysteria, we found a ride into town. With whom, I can't recall. All I remember is arriving home and seeing my mother's face. Hearing the sound of her voice. "My beautiful car! Oh My God! My Rambler! I mean, I'm glad you're all right but...My Car!"
Mud along the shoulder of the road was blamed. But if I hadn't slammed on the brake, it wouldn't have happened. We were all fine, except for the Rambler. In spite of its tank like qualities, it was no match for a rocky hillside. Mom, I'm still sorry. The upside is, I became a cautious driver.
I always swore that if I struck it rich, I'd buy my mother a brand new car to make up for the loss. It never happened. So, God, its up to you. Give her something for racing around heaven. She was an excellent driver and a very good person. And when we meet again, I'll probably want to borrow her new car. I think she'll say yes.
My friends and I spent hours in it listening to the radio. When you share the house with six other kids and two parents, you have to be creative in finding your space. My dad would holler through the garage window, "You're running down the battery!" Sometimes I listened. Sometimes I ran down the battery.
Like all cars built then, it was extremely spacious. On family vacations, Linda would sit up front with mom and dad. Joni would lie in the back window. Bill would sit on the floor on some kind of board system, while the rest of us shared the back seat. Any fighting that took place was purely recreational.
My first incident with the Rambler happened on the way to Denare Beach. I was stopped by the RCMP for a reason I can't remember. Probably because I look about ten years old. My friends in the back, each holding a case of beer, wore expressions of such innocence, they might have been preparing for their First Communion.
Meanwhile, I had to follow the cop back to his car for questioning. In the next minute, like a slowed down insurance advertisement on what not to do, the Rambler rolled backward and hit the patrol car. It was a gentle roll. I didn't get charged with anything, just told to fix my parking brake. "My mother's parking brake, you mean." I was quick to grant her ownership of the car when it was convenient for me.
For the next incident, my grade twelve biology class was on a field trip on the North Star road. After wading through weeds looking for God knows what, we were driving back to class when the Rambler left the road, almost of its own accord. The roll downhill seemed to happen in slow motion.
There were no seatbelts, so there was a lot of head bumping before we finally stopped. After a brief moment of hysteria, we found a ride into town. With whom, I can't recall. All I remember is arriving home and seeing my mother's face. Hearing the sound of her voice. "My beautiful car! Oh My God! My Rambler! I mean, I'm glad you're all right but...My Car!"
Mud along the shoulder of the road was blamed. But if I hadn't slammed on the brake, it wouldn't have happened. We were all fine, except for the Rambler. In spite of its tank like qualities, it was no match for a rocky hillside. Mom, I'm still sorry. The upside is, I became a cautious driver.
I always swore that if I struck it rich, I'd buy my mother a brand new car to make up for the loss. It never happened. So, God, its up to you. Give her something for racing around heaven. She was an excellent driver and a very good person. And when we meet again, I'll probably want to borrow her new car. I think she'll say yes.
Monday, May 25, 2015
He's Bringing Sexy Back
Once, there was a man in a chair beside a fake fireplace in the Saskatoon airport. He was reading a book. Not a magazine. A big book, and not a Dan Brown novel either, because I checked. His feet were up on an Ottoman, and he was completely immersed in the story. I watched him for a while, in a non creepy way, and longed to congratulate him for being the sexiest man in the airport.
I have certain requirements that must be filled before a man enters the sexy category. Someone with a big truck, super size tires and no muffler? Not sexy. A guy with a big truck, a muffler and regular tires who also helps his friends move their stuff? Very sexy. People underrate helpfulness. I find it extremely compelling.
Guys who do stuff for their families and friends definitely up their hotness quotient. Clarence was just home working in our yard and I had to use the garden hose just to cool down. Seriously. So. Reading publicly. Being helpful and kind. And funny. Funny works for me. These are sexy behaviors. But this next one tops them all. Men who Sing.
Now, its become obvious to me that Clarence is not in this category. However, in my defense, he had me convinced that he could. He dazzled me with his funny, charming, sneakily helpful ways. So every single time he opened his mouth, I could hear the back up music to a great song. It wasn't until we'd been married a few years and I heard him howling in the shower that I realized I'd been duped. However, he is saved by the helpful thing, the reading thing and the funny thing. Whew!
But back to men who sing. I don't know why they don't take advantage of their talent. I sat beside a guy on the plane last week who pulled out a Velcro wallet to pay for his drink. I had to turn my face away. However, if he'd started serenading the stewardess, it would have cancelled the dorkiness of being a grown man with a Velcro wallet. This talent opens many doors and possibly more than that, if used correctly. Justin Timberlake figured this out as a child. And look where he is. He brought sexy back. And, with the right props and attitude, so can you.
I have certain requirements that must be filled before a man enters the sexy category. Someone with a big truck, super size tires and no muffler? Not sexy. A guy with a big truck, a muffler and regular tires who also helps his friends move their stuff? Very sexy. People underrate helpfulness. I find it extremely compelling.
Guys who do stuff for their families and friends definitely up their hotness quotient. Clarence was just home working in our yard and I had to use the garden hose just to cool down. Seriously. So. Reading publicly. Being helpful and kind. And funny. Funny works for me. These are sexy behaviors. But this next one tops them all. Men who Sing.
Now, its become obvious to me that Clarence is not in this category. However, in my defense, he had me convinced that he could. He dazzled me with his funny, charming, sneakily helpful ways. So every single time he opened his mouth, I could hear the back up music to a great song. It wasn't until we'd been married a few years and I heard him howling in the shower that I realized I'd been duped. However, he is saved by the helpful thing, the reading thing and the funny thing. Whew!
But back to men who sing. I don't know why they don't take advantage of their talent. I sat beside a guy on the plane last week who pulled out a Velcro wallet to pay for his drink. I had to turn my face away. However, if he'd started serenading the stewardess, it would have cancelled the dorkiness of being a grown man with a Velcro wallet. This talent opens many doors and possibly more than that, if used correctly. Justin Timberlake figured this out as a child. And look where he is. He brought sexy back. And, with the right props and attitude, so can you.
Friday, May 15, 2015
What's It all About, Meatloaf?
I was driving down the street a number of years ago when Meatloaf's song, 'I would do Anything for Love, (but I won't do that),' came on the radio. I'd never heard it before. I pulled the car over, growing increasingly irritated that I couldn't figure out exactly what 'that' was. Sex? Lying? Cross dressing? I'm still not sure. It troubles me.
At times, I feel like a foreigner in my own country. The most familiar city becomes strange once I'm trying to drive through it. I need a guide. Possibly, an interpreter. Someone kind, who thinks its all right to misunderstand situations or words. For example. When I was a little kid, I thought being fired from a job meant being tied to a gasoline soaked chair while a hooded man hovered nearby with a lit match. I begged my parents to always be on time for work. Just in case.
Next, I wondered why the local theater kept repeating the movie, "DOUBLE BILL. "It's in town at least once a month," I said, shaking my head at the craziness of it all. My dad's name was Bill. So was my brother's. Hmmm. It took a friend's kind explanation for me to understand they meant 'Double Feature.' Well, why not say that?
When hearing about a local spin class. (sadly, I was already an adult) I wondered how there could possibly be room for everyone. And what music does one choose for spinning? Does the class glide through the room, their arms spread in a whirling dervish bliss out? Is it ballet style dancing, or does it have more of a Woodstock feel?
Wrong again. There is no spinning. Just stationary bikes ridden like...stationary bikes. Well, then why don't they just say that. Why don't they call a spade a spade, instead of asking us foreigners to learn the language. We can't. We've tried. It just doesn't take.
Go ahead, world. Be like Meatloaf, enigmatic and opaque. Have your inside jokes that more literal people like me never get. Sure, I'll be puzzled. Occasionally, I'll become lost. But I won't feel sad. Like Meatloaf says, two outta three ain't bad.
At times, I feel like a foreigner in my own country. The most familiar city becomes strange once I'm trying to drive through it. I need a guide. Possibly, an interpreter. Someone kind, who thinks its all right to misunderstand situations or words. For example. When I was a little kid, I thought being fired from a job meant being tied to a gasoline soaked chair while a hooded man hovered nearby with a lit match. I begged my parents to always be on time for work. Just in case.
Next, I wondered why the local theater kept repeating the movie, "DOUBLE BILL. "It's in town at least once a month," I said, shaking my head at the craziness of it all. My dad's name was Bill. So was my brother's. Hmmm. It took a friend's kind explanation for me to understand they meant 'Double Feature.' Well, why not say that?
When hearing about a local spin class. (sadly, I was already an adult) I wondered how there could possibly be room for everyone. And what music does one choose for spinning? Does the class glide through the room, their arms spread in a whirling dervish bliss out? Is it ballet style dancing, or does it have more of a Woodstock feel?
Wrong again. There is no spinning. Just stationary bikes ridden like...stationary bikes. Well, then why don't they just say that. Why don't they call a spade a spade, instead of asking us foreigners to learn the language. We can't. We've tried. It just doesn't take.
Go ahead, world. Be like Meatloaf, enigmatic and opaque. Have your inside jokes that more literal people like me never get. Sure, I'll be puzzled. Occasionally, I'll become lost. But I won't feel sad. Like Meatloaf says, two outta three ain't bad.
Saturday, May 2, 2015
Les Miserables and Me, Confessions of an Alto
Passion. Faith. Greed. Love. I sit in the Channing auditorium with my alto sisters, mentally echoing Jean Val Jean's shout out to the universe. Who Am I? And why is my memory so dismal? I ignore the larger questions, of course. The ones the characters ponder during this three hour musical extravaganza.
Though, like them, I wonder where it all went wrong. Not with the musical, or our amazing cast who has the choir weeping every night. (At the end of the day, we are out of Kleenex and unable to breath from our noses.) No, the question for me is, why can't I remember words better?
For example, instead of 'chaperone,' I've been singing 'Chapter One.' My alto sister to my right finally convinced me of the truth, but it is hard to change mid stream. Not for our cast members, of course, who remember all their words plus an incredible number of notes about their acting, (turn your head to the right, not the left, and drop your chin as you exit the stage.) Seriously, they should all receive a Tony and an honorary membership in Mensa.
It eats me up, the contrast between our on stage cast and myself. At one point, (Crystal will fire me for sure) I shouted out, "Send the slut away!" instead of 'Sack the girl today!" Fortunately, it was during the dress rehearsal. The choir has received notes on diction, and I must shoulder a lot of the blame.
That's the lovely thing about three performances. There are more chances to get things right. While Javert or Cosette stress about whether they've raised their hands at the right time, I'm praying I don't sing out at the wrong moment. Which happens in choir. We call it 'pulling a Timmy.'
Now that I've thrown another choir member under the bus, I feel a lot better. I'll prepare for tonight's show with a lighter heart. Don my peasant garb, fill my water bottle and hold on to that last tiny cheat sheet. After all, I'm still in the dark about certain things. The answers to life's big questions. The right words to this musical. I need all the help I can get.
Though, like them, I wonder where it all went wrong. Not with the musical, or our amazing cast who has the choir weeping every night. (At the end of the day, we are out of Kleenex and unable to breath from our noses.) No, the question for me is, why can't I remember words better?
For example, instead of 'chaperone,' I've been singing 'Chapter One.' My alto sister to my right finally convinced me of the truth, but it is hard to change mid stream. Not for our cast members, of course, who remember all their words plus an incredible number of notes about their acting, (turn your head to the right, not the left, and drop your chin as you exit the stage.) Seriously, they should all receive a Tony and an honorary membership in Mensa.
It eats me up, the contrast between our on stage cast and myself. At one point, (Crystal will fire me for sure) I shouted out, "Send the slut away!" instead of 'Sack the girl today!" Fortunately, it was during the dress rehearsal. The choir has received notes on diction, and I must shoulder a lot of the blame.
That's the lovely thing about three performances. There are more chances to get things right. While Javert or Cosette stress about whether they've raised their hands at the right time, I'm praying I don't sing out at the wrong moment. Which happens in choir. We call it 'pulling a Timmy.'
Now that I've thrown another choir member under the bus, I feel a lot better. I'll prepare for tonight's show with a lighter heart. Don my peasant garb, fill my water bottle and hold on to that last tiny cheat sheet. After all, I'm still in the dark about certain things. The answers to life's big questions. The right words to this musical. I need all the help I can get.
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