Friday, February 22, 2008

No Strings Attached

Just when I thought that I'd seen it all....

STRAPLESS PANTIES


Thanks to Shibue Couture, we can banish panty lines but still experience freedom and comfort. According to their website, these unmentionables are washable and reusable. They stick on...with tape. (Pause to let that sink in for a second) It goes without saying that you'll want to prepare for the adhesive.

Actually, all head shaking aside, I think the designer is one smart cookie. I remember seeing the stick on cups for wrangling the girls in a backless dress. I thought it was a ridiculous idea because I believed that only the very young, very perky or very siliconed would be able to manage the tape on idea. Apparently, not. I'm an owner.

Anyway, I digress. The panties come in all sort of colors and thoughtfully, there is a bridal version. I was especially impressed that the list of suggested uses included pole dancing because you just know that the girls at the local gentlemen's club are complaining. Chafing and all....

We need to give a nod of thanks to the inventor, Jenny Buettner. Because of her entrepreneurial spirit, we may never have to discuss the shaving habits of Paris, Britney or Lindsay again. Oh, we can only hope....

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Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Wanted: Wedding Planner

I apologize Internet because lately, I haven't been posting as often. Besides the fact that a new season of American Idol has started, this wedding planning thing is kicking my ass.

I understand now why people choose to elope.

We finally secured a chapel which was excellent because I was worried that we might have to resort to something like our backyard for the ceremony. Sure, we've got gobs of room back there but that is because the place is a bloody wasteland. I've killed three trees and a dog dug up a fourth or fifth so there is nothing but grass and a crappy old BBQ. I really ought to add a flea infested couch and a car on cinder blocks to complete the whole white trash theme going on back there. In any case, I'm grateful that we found a place that would marry us even though we are terminal sinners destined for a fiery afterlife. Amen.

Over the past week, we have either scoured the internet for reception sites or been out to visit them. Last night, we ended up at a ridiculously small cozy place in the big city off one of the main drags. The coordinator kept referring to "this space" and "that space" and how they could be rented separately which caused me to snort because you might have been able to cordon off the two areas with a piece of dental floss. I asked about the "patio", which was also available for separate rental and was informed that we had walked through it on our way to the front door. Um, yeah. So those nine flagstones, which were not big enough for a game of hopscotch, were also considered a separate space. And thus, the nickel and dime show began.

-Move the furniture? It will cost you to move it back. Can we move it back?Umm.. NO! -Soda? $2.00 each, from the bar gun, no free refills. $$$
-The tables and linens are included? Only the small ones that would be suitable for your daughter's tea party. Grown up tables, extra.$$$
-Must have one bartender for 50 people. $$$
-Bartender must have busser. One for every 25 people. $$$
-Gratuities NOT INCLUDED in absurdly high hourly staff rate! $$$
At one point, I glanced at Dallas and he had this fixed, glazed over expression that he uses only when making a concerted effort to remain polite. After we left, he summed it up nicely, "I wasn't impressed." Yeah, me neither.

So, we moved on to a downtown ballroom that while quaint, was just not cute enough to have us ignore the overpowering smell of cooked cabbage. Next, we went to a historic structure on our local college campus. We loved everything about it except that they wouldn't allow a band or a DJ...at a wedding reception. Pardon? People require alcohol and entertainment if they are going to suffer through toasts, bouquet tossing and garter removal so we scratched that baby from the list.

Tonight, we made an appointment at a private country club with an arresting, very southern, red brick Colonial design. It just oozes the gentile, snuff box, lemonade-drinking lifestyle and the second that we walked through the doors, we knew we'd finally found our venue. Everything went well until the event coordinator began talking about centerpieces, table placement and chair covers with girlie girl ribbons. She wanted decisions made about colours and designs. I felt my stomach tighten and Dallas bailed me out by saying we'd look over the info and make those types of decisions once we had the chance to look over the reading materials. We did put down a big deposit and officially had our names entered in pen in the date book.

Okay, so we've booked the chapel, the reception hall and the band. Those are the biggies, right? I still haven't found a dress and don't even get me started on the horror show that is bridesmaid wear. Fugly. Funky colours. Lamentable design. I've jokingly threatened my nearly sister-in-law with a giant pink bow on her bridesmaid arse and come to find out now, I might not be joking.

So, with bridal planner in hand, I'll spend the next couple of weeks trying to get some of the other stuff done. Did I mention that we leave for New Zealand on Saturday?

Is it too late to elope?

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Monday, February 18, 2008

Happy Birthday to Me

On Saturday, I turned forty one, which strangely enough, was heaps better than turning forty.

I've had a full year to get my head around the concept of being the target demographic for plastic surgeons and in spite of the incessant pull of gravity, I've come to the conclusion that my forties are going to ROCK.

Last February, I was not a happy woman. I worked, slept, cooked, cleaned and watched television. The most exciting event I experienced was joining Netflix because "no late fees" ranked right up there with grocery shopping on my list of priorities. I welcomed my fortieth birthday with business travel because it afforded me time away from my children in places where other people cooked, did the dishes and folded down my bed at night. The only bedroom activities on my radar at that time involved a vacuum, dust bunnies and furniture polish. I was beyond miserable as only a woman on the fast track to bitter spinsterhood could be.

In late April, I pulled my head out of my ample bottom and gave it a shake. For the first time in over a decade, I made the conscious decision to change how my world looked. I told myself that if the most interesting thing in my week did not rival paint drying then I needed to get a life.

So I took up golf.

I know it sounds crazy but playing hide and seek with that little white ball in the trees, in the rough, in the drink and anywhere else but the bloody putting green was somehow deeply satisfying. I bought a set of obscenely expensive clubs, a couple of knee baring skirts and proceeded to redefine bogey. I joined a ladies' league, golfed four times a week and thoroughly enjoyed every second of it. Even though my short game was a disaster, I usually had one or two shots per round which were rockstar good and thus, kept me going back for more.

On Wednesday nights, the ladies got together to drink, golf nine holes, drink, eat pizza and um...drink. During these evening sessions, the women would talk about their men. They harassed me constantly about dating. Why wasn't I? What was I waiting for? I tried to explain that my last date was less than stellar but they wouldn't listen.

"Girl needs some ACTION!" they'd say or "What's the harm in dinner or a movie?"

As spring turned into summer, the physical benefits of the golf course began to reflect themselves and with my confidence boosted a smidge, I revisited the idea of dating again. At work, Stephanie hounded me to put myself back "out there". Every time she said this, I cringed a little thinking about small talk and ex-wife talk and divorce talk and wondering how many dates it would take before I felt the need to flee. One day, Stephanie told me that if I didn't register for eHarmony myself, she would do it for me and I might not like the results. So, I gave in and spent a month answering the questions on the profile.

Dallas was my first match and you know how that has unfolded.

Long story short, forty was pretty great. I learned how to golf and how to ride a motorcycle. I traveled all over the world. I bought two Harleys and a new car. I hired a housekeeper and a gardener. I started dating again. I had surgery. I quit smoking. I refinanced my house. I got to watch my son shed the last remnants of little boy and I survived my baby heading off to kindergarten. I became a grandmother. And, I fell in love.

This February, I am a deliriously happy woman. I still work and cook but I don't clean anymore. I rarely watch television and I've resigned my Netflix account. My birthday found me with friends and family. We ate chocolate cake that Dallas and I had made together and thoughtfully, candles were banished. I can no longer discuss my bedroom activities. In less than a week, I leave to meet the people who this summer, will officially become part of my family. Now, I wake up with the knowledge of how fortunate I am.

What a difference a year makes.

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Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Here Comes the Bride, Damnit!

Okay, so now that I've officially been a fiancée for over twenty four hours, I find myself moving from a state of googly-eyed bliss to one of full blown wack-a-do anxiety.

Have you seen the "To Do" list for a wedding?

Why would I be panicked? After all, it's not like this is my first marriage, right? It's true that I have married before but I've never formally sashayed my dimpled bottom down the aisle. Not once have carving stations, wedding programs (are you kidding me?), invitations, groom's cake, flowers, bridal party politics, seating arrangements and honeymoon crossed my radar except in a "you'd-have-to-shoot-me-and-put-me-out-of-my-misery" kind of way. Looking back, it was probably a little of the sour grapes thing.

My first marriage involved the two of us running off to this cheesy chapel for a ten minute service. Neither of our families were there. I wore this absolutely hideous orange coloured sweater that was long enough to brush the tops of my knees along with a pair of skin tight stirrup pants. I looked like a giant Creamsicle. It was only with age that I realized that nothing good happens in any sentence that contains the word, "stirrup".

On the other hand, my betrothed was decked out in a shiny silver suit with a delicate lavender tie that would have made Barney proud. He immediately took issue with the decor (window coverings) and tsk tsked audibly throughout the ceremony. I distinctly remember looking over at him and hearing a quack in my head.

After leaving the chapel, we stopped at our friendly Ralph's grocery store to get a cake, beer for me and wine for the lady him. It was a banner day, all right. The only thing missing was the photograph that we didn't take thereby depriving me of satisfaction I could have gotten from setting it on fire.

Marriage number two was equally breathtaking. Six months after the birth of our son, we were driving home from the hardware store on a Thursday afternoon. He looked over at me and said he thought we ought to get married so as to "make an honest woman" out of me. I think we had been living in Texas for just over a year and to hear that particular southern colloquialism come out of his Yankee mouth caused the diet coke I was consuming to shoot out of my nose. He took that as a yes so off we went to the justice of the peace. After showing our identification and swearing that neither one of us had HIV, I became a Mrs. for the second time. I think I wore shorts and an old Nike tee. We had Kraft macaroni and cheese for dinner that night. Memorable.

It took me several months to tell my mother and any other family member that I had remarried. When I finally got up the courage, Mum didn't say much but kept taking deep, cleansing breaths.

So now, I am determined to have a proper wedding...with a dress and flowers and a reception. I want the fairy tale. I suppose that all this time, something inside of me knew that I needed to save my wedding day for the man I'd grow old with. I'm so glad he finally showed up.

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Monday, February 11, 2008

Sundays

Sunday has always been my favourite day of the week.

It starts with the smell of bacon and fresh coffee and the expectation that most of the day will be spent in earnest sloth.

Sunday is an impossibly hard New York Times crossword puzzle or a leisurely ride on the Harley. It is fresh sheets, an afternoon nap and pot roast for dinner. Most Sundays at our home are spent doing the piddly chores that we never seem to get around to doing during the week and for some reason, it never feels much like work.

Yesterday, started off in much the same way. Dallas and I made breakfast and lingered over coffee because the kids were with their dad this weekend. Then, we picked up his daughter and took her to a function in the big city. While waiting for her event to finish, Dallas took me to this beautiful garden with a tiny chapel that has an interesting history. We went inside to have a look. I was admiring the stained glass and the antique woodwork when Dallas put his hand on my shoulder to turn me around.

In his hand was a small box, which he opened as he asked me to marry him.



I said yes.

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Thursday, February 7, 2008

Body For Life

All of you know that I struggle with my weight. I have been athletic my whole life in spite of a twenty five year brain fart experiment with cigarettes. Well, those babies are gone now and most days, I can't believe that I was hooked for so long.

This year (in a few short weeks), I will turn forty one. Nearly a month ago, Dallas and I started training using the Body For Life plan. I'm having a whiny love hate relationship with this program.

LOVE:

1. Helloooo carbs! I got to welcome "closed fist-sized" portions back into my diet again. Since I have been blessed with man hands, I actually get a taste of mini peanut butter cups whole grain and fresh veg goodness.

2. The Eat For Life cookbook is amazing and written for domestically-challenged people like myself. It doesn't demand much brain power. Dallas plans our menu a week out, we shop for it on the weekend and I cook most of the dinners on Sundays. Pizza Hut is no longer on speed dial. It's like waking up every morning and having your wardrobe pressed, starched and expertly coordinated for you, except it's food.

3. Continuing with the food theme (no obsession here): We sit down to dinner as a family every night, which is hugely beneficial to the kids. It anchors them, I think.

4. One more thing about the food: I eat six meals a day. Yes, six. I am constantly putting something in my mouth which satisfies that whole Freudian id and oral fixation thing.

5. The workouts are short. For years, lack of time was the excuse that I used avoid the gym because after all, I had Magnum PI, I mean, Friends, pardon me: American Idol to watch. The longest workout is a hair over 30 minutes. Besides, I have a DVR that has learned my television habits and records all of my favourite shows automatically. I was shamed into leaving the excuses behind along with my leg warmers.

6. Ass looking less like cottage cheese and more like a two dimensional apple. Good, right?

HATE

1. There are only two ways in which a 4:30 wake up call is appealing: sex and an early morning flight to a beach, Piña Coladas and cute cabana boys. Otherwise, leaving our warm, cozy bed to put on runners and head to the gym bites.

2. Please don't misunderstand me. I am NOT complaining (much) but a fistful of carbs is minuscule unless you are Shaq O'Neal. The cat coughs up hairballs larger than my alloted portion of carbs. It's all good, though. I just lick the plate more often these days.

3. Most of my favourite workout songs like this and this have lyrics that objectify or malign women. I hate that I love them; I find myself humming them and shamefully, I know all of the words.

4. This program requires discipline. I actually have to expend effort. I'm thinking that as a reward for all of my hard work, I'm going to treat myself to a little Botox and some Restylane. After all, the goal of this whole process is to tighten and smooth the body. Therefore, it's really not that much of a stretch to expect an unwrinkled forehead to go with a newly sleek bum. The logic is there, folks.

So this weekend, I will have my picture snapped in a bikini (involuntary shudder)and my fat percentage determined with a set of caliphers. I will be updating the progress on a weekly basis. We had to go to this method because the scale is unreliable. Apparently, I am gaining muscle at the same rate that I am losing fat so while my weight remains unchanged, inches are being lost.

Blah, blah, blah.

The truth is that I needed some sort of quantitative, positive way to track my progress because I am an imperfect woman who would sell her children for a pint of Haagen Dazs.

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Tuesday, February 5, 2008

The Pink Elephant

Yesterday, Dallas received a text from his ex wife reminding him that it would have been nineteen years that they were married. The operative words here are "would have been".

I understand that they have a history and I am sympathetic to the fact that there will be occasions that might make the heart twinge but I found myself wondering how long these types of milestones will continue to be acknowledged. It's like picking at a scab to see what's underneath. The trouble is that she can't get her head around the concept that Dallas is no longer raw and not often sentimental in his reflection of their marriage. He loves and respects her and she can count on him but he's moved on. She doesn't seem to want to accept that and for several months, I was keenly aware that our happiness caused her pain. Nobody feels good about being the source of someone's angst.

When Dallas and I first met, we made a connection right away but after a few weeks, it became clear that his ex was the pink elephant in the room. And it was so strange because as much as we tried to avoid her as the topic, invariably, we would circle back around and find her square in the middle of our discussion.

Once we were seeing each other exclusively, she questioned him as to why he never asked her out on a date. When he told me this, I remember feeling like someone was stealing the breath right out of my chest. I struggled not to shout,

"BECAUSE YOU ARE DIVORCED, THAT'S WHY!!"

Instead, recognizing a situation way beyond my control, I sent him back to her. I figured that if two people with seventeen years under their belt had even a scintilla of a chance at reconciliation, I should remove myself. Well, it turns out that once he was available to her again, she changed her mind. Funny about that. C'mere, c'mere. No! Go 'way. Go 'way. UGH!

And as our relationship has intensified, there have been other little incidents where it appeared she might have been putting the feelers out to gauge his availability. I don't feel anger over this, just a slight exasperation because he's kind and decent and he deserves better treatment than the constant emotional manipulation. Of course, it is a process and two years of divorce doesn't equate to nearly two decades of marriage.

I hope that with time, she will heal enough to move on, too. Until then, I'm going to smile and bite my tongue.

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