Resolutions Remix

New Year's Eve.

A time of thoughtful recollection and purposeful planning.

Whatever.

For us, 2009 was a mixed bag of tricks and we are looking forward to putting it behind us. Tonight, Dallas and I will join the geriatric crowd for dinner at 4:30pm at one of our favourite restaurants. Then, we will head out to see an early show so that we can be home before all of the crazies hit the streets. Really, what could be more frightening than New Year's Eve and a FULL MOON? I bet the emergency rooms will be busy tonight.

The other side of a traditional New Year's Eve is to assess one's life and commit to certain goals.

Resolutions are worthless.

I know this but I'm slightly superstitious and I feel like something bad will happen if I don't make the bloody list. So here goes:

LOSE WEIGHT
Blah de blah, stereotype, blah, broken record, blah. I'm not sure why I put this at the top of the list every year because clearly, it doesn't seem to matter. The only good thing that I have to say about it is that I'm not going to be one of those fair weather gym rats who slinks into the gym in January with brand new tennies and a firm resolve only to find himself couch-bound by February 1st. I'm already a regular attendee. They know my name. Droplets of my DNA are ground into the carpet. There are machines of torture that have the imprint of my ample ass firmly embedded in their seats. Nonetheless, by the end of the year, I am going to be at least 30 pounds lighter. Two pounds a month. I think that is a reasonable goal. I'd like to say that I was focused on being fit, no matter how much I weigh, but that is just a giant lie. If I can't fit into my skinny jeans, it doesn't matter that I can run a marathon because NOBODY CAN SEE MY CELLULITE-FREE HEART! This will be the year I make friends with my bathroom scale.

BEGIN MY NOVEL
Even the mere act of putting that in print makes the hair on the nape of my neck stand straight up. But I want this. There is a book inside me. Maybe several. I'm not even going to preface that with the usual self deprecating stuff, either. Sure, I may end up writing a novel that nobody reads but I think that is infinitely better than letting the story stay up in my head and fester like an infected hang nail. By the end of the year, I will have written at least six chapters. This is my promise to myself.

DITCH THE BITCH
I read this guy every day and he decided that this coming year, he would try to be less of an arse. That got me to thinking. I can be a real piece of work. Besides the perimenopausal nonsense, there is a segment of my personality that is impatient, unyielding, judgmental and negative. I don't like that person very much. So in 2010, I'm going to make an effort to change. I vow to be nice in spite of the fact that the mere thought makes me vomit a little in my mouth.

GOLF LIKE I MEAN IT
For some reason, I didn't golf this past year at all. I'm not even sure I took my driver out to hit a bucket of balls at the driving range. And I LOVE golf. There is nothing in the world that compares to the feeling I get when I hit a perfect shot. Granted, that doesn't happen all that often but when it does...well, let's just say that my vision of heaven includes fairways and greens.

RECEIPT JUNKIE NO MORE
This is another one of those things that I have on my list every year. I have ten junk drawers, one beat up file cabinet that no longer locks, four disorganized office desk drawers, a cardboard box full of receipts and a giant Rubbermaid bin teeming with paperwork that I haven't looked at in nearly a decade. This is the year that I shall declutter. I am so not kidding. First order of the day is to acquire a new, locking file cabinet. The second task is to switch all bills to electronic so as to eliminate the need for junk drawers. The third and final note is to clear the file pile at least once a week. I WILL BE A RECEIPT PRISONER NO MORE! Amen.

That's it for now because the reality is that I could write a resolution list a mile long. I am an imperfect woman. So, I will end this year with these last few thoughts.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for being the diary that talks me off the ledge back. I hope that the New Year 2010 brings you health, prosperity and unadulterated joy.

Violated

Okay, this one is going to be very brief.

Yesterday, we put my Mum on a plane back to Canada. She arrived into her home airport at about 11:30 pm after traveling for ten hours. Sadly, her luggage did not make it back with her which was stressful but not all that unusual in today's travel climate. After standing at the carousel for the better part of forty five minutes, she filed a report with the airline and wearily made her way home.

At 1:00 am, she opened the front door to her house to find that she had been robbed while on holiday in Arkansas. The thieves had broken a window over her kitchen sink and methodically proceeded to make their way through her home, opening every single drawer, cabinet and closet. They jimmied the locks on her desk and attempted to pry open her file cabinet. Her laptop, sitting out in the open, was untouched. So was her old Palm. Weird. They found her jewelry though, and took every bit of it, which was upsetting considering there were pieces missing that had once belonged to my grandparents and thus were of sentimental value. They also took a "Rolex" that I brought back from one of my trips to China. We giggled a bit over that loss.

I spoke to her early this afternoon. She was waiting on the window people to install a new one over the kitchen sink, the door people who had already been scheduled weeks ago to replace her doors, the police, the insurance agent and a representative from a security firm that she called. Understandably, she hadn't been to bed yet.

I asked her if she was okay and she is of course, because my mum just doesn't ruffle. She did mention that she was "as mad as a hatter".

All I can say is that I'm ready for this crap year to be done.

That and God help the airline if they don't locate her luggage.

Puzzled

During the weekend following the Thanksgiving holiday, we put up our Christmas tree and assorted knick knacks associated with the season. For the first time in a long time, I was really looking forward to Christmas so finding a home for all of the cheesy decorations was not a chore like it had been in years past. I think my change in attitude was directly attributable to the excited anticipation of having my mum come to visit.

And it has been fun. We managed to finish one jigsaw puzzle and nearly completed another but last night as we stared at the last hundred pieces of blue, one indistinguishable from the next, Mum looked up and suggested that we just wreck the damn thing. Otherwise, we'd be up all night, like a couple of obsessive ninnies. So, we did.

My mum and I have some of our very best conversations hunched over a puzzle and this year was no different. There was one discussion, though, that was somewhat unsettling.

I'm not sure how we got started but one night, my mum told us the story about how she had been at home and suddenly, her chest began to hurt. At the same time, she felt pain in her jaw and up the right side of her head. Being a former nurse, Mum thought her symptoms indicated a heart attack. She immediately pounded on her chest and began to cough. Then, she felt something "give" in her head and the pain completely disappeared. She was fine. I asked her if she had been terrified. She said no and that she wasn't the least bit frightened of death. While she was experiencing her little event, she thought, "This is it. This is how I'm going to go", but instead of fear or panic, she was very matter-of-fact and accepting.

My reaction was mixed. On the one hand, it was comforting to know that my mum is satisfied and grateful with the life that she has lived thus far. She stated that she is "ready to go" should that be her fate.

And that is where it got weird and uncomfortable for me.

I don't think of my mother as someone who is in the last third of her life. I can't begin to imagine a day when she might not be healthy. Just about anything that I have learned of any real life value has originated with her. My mum is timeless.

To me.

But the reality, something I've never allowed myself to ponder, is that our time together is no longer an infinite concept and when I imagine a world without my mum in it, I can hardly breathe. That's the circle of life, right? I know. It blows.

Today, I contemplated taking the card table down and stowing it back in the garage where it belongs but decided against it. I have another box full of different jigsaw puzzles and I thought I might just crack it open. Perhaps Olivia or Dylan or manchild will see fit to spend a few minutes occupying the other seat and with a cup of tea in hand, maybe we will find a little something to talk about.

A Little Slice of My Crazy

Tonight, my mother flies into town for the holidays.

I've been cleaning for two days.

Nothing frantic, mind you, but I'm taking special care to ensure that some of my junk drawers have been pruned and that my linen closets are neatly stacked with uniformly folded towels.

It's not that my mum is going to don a white glove and drag her finger along the furniture. As a matter of fact, she has explicitly told me not to go to any trouble preparing for her visit. It's me, this weirdness. Part of my definition of self includes "good housekeeper", which besides being an incredibly dated concept, is a throwback to years of managing under my father's dysfunctional roof.

I don't talk about my dad very often because we're estranged and he hasn't been a part of my daily existence for nearly fifteen years. He's never met either of my kids, which is especially sad, because I believe that he would have delighted in them. I often wonder, especially during the holidays, if he is happy. I wonder if he has surrounded himself with sycophants or with people who are genuinely invested in his well being. I wonder if he has felt the warmth of an embrace by someone who wants nothing from him. I wonder.

But I don't dwell because I'm finally at a place in my life where I can take that book down off the shelf, read a chapter and put it back without getting lost.

Occasionally though, like when I am preparing for company, I become the adolescent that lived in my father's home. Approval was a rare concept but it could be achieved upon the presentation of a clean house.

So I cleaned. Compulsively.

And I still do except that now, I understand that the world will not cease to exist if the kitchen floor has a few crumbs.

Regardless of my hard earned emotional awareness, I'm probably going to find myself on hands and knees today, cleaning baseboards. It's not that my mum would notice or even care but it matters to me.

And nothing screams "well-adjusted" like the scent of Pinesol in the air.

Give Me A Minute. I'll Remember.

I think I'm done Christmas shopping, which would be a really good thing considering I've been at it since July.

Yes, you read that right. I'm one of THOSE women.

But don't hate me because while it might look like I'm all organized with Martha Stewart blood running through my veins, it's an illusion.

I'm pretty sure that when things got stressful this summer, my penchant for retail therapy increased but I managed to justify it by telling myself that I was just being a good planner. As I stuffed presents into the saddlebags of my Harley, sun shining and sweat dripping down my back, I rationalized that I was taking every precaution necessary to avoid being sucked into the Black Friday feeding frenzy.

Whatever.

Buying stuff makes me feel as good as eating stuff.

Truth.

The end result of six months of picking up something here or there has left me with presents stashed around the house and an incomplete accounting in my head. Am I done? I think so but until I can lock the children outside for a few hours and methodically go through each one of my usual hiding spots, I can't be completely sure.

The trouble with purchasing Christmas goodies in July is:

a) you don't remember what you've bought or
b) you don't remember where you've hidden what you've bought or
c) what you bought is no longer appropriate six months later.

I have this uncomfortable feeling that I've forgotten something. It happens to me all of the time. Like when I go grocery shopping without a list (to prove to my husband that it can be done) and then come home, ready to bake and realize that I've left the flour behind. Or sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner, surveying the bounty-laden table and trying to shake off THE FEELING only to open the oven a few days later and find the rolls, hard as ice balls, forgotten inside.

So, I've got that weirdness churning around in my belly this morning and I know that there is something that has escaped me but I can't for the life of me remember what it is. No matter. I'm going to take comfort in the fact that I can still set our bank account on fire for the next four days and at the very least, Wal-Mart will be open on Christmas.

It might be a nice way for the men in our family to bond.

Grumbling.

In the car.

On the way to Wal-Mart.

With an emergency grocery list in hand.

Botox Round Two

Yesterday, I made a call to my dermatologist's office to see if I could get an appointment with the Botox fairy for next week. My plan was to put my greens-eating, tree-hugging, Birkenstock-wearing mother in the car with me and drag her to my appointment so that she could see for herself what a joyful, peaceful place the cosmetic spa could be.

And then, I was going to sit her ass in the chair and get her shot up like a junkie.

Unfortunately, I didn't conceive of my plan until late yesterday morning and because my Botox fairy has a life, she is understandably going to take some time off next week to enjoy the holidays with her family. She was fully booked.

But could I be there at 11:30? She'd had a cancellation.

Umm...HELL YES.

I giggled on the drive there thinking about the stereotype I had become. Botox at lunch. How cosmopolitan of me.

At the party last weekend, I was chatting with a seasoned Botoxer and she told me that at the first signs of muscle movement in my face, I had better hustle back in for a touch up. She explained that the first time you get it, it doesn't last much beyond three months but with each succeeding visit, the effects stay with you longer and longer. According to her, for maximum effect, you should get yourself injected before the effects of the last batch entirely wear off.

So in I went, no longer a Botox virgin and like all of my recent forays into the world of anti-aging products, I experienced a slight hiccup.

The shots hurt. And they bled a little. And I have about six, CLEARLY VISIBLE dots on my forehead. I look like a pin cushion.

"Is this the same gauge needle?" I asked.

Everything was identical to the last time, including oddly, the clothing I had on. What then? What could possibly account for the vast difference in experiences?

Pending menstruation.

Apparently, just before a woman gets ready to welcome her monthly ordeal, she should avoid having needles STUCK IN HER FACE.

The Botox fairy, compounding the unpleasantness actually said to me, "Do you still get periods?" WTF? Of course I do. Because I'm forty-two and I look thirty five you slapper!

I smiled and answered politely in the affirmative, but inside, I was screaming obscenities at her, wondering if that question was designed as some sort of subliminal, psychological jab to get me to consider expanding my cosmetic repertoire to include fillers and laser resurfacing.

I swear to you right now that I am going to write a book about this shit because somebody has to light the way for others. I have a few catchy slogans already:

"Retin-A? Waxing, Nay" or how about, "Cross? Avoid Botox."

On the way out the door, holding a tissue to my bleeding head, I grabbed brochures on Juvederm, Sculptra and Radiesse.

For research, of course.

Thank goodness for bangs.

Annus Horribilus

Just when you think that perhaps, the worst is behind you, something will pop up to let you know that you are but a mere mosquito trying to avoid a zapper.

Back in 1992, after part of her castle burned down and she watched three of her children leave their marriages, Queen Elizabeth II pronounced the year as "annus horribilis". Today, I am feeling her pain.

Yesterday, my husband rang from his office to tell me that the sheriff had called asking him if he would be available to be served with court documents. It didn't come as a big shock since we had been anticipating this for about a month but still, it sucked. We were hoping that the litigant would grab a modicum of common sense and go find a legitimate cross to burn but alas, it was not to be and really, that just fits in with the year that will go down in our history as one of our worst.

In January, our area got hit with a massive ice storm that kept the children out of school for a week and ground local business to a halt. Then, I got a call from one of my clients telling me that we had a problem with a product that was out in widespread distribution. I started purchasing Tums in the quantities that you can only get from a warehouse club.

In February, the month started off with our renter telling us that he was moving out. He was a nice guy. We would miss him. Then, we got into the house and found out that his dog had eaten vast quantities of drywall and trim and dug holes in the backyard big enough to lay someone to rest. It was awful.

In March, Dallas and I were forced after MONTHS of issues, to remove teenage daughter from our home and have her go back to live with her mother. Dallas's relationship with her hasn't fully recovered but that is not necessarily a bad thing since the status quo wasn't acceptable, anyway. For some, life lessons are best learned through a systematic elimination of choices and teenage daughter is one of those people who has opted for a more difficult run of it.

In April, it was revealed to me that my ex husband's daughter, who I had raised as my own, was in a methadone clinic; my son was suspended from school for fighting; we had hurricane force winds in our landlocked town which tore apart the roof of our rental house and in turn, caused major damage on the inside, the IRS sent a notice that rocked our world and we got news that my corporate home office would be moving to Florida. I spent the month in an exhausted, stressed out fog.

May and June were quiet months relatively speaking. We learned that manchild would be moving out of our home and into his own apartment. We were thrilled for him and terrified for him all at the same time. I spent the better part of these two months packing up our home in preparation for the move to Florida and trying to get our contractor over to our rental house to lay down a new roof and fix the interior damage.

In July, we made a trip to Florida to secure housing after months of extensive research. After packing up our house, securing a moving truck after no less than four on site quotes, withdrawing my children from our school district, having my mother purchase a Christmas ticket to Florida, renting out our family home, fighting my ex about the move and winning and making the necessary provisions to have our interests in Arkansas managed, we were given the news that the relocation was put on hold indefinitely. We spent the next several weeks trying to get our heads around the turn of events. We ended the month in Mexico, which was good. Sort of.

In August, Dallas was seriously ill. He had picked up a gut bug in Mexico and it stayed with him for most of the month. At first it was a nuisance and something we thought would pass in a couple of days. Three weeks later, we were pretty concerned. It was awful. We learned that manchild had lost his job, which was upsetting at first but became downright alarming when all 31 days had passed and he was still unemployed. He didn't seem to be in any particular rush and we were alarmed by his complacent attitude. This was also the month where I received a call from one of my sisters telling me her marriage was in serious trouble. Her pain was raw and debilitating and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to make it better. Even today, she is rarely far from my thoughts.

September found us gobsmacked upon learning that manchild had given up his apartment the month before and moved back in with his mother rather than find another job. The lack of communication was all the more distressing since we were paying a quarter of his rent. One step forward only to see him tumble several steps back. It's been distressing.

October was a pinprick of a Botox needle light in the dark.

November, I ripped part of my eyebrows off in a waxing incident that had me looking like I'd had plastic surgery. We received notices from every single credit card we owned announcing unfavourable changes in our agreements. And the icing on the kiss-my-ass cake that was this year: Dallas's truck was mistakenly repossessed in an Arkansas version of the shell game.

So today, we are midway into the month of December and who should appear but the court server and his summons. Par for the course.

There are fifteen days left of this year.

Thank God.

On December 31st, Dallas and I will christen 2009 as Annus Horribius and be grateful that all the rain happened to fall in a single year. We're kind of expecting great things for 2010 because truthfully, we aren't much interested in any more drama.

Shopmares

This time of year with the crowds, the snotty-nosed children, the hysteria and the animatron Santas, I am grateful that most shopping can be done with a click of the mouse from the comfort of my living room. I don't have to shower or put on a bra and I don't have to stand there at the cash register having every drop of polite leak from my ears as a well-meaning but slow as molasses clerk takes ten minutes to carefully remove hangers, fold and bag my purchases while regaling me with insipid tales of her personal life. I'm okay with a little chit chat but holy mother of God, I don't care that your boyfriend lost his job and now the two of you have agreed to give each other lover's coupon books full of vouchers for hugs and kisses and massages for Christmas. I don't want to be rude but please, shut up and give me my receipt so I can go home and take off my bra.

This holiday season, I probably did 80% of my shopping online although last weekend, I was forced to head out to try to find something to wear to my staff party Saturday night.

I wanted to add a splash of colour to my outfit because I was sick of basic black. I wear it EVERY YEAR.

Because it's slimming.

I started off shopping at one of those places where you can find last year's designer clothing at significantly discounted prices. Working in my line of business has forever ruined me in respect to fashion. I've been in scads of apparel factories in China and India. I know exactly what it costs to make a garment and there is no way I will ever pay full retail for anything ever again, no matter whose name graces the label. So on Saturday afternoon, there I was, among the masses, methodically combing through the racks looking for something appropriate to wear.

The first thing that made me crazy was the incessant Christmas music. It wasn't that pleasant instrumental stuff that lulls one to sleep. It was the old fashioned Bob Hope Christmas Special stuff full of corny, pun-filled dialogue and punctuated with Dolly Parton-like high pitched squeals. The only available dressing room was one parked directly underneath a speaker. After trying on about sixteen items, I was slightly homicidal.

Then, there were the people. They were everywhere. And frenzied. And hopelessly rude. I stood at a clearance rack methodically going through every garment in my size when a woman REACHED OVER MY SHOULDER to pull out a lemon yellow hoodie with a flourescent pink "Juicy" splashed across the chest. In her haste to leave my personal space, she yanked the thing back and the zipper got caught in my hair. I yelped, then spun around and the look I gave her must have been unsettling because she let go, eyes wide and made a beeline in the other direction. I was left there, head tilted to the side, trying to dislodge the zipper from my head.

After that, I left, because I had an overwhelming urge to scream like a banshee and was worried that I wouldn't be able to control my bladder if I did. (For the men, have your wife explain that to you)

My next stop was at a store recommended by a colleague. I had always avoided it because it had a retirement community feel but I was desperate. As soon as I walked in the door, I was greeted by a couple of associates even though the sales floor was packed full of people. That impressed me. I immediately spied a blouse in a gorgeous blue colour that I though might work. I found my size and walked around looking for a pair of black pants because the five hundred others that are hanging in my closet just weren't special enough for the occasion. A saleslady approached me, asked my name and started a dressing room for me.

Then all hell broke loose.

I found a few more items and made my way to the back of the store to try everything on. The first blue shirt had this queer pleating in the back which made me look like a rooster. Saleslady#1 agreed and left to find some alternative choices. In the meantime, saleslady#2, who was folding sweaters in the back and overheard our conversation, made her way over and suggested something different. She then went off to get my size. Salesladies #3 and #4 came on the scene then, listened to what I was trying to accomplish and set out as well. There were at least four people at any given time behaving like my very own personal shoppers. I must have tried on fifteen outfits.

The salesladies were fantastic. Their customer service was so refreshing. It made me feel special.

The trouble was, their suggestions would have been more appropriate for um......a more mature lady.

Like my grandmother.

One lady proposed a pair of pants with a crisp white blouse and a sleeveless, thigh length VEST. And pearls. I looked at her, panicked, trying to formulate a response that wouldn't hurt her feelings. On her, the outfit would have looked very chic. On me, more Rhoda Morgenstern and not in her cute, perky stage, if you know what I mean. At the end of at least an hour, I walked out of there with a pair of black velvet pants, a black velvet camisole and a red cardigan with a black, faux fur, detachable collar. I was miserable, especially in light of the fact that I'd dropped over $200 and looked like I ought to be shopping for a walker.

Feeling unsettled with my purchases, I stumbled into the store across the street and within two minutes, I'd found an age appropriate BLACK top, which paired nicely with my geriatric BLACK pants. At the party that night, in spite of the fact that I was in yet another black getup, I was content.

Now, I just have to figure out a way to return that freaking awful cardigan and camisole number. After all of the time and effort of those salesladies to try to get me squared away for the party, I feel terrible. I'm thinking the trip might require a wig and thick sunglasses. Or better yet, I think I'll send Dallas to do the dirty work. They'll absolutely FAWN all over him with that Kiwi accent.

Should be a win-win for all, right?

Grandma Norma's Coming

This past weekend, we had our office holiday party and I had a great time. I usually do but this year was different in the respect that I remained sober through out the event, which is completely out of character for me.

Last year, my boss's wife was pouring the cocktails. One second, I was pleasantly buzzy, seeing the world through a gentle, soft glow. The next minute, I couldn't seem to make my mouth work the way my brain wanted and I ended up a slurring, staggering, abomination in four inch heels. It wasn't pretty. So, in an effort to avoid being water cooler conversation fodder, I decided that I would have a single cocktail and then make Perrier my friend for the rest of the evening.

Sometime during the party, looking around at the decorations and participating in a pipe playing session, it hit me that Christmas was only a couple of weeks off, which meant that there was a little over a week before my mum arrived in town. I am consumed with excitement and dread. I suppose I had better explain that.

My mum is a force of nature.

She is equal parts tornado and gentle summer breeze. She calls me, breathless, about books. Her entire life has gravitated around a quest for information. In fact, if she had the desire, I believe that my mother could waltz on to the Jeopardy! stage and dominate the game although it's likely that she and Alex would have words before the end of the first show because he would do something silly like ask her to clarify her answer and she would fix him with her withering, laser stare and beg his freaking pardon and then accuse his Canadian ass of bailing on his country in favour of an American passport. He'd never be the same.

Anyway...

My mother will arrive and I know that we will be having a discussion about the merits of raw food before I even get her suitcase out to the car. But I have a plan and it doesn't include foraging in the backyard for our Christmas dinner. I am going to ply her with date bars and gin, two of her weaknesses. And then, I'm going to usher her to the play table because we have had some of our funniest, most heartfelt conversations with heads bent, presbyopic eyes straining, over the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I have a new one waiting for our attentions.

I know that she is likely to rearrange at least one of my cupboards and honestly, it doesn't bother me at all. She is a better organizer than me and my kitchen welcomes her critique. Besides, she's baked a fruitcake and I'm quite content to sit at our breakfast bar eating myself into a coma while she deliberates where our dishes would be better housed.

My mum and Dallas haven't had much of an opportunity to get to know each other so I'm looking forward to that. She didn't care for my first husband ("Beth, if it quacks and waddles, it's a goddamn duck.") or my second ("I just couldn't warm up to him. I don't do Neanderthal well.") but I'm not even remotely worried this time around. Dallas is every mother's dream.

The only thing I dread is how I'm going to feel the day I have to put her back on the plane to Canada.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

It's that time of year again and I wanted to be sure to drop you a note before you get things packed up in a few weeks.

First of all, let's get the formalities out of the way. I have been a very, very, good girl. Yes, I know that my mood swings can be lethal. And yes, I'm completely aware that I'm the only person in our house who can still smell the cat pee and that my obsession with it is making my family crazy but you can understand, right? I'm pretty sure Mrs. Claus was no picnic while battling hot flashes, either.

Anyway, I'm sorry to get sidetracked like that. Happens often. Where were we? Oh yes....the list.

I really thought long and hard about what I wanted this year and it wasn't easy coming up with a few ideas for you because frankly, life is good in spite of the fact that the economy is in the crapper and I have neighbours who insist on decorating their yards like the Griswolds.

I'm all for the Christmas spirit but there is something creepy about fake deer that are lit up and positioned right beside a giant Frosty inflatable who's within spitting distance of a little baby Jesus ALL ON THE SAME LAWN. It's like Sybil was the art director.

In any case, here's my list with only the most important items:

1. More Botox. I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE it. I have no desire to possess the ability to crinkle my brow again. Ever.

2. A sports bra that fits. Oh, you think I am kidding. I have spent hours combing the local stores looking for a garment that is designed to harness something more than a "B" cup. And the results have been dismally predictable. Either I become Miss Uniboob 2009, in which the girls are mashed together and squashed down so I look like I've plastered a sausage roll to my chest and dear God, the bloody thing is tight enough to cut off the circulation to my brain or I try on one of those babies with "medium" support that, while allowing for some of their natural shape to remain, really just enables the mamos to run amok. Neither of these options is pretty. What is the solution because Santa, fat girls need exercise, too?

3. A pool. I know that we talked about this a couple of years ago. My husband is dead set against putting a pool in our backyard. He would prefer to JUST BUY A NEW HOUSE that already had one, which would be a reasonable option if our cat coughed up Ben Franklins instead of hairballs. The prospect of spending yet another Arkansas summer sweltering in the type of humidity that sucks every last bit of reason from one's pores has me worried. My hormones are already waging a daily battle with my sanity. If you throw in wet, sticky, soaring temperatures, I think I might become dangerous.

4. Good news. Can you bring some of that? I'm tired of:

The real estate swan dive.
"Short sale! Short sale! Come buy for pennies on the dollar while your future neighbours look on in horror as their property values circle the drain."

The credit card banks.
"Oh, we're still going to screw ya' but this time, we'll do it with the lights on"

War.
"Because America will accomplish what the Mongols, British, Persians and Soviets couldn't and if we can't we'll be outta there by the next election"

teenagers
reality tv
reality tv wannabes
ex spouses
stories of infidelity
Nancy Pelosi
Glenn Beck
natural thyroid shortage
the I.R.S.
health insurance companies
irresponsible overseas factories

Whew.

Anyway, that's it. Reasonable, I think, for the most part. You will note that I didn't mention world peace, winning the lottery and ending global poverty because you know that those requests are simply understood.

Thank you, Santa.

And all the best to the Mrs.

Love, Beth

P.S. I'll be leaving you a jar of mincemeat this year, which I don't mind telling you, I slaved to make a few weekends back. It is spectacular. You probably don't want to eat the shortbreads that will accompany it because while she thought we weren't looking, Olivia licked the knife after every cookie she iced. Just an FYI.

I've Divorced Chocolate

Remember I was telling you about my abnormal desire to head to the gym everyday? Well, clearly, I am living in some sort of parallel universe because another truth that I held to be incontrovertible has been completely blasted to hell.

Cheating, as in deep-fried, chocolate-covered, fat-laden and finger lickin' good, is no longer fun or remotely rewarding. Something must be wrong with me. I think I may be dying.

Is this a byproduct of middle age? Or is it all just a big psychological mind screw? I mean, now that I have given myself permission to eat and drink whatever I please once a week, I don't hanker.

For anything.

Even a little.

And truthfully, physically, I feel like a big sack of poo after I do indulge.

Saturday came this weekend and I convinced Dallas that a plate of nachos, some wings and a bottle of beer would make a satisfying lunch. I had thought about this meal most of the week as I struggled through set after set at the gym. Deep fried wings were going to be my reward and even though I sort of had a take it or leave it attitude, I figured my enthusiasm for the food would return as soon as we entered the parking lot of Buffalo Wild Wings. But it didn't.

We got inside and when the server came up to the table, I took over, ordering nachos, side salads and some wings. I was determined to cheat, in spite of my apathy. I will admit that the first mouthful of beer was absolute HEAVEN but the pleasantries stopped at that initial swallow as my feet swelled and my stomach bloated. It was the same experience with the food. I LOVED the taste of the nachos, oozing in all that fake cheese goodness but it didn't take long before the body responded in a WHAT-THE-HELL-ARE-YOU-DOING? kind of way.

Which of course, robbed the whole cheat day of any special quality.

It was explained to me that this is how normal, healthy, well-adjusted people relate to their food.

As fuel and nothing more.

Really?

No late night fudge cookie binges?
No raiding the Halloween stashes of children?
No dreaming of trans fatty Mcfries?
No selling a child for a bucket of original recipe chicken?

Really?

Where is the JOY in that, internet?

I suppose I should be grateful that a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup no longer screams at me like a siren from the impulse check out line. In the long run, I'm sure that my newly acquired obsession with work out gear will serve me better than my old fixation with the perfect Hollandaise sauce but somewhere along the line, in this murky process of getting a grip on my health, I'm leaving a piece of my essential self behind.

And by God, that piece had better weigh at least fifty pounds or I'm liable to take up smoking drinking yoga. Believe me when I tell you that the world would be a better place without a vision of my ass in one of those positions.







(photo of April Tatro, courtesy of contortionhomepage.com)

Pecker

Last week, I was given a romance novel to read. I hadn't cracked one of those babies in years and thought I might attempt to pen something myself but felt I needed to do a bit of research. I thumbed through and then stopped at one of the racier sections. OH.MY.GOD. Times have certainly changed in twenty odd years.

Back in my late teens/early twenties, I went through a period where I consumed historical romances like french fries. I just couldn't put the things down. I was young enough and still naive enough to believe in the whole prince-on-a-white-horse vision of love, which is somewhat remarkable considering my experiences with men up to that point had be rife with violence and dysfunction.

At fifteen, I accepted a ride home from work in the wee hours of the morning from a stranger. Predictably, that ended badly. That same year, a filthy, old goat I worked for stuck his hand up my skirt while I was on a ladder getting supplies from the storeroom. He had a daughter my age and I still feel squeamish when I think about it. At nineteen, I dated a boy whose anger issues bubbled over one night resulting in bruises and a frantic SOS call to my mum.

Anyway, thinking back, I'm sure that the romance novels contributed to my already warped sense of the Mars/Venus dance. Along with bad sitcom television, the drivel in Cosmopolitan magazine ("Learn How To Drive Your Man WILD!!") and the not so subtle messages from the school counselors ("maybe you should drop math in favour of Home Ec."), I understood that every woman, no matter how strong, would eventually be purposefully subdued by a man. My mother's Gloria Steinem-influenced voice was drowned out by Disney visions of happily ever after. It took me YEARS to sort through that pile of scat.

So, I'm reading this latest book and let me tell you, there is nothing chaste whatsoever about it. Gone are the clever euphemisms and allusions to the horizontal boogey. This stuff is soft porn; erotica at the very least. It's the type of book that I couldn't read in a public place for fear someone might glance over my shoulder and I'm not a prude. Really. I haven't a conservative bone in my body.

And from what I can gather so far, the women protagonists these days are definitely not suffering from damsel-in-distress syndrome, which is an improvement, for sure, but holy crap! I thought the sexual revolution happened in the 60's. Not so apparently, which causes me a slight problem. I can picture myself authoring a formulaic love story, you know:

boy meets girl
boy and girl fall in love
boy and girl have misunderstanding
boy loses girl
misunderstanding cleared up
boy and girl live happily ever after

and being okay with my family reading it. I don't think I am capable of writing paragraphs that contain the words, "pecker" and "muff" unless I'm talking about a hen with a scarf. Looks like I'm going to have to keep my day job.

Dumbfounded

Okay, something is wrong. Very wrong.

I woke up this morning and the first thought that came into my head besides hoping that my lovely husband remembered to lift the toilet seat was, "I cannot wait to run at the gym tonight".

I'm not kidding.

I suppose I shouldn't be all that surprised because in the last several years, many assumptions that I've held for a lifetime have been blown to hell.

For instance, I honestly believed that a good marriage was an oxymoron. It's not like I grew up with a shining example of functional matrimony so I really didn't have a clear frame of reference. Thus, my Goldilocks approach to husbands where the first was too gay, the second too macho and finally finding the love of my life, is completely understandable, right? There are still those days, though, that I can't believe I'm in a marriage this good. DIDN'T SEE THAT ONE COMING.

Also, who knew that vegetables could be so delicious? For most of my life, I avoided most things green. I have vivid memories of choking down slimy cooked spinach saturated in vinegar and praying to God that I didn't gag in front of my father. Or trying to make it through a dinner of canned asparagus in a hateful, creamed, mess served on toast. I remember sitting down at the table wondering how I was going to survive some of those meals. Even after my kids were born, my vegetable purchases were limited to lettuce, corn, carrots and frozen peas. I'm not sure when it happened (probably a result of some freaky diet I tried) but I started buying different vegetables listed as ingredients in new recipes and OH MY GOD! It's as if the lights were finally turned on. Maybe it is the difference in preparation. Maybe my palate has changed. All I know is that I feel so grown up and responsible now.

Finally, there is this whole exercise thing. I had read that it could become addictive but who believes that crap? Addictive like a root canal, I thought. However, I had resigned myself to the certain knowledge that if I wanted to give myself a fighting chance to remain disease-free in middle age and beyond, I'd have to exercise, vigorously.

Every. Stinking. Day.

And we have, since the beginning of October. It hasn't been all sunshine and roses, though. There have been times that I have wanted to hurt my husband in all his cardio glory. He bloody rhapsodizes about the speeds he gets up to and the distances he runs while I eyeball the timer wondering how the fuck fifteen seconds can FEEL LIKE AN ETERNITY. I have been red-faced, huffing, wheezing, bent over, nauseated, sweat trickling down my face, between my boobs and staining my back, unable to talk, exhausted. I have lifted weights until I couldn't lift my coffee cup to my lips. I have grudgingly EXERTED.

Until this morning.

I haven't a clue what transpired in the eight hours that I slept last night but some sort of threshold was crossed. I feel great and for the first time in my life, I am genuinely looking forward to the treadmill tonight.

So, it's official.

Hell hath frozen over.

Tiger

Watching the news last night, I was flabbergasted that Tiger Woods was still a headliner. Oh, I know that the story seemingly has all of the juicy bits that are a programmer's dream but listening to Brian Williams discuss the latest...well...GOSSIP, made me feel sort of dirty.

It's one thing when the exploits of a boozy, spoiled, camera-hungry, Hollywood nitwit are splashed across TMZ. It's something else entirely to be a voyeur in the life of someone who makes every effort to keep his personal business private.

Yes, Tiger Woods makes heaps of money in a very public way and thus, the argument can be made that the death of his privacy is a function of his chosen life but is that really reasonable? What's wrong with us, as a society, that we froth at the mouth waiting for the famous to make a very public fall from grace?

Clearly, there is something amiss in the Woods' home and obviously, it is intensely personal. The last thing in the world that I want to read about is the disintegration of a marriage. I think that we forget (as we cluck our tongues and shake our heads), that these are real people with children, parents and a life that exists outside of the public spectrum.

I think we ought to leave them to it.