As we relax and chat round the dining table after dinner, our dinner guest rather abruptly rises and plucks a book from the shelf. Riffles through its pages and then says, nodding at the rainbow on the wall, made by myself and some neighbour children, "You might want to double-check that." He grins, quite clearly very pleased with himself.

He's right. The rainbow is disordered: red, blue, purple, green yellow, instead of the correct Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. In part a result of inadequate hues of construction paper, but mostly of disinterest in stopping production to look it up. I have since double-checked. I know it's wrong. I could fix it... but then it wouldn't be the children's work any more, would it? I said the latter to him, mildly, then changed the subject.

You know what?

If you have to look it up before you're sure enough of your facts to correct someone, perhaps you should reconsider the correction in the first place. And there are better ways to say "Thanks for the lovely meal" than to show up your host.

Pretentious nit. See if I invite you to dinner again.

I have a new venture! Come read about exploding rats (though if you've been here a while you've already seen that one), and see me get my just rewards for my exemplary mothering.

Merry Christmas! Happy New Year!

I can't imagine you don't have some idle curiosity as to why the blog's suddenly gone all covert. My own fault. I was trawling around my list of blogs, and popped into my daughter's, left a comment, and only after the comment appeared did it dawn on my I was signed in with this account.

I have another, family-friendly account. THIS one is mine. Now, I can't think of a single thing I've written here that would offend the girl, but the point is, I want to be free to do so, should the need arise. I do not want to be censoring myself in this place, looking over my shoulder for the sensibilities of my near and very dear.

I emailed her immediately, of course. (Well, immediately after I made this place private. Which took all of 2.5 minutes.) She said not to worry, she had private spaces, too, and quite understood. However, she is only human and I am realistic. I do not believe for one second that faced with the ongoing temptation to get a peek into mum's private world, she wouldn't do that. I know I certainly would, were our positions reversed. I might resist for a time, I might not resist at all, but inevitably I would be in there, snooping about.

Hence the quick vanishment.

Not to fear. It is temporary. I figure a month or two. Let her try to find it a couple of times and then lose sight of the project.

Okay, so that's that. What I REALLY came here to tell you all about is my newest writing venture!

Another contract, this one even more fun than that wedding place. Check me out over at my very own twice-a-week paid blogging gig. Topic? Women's sex and sexuality. So far I've talked about talking about it, about ebb-and-flow sex drives, Global Orgasm Day, illegal vibrators, and most recently, the boredom that is porn. Fun, no?

Well, I think so. Pop over, take a gander, leave a comment if you wish. Then pop back here and tell me what you think. And if you have any brilliant ideas for post ideas, send me an email. You know where to find me.

"You're only as old as you feel," says my mother. She's 67.

"True enough, until you catch sight of yourself unexpectedly."

We cackle down the phone. We've both done it, of course. Walking down a street, you look into a display, and instead of the items inside the store, you see yourself mirrored in the glass. Unexpected, your response is as to a stranger. For a split second, you're not seeing yourself through the filter of your consciousness, your self-perception.

This can be a rude jolt. A bakery has a large mirror on the wall behind the till. A quick glance up, "my GOD, that woman looks severe." My God, it's me. How mortifying. Paste a smile on that face, you forbidding harridan.

In from the cold, glance towards the window, encounter a mirror I didn't know was there. My SKIN. What's happened to my skin? Isn't the cold supposed to shrink things? Shouldn't it make my face smoother? Another ten years, I'll have jowels, so help me. Gawd.

But sometimes the jolt is a good one. Just having had my hair done, I glance to one side to speak to the friend beside me, and see myself in the mirrored pillar behind her. "Wow. What a gorgeous woman." And it's ME. Ha!

Which has me wondering: what is the face I expect to see? If I'm only as old as I feel, what age is that? My self-perception and reality are obviously a few years out of synch. How many?

I suspect about ten years. I think were I to see my 35-year-old face smiling (or, as the case may be, glowering) back at me, I wouldn't be at all startled. Which, were I suddenly blessed with my 35-year-old face, would be rather startling.

Would people react differently to me? And if they did, would it be an improvement or a diminishment? Would people see the younger woman as more vibrant, more vital, more "with-it" and thus more worthy of attention? Perhaps, but I have my doubts.

The younger woman certainly got more sexual attention, more global, universal awareness, but the 40-something me gets her fair share. Just from a different, more specific audience.

My perception is that I get more respect now than I did ten years ago, but perhaps that's a function of my increased self-confidence and greater depth of wisdom. (Yes, I think I have some small store of wisdom, accumulated through the years.)

In which case, I am as old as I feel. Which is my real, my chronological age. My well-earned, well-lived, well-considered age, with its gray hair (diligently covered), its wrinkles (signs of the life lived within this skin), its occasional hot flashes (power surges?). And its very rich interior: the experiences, the memories, the time spent thinking, evaluating, reading, learning, considering, the richness of perspective, gleaned in bits down the decades. The interior. Which, in the end, is far more significant than the exterior.

Bekah's iPod was stolen from her locker a couple of weeks ago. She hadn't secured her combination lock sufficiently it seems, and a brisk shake was enough to loosen it. (This, at any rate, is the theory of her two older siblings, who have more recent experience than I with high school lockers and combination locks -- which, evidently they're not making as well as they did when I was in school ...)

So, the girl has no iPod. She loves, loves, loves her iPod. Listens to it all the time. Is never without her music. So, not surprisingly, she asks for one for Christmas. The new one. The iPod Touch. Which, having seen one owned by one of Daniel's friends, is a very snazzy gadget indeed. One can see the appeal. Hell, seeing the thing has me, who has never owned any kind of MP-3 player, wanting one, just for the extreme coolness of the thing. So sleek, so well-designed, so very clever.

However, a little quick research tells me it costs $330. Before taxes. Which puts it solidly outside my Christmas budget. I might be able to manage that for one, but not for all three of them. Bekah suggests a compromise: "It can be my only present, and I don't need a stocking." I try to picture a Christmas with one gift the size of a thickish credit card and nothing - nothing! - else. Besides, I've already bought stuff, so it's too late anyway.

We sit on my bed and have a Serious Talk, in which I explain why her suggestion, generous as it is, doesn't really resolve the difficulty, and how I just don't feel I can spend that much more on one child than I would be on the other two. I ask if she has any other ideas. At this point, however, she is mute with despair. Possibly anger. Definitely mute.

"Well, love, I'm going to go do the dishes now. You think about it, and in a little while, we can do some brainstorming." Perhaps I got a nod, but perhaps that was just her head wilting a little closer to the bedspread.

As I do the dishes, I suffer. I want to buy the damned thing for her. I have a couple of ideas, in fact, as to how it could be managed, but I'm keeping them to myself for now. I don't want to leap in and solve this problem for her. I want her to face the reality that satisfying this desire of hers would result in injustice to her siblings. I want her to wrestle with it.

But I don't want her to suffer! And I have a possible solution or two! And I could just run up there and fix it for her right now! And I sternly tell myself to Knock It Off, and I finish the damned dishes. And tidy the kitchen. And clear the dining table. And sweep the floor. And mess about with bits of paper on the end table. All the while one ear is cocked to the upstairs bedroom. I don't hear any slamming of doors and drawers. I don't hear any sobbing. Is this good or bad?

Just as I am about to pop with maternal angst, I hear her on the stairs. She swings round the newel post to face me. Her face is not blotched, though her eyes are a bit puffy. And she is smiling.

"I have decided I don't want the iPod." And she proceeds to lay out her new idea for her Christmas gift, a clever, creative, grown-up one. (Which I will not describe at the moment, so as not to distract the flow of the narrative.) And the iPod? "I can save up for one and buy it in the new year. If I get any Christmas money, I can use that towards it, too."

Imagine. A fourteen-year-old, denied her heart's desire, does not scream and rage, does not slam doors, or hurl things about her room, nor even stomp on the stairs; she does not rail against the injustice and hate me for not making enough money and her siblings for stealing resources that might otherwise be hers. Instead, she faces facts, changes direction, and comes out with a different, creative solution.

I am so proud of her.

Some of you have been wondering what's happening here lately. One of you even worried that I'd given up blogging altogether. Not to worry!

I do have a project going, though, in my Real Name. I am going to tell you about the project, but I won't write my name here so as not to draw a certain family member, inveterate busybody with a tendency to moral superiority, and compulsive googler of friends and family, to this blog. However, if you go to Aisledash dot com and look at any of these posts, those are mine (and yes, that's my real name).

It's not an elite venue, I know. It's an entry-level writing job. One might even cynically call it sweatshop writing. Particularly if one knew what it paid. HOWEVER. It is writing, it is writing for pay, and I am loving it.

The reason I'm telling you this is not to brag, but because it's clear I'm going to need SOMEWHERE to talk the occasional weirdnesses over there.

For two weeks, it was calm, quiet, and unexceptional. And then, suddenly, one afternoon someone picked up on my post, "Lingerie for Him". Well, sixty THOUSAND someones. Yes, indeedy. That post got 60,000 hits in about three hours.

And, though I'd written about all sorts of male underwear options, I made a small little joke about the man-thong. (I am a live and let live person in matters of personal attire. Whatever floats yer boat, and all that. But as for me? Personally? I think thongs are a wee bit tacky. There are very, very few men -- or women, for that matter -- who look good in them. And those that do (the men, I'm talking about now) I don't find attractive: no matter how sleek and lovely their asses, they are too full of themselves. Lovely ass ON an ass, as it were.

Now, I'm quite ready to admit that my sample size, from personal experience, of men who might look good in a thong and would actually wear one, is small. But it is MY experience, and all I have to go on. He was a self-absorbed ass. So, my personal feeling is that buff men who'd wear them are self-absorbed asses.

But I said NONE of that in the post. NONE. I just tossed off one frivolous line about them. In a 300-word post outlining various options in masculine undergarments. (Because I am such an expert on the subject, don't you know ... )

WELL.

I could have just written one line: "Man-thongs are tacky", stopped right there and saved myself the effort of the rest of the post. The comments, they came rolling in. Of the 60,000 hits, there were 60 comments. I let about 30 comments stand. The rest were absolutely too ridiculous (or too vile) to post.

We had Rob9 who complained about - and described, in excruciating detail - his manly bits. Then we had VENUS, who offered to give Rob9's sad parts a little encouraging lingual attention. And that just got Man4U so excited that HE COULN'T SOP HISSELF FRUM YELING. (That is pretty much how he expressed himself, though I paraphrase. Strangely, there was ne'er a spelling mistake in any of the many obscene words he used.)

Oh, and we mustn't forget the several homophobes. Nasty, they are. And TruckerDude, who ranted on about how he (a trucker dude) din't wear nothing but his big hairy ass under his kilt. Yes, yes. Thank you for the detail. I shall treasure that mental imagine, indeed I shall.

There were more, but this, I think, suffices to give you a picture. Just imagine these things pouring into your e-mailbox!

I have hereby decided that the collective maturity level of the American public in matters of sex is nine years old.

And, for the record, I was talking about UNDERPANTS. Gawd help me if I ever really talk about sex ...

You scored as Hot, You are Hot, you scream and are wild, people love doing anything sexual with you. Hot 94% Soft 88% Exciting 75% Violent 44% Sweet 25% Wet 25% Awkward 6% Shy 0% What is your sexual style? created with QuizFarm.com

Aw, gee. I'm blushing. (Because I'm just so shy...)

(44% Violent? Okay, so I'm not averse to a few friendly swats between lovers, but 44% seems a bit, er, enthusiastic.)

I have a confession. Few people know this of me - Matthew, my kids, Sophie. That's about it. Nothing I'm ashamed of, but I fear the reaction. But now I'm about to tell you all...

I joined Weight Watchers.

Almost three months ago.

I'm self-conscious about it because I am not fat. Never have been. I fear the ridicule. In fact, I got it, indirectly, when a neighbour heard from one of my kids (thanks, kiddo) that I'd joined. Then the neighbour told a friend. The friend, apparently, said,

"WHAT? She's a STICK!"

Which, given that I was, at 154 pounds on my 5'5" frame, juuust barely into the 'overweight' category, is simply not true. That I carry my weight well is not in question: I know how to dress and I have decent posture. But "stick"? When I'm a 34D (lately, 36D), and hips to match? Um, no...

(Said friend is gay. Perhaps he doesn't look at women overmuch?)

But I've never been heavily overweight. Most of my life I've been slim.

And that's just it. Most of my life I've been slim. Most of my life, without any effort at all, I have maintained an easy 120 - 123 pounds. Most of my life, I have had a body mass index of 20-ish. Without any effort, without any thought.

When, about 10 years ago, I noticed a few pounds sliding on, I didn't worry overmuch. I was in my late thirties, a little weight gain is to be expected, and I was far from overweight. Except that the weight just kept slipping on. And on. And on some more.

Until I kinda wanted it to stop, you know?

I may have mentioned my family before, but every last one of'em is fat. Not just fat, obese. Most of them are not just obese, they're morbidly obese.

Morbidly. As in, so overweight it's a serious threat to their health. My sister cannot walk across a room without wheezing, and, at only 45, has arthritis in her poor overburdened knees. My brother has to sleep with a CPAP machine lest he stop breathing entirely in the night, entirely due to excessive weight pressing on airways. My mother has had two heart attacks, my uncle has had one. My grandmother suffered high blood pressure for years before her death.

It's not pretty, this kind of obesity.

And the pounds kept sliding on to me, despite my efforts to prevent it. Until, at 154 pounds, a mere 3 or so pounds into the official 'overweight', I had to do something.

And just as I'd reached that decision, a neighbour told me she'd begun attending Weight Watchers - and that the meetings were held only three or four blocks from my house.

I recognize Destiny when it hits me on the head with a brick.

Off I went. In three months, I have lost close to 15 pounds. I want to lose another 10 or so. I'll be heavier than I was at 24, but that's okay. Because I'm not 24 any more. But neither will I be following the rest of my gene pool, submerged at the bottom of the deep end and wondering why they're having trouble breathing...

What this program has done is give me a liveable framework by which to evaluate and structure my eating. I want that glass of wine? Sure - but not those cookies, too. I don't wonder, I know how much is too much. It takes a little more thought than in my thoughtless youth, but not a whole lot. It takes a little self-discipline, and I'm discovering I had more than I thought.

I am, once again, just about the size and shape I like to be. And I know that in another couple of months, I'll be there. And I'll stay there.

Phew.

Long weekend walks are a summer tradition for Matthew and me. Down the path by the canal through the centre of the city, to our favourite coffee shop, there to imbibe our favourite iced coffee. The path is reasonably wide, paved, and even has a yellow line down the centre.

Ah, the decadence of urban life!

The path along the canal is increasingly popular, though, which means that the glories of the path are shared with other pedestrians, cyclists, and roller bladers.

"Shared" being a generous term for some.

People stroll in clusters. They meandre in clumps. No harm in that, so long as the path is clear. Common courtesy, of course, dictates that when someone approaches you, the clumps and clusters must dissolve into something approaching single file. Or at least, they should shrink their amoebic form so as to fit on their side of the line.

Common courtesy, however, as we have all had cause to lament, isn't so common any more. And don't be thinking this kind of oblivion is restricted to groups of teens. Nuh-uh. Chattering groups of middle-aged women are awful for this. Awful! (I'm 46. Why?) As are clusters of steaming, hard-bodied thirty-something men, pounding by on their daily "aerobic workout". Decorative as the latter may be, they are less than pleasing when one is watching their passage from the bushes at the side of the path where one has leapt, gazelle-like, in sheerest self-defense.

I am at an age and level of ornery-ness where I am unwilling to swish to one side to allow a cluster of five to pass in a clump, completely oblivious to my presence.

I HAVE a presence, dammit, and you WILL take heed!

So I simply don't cede the space. With the teens and the women, I square my shoulders and continue in my course. Mostly, they leap out of MY way moments before impact. Which has a certain amount of satisfaction. But - and this will tell you something unfortunate about my character, I'm sure - I rather prefer it when there's an impact.

I am prepared for it, you see. They are expecting mild-mannered me to leap aside. When I don't, they thud into my unyielding shoulder. They careen off to one side. They have a look of shock on their faces. They are astonished.

"Oops!" I say, with a cheerful, kindly, middle-aged-lady smile. "Ignore ME, would you!" shrieks my blood-thirsty, vengeance-driven Inner Crone.

With the hard-bodied steamers, to continue walking into their sweaty midst would be little short of suicidal. Instead, I stand utterly still. It's best if you can make firm eye contact with the alpha-male in the group, but not always possible. It takes some courage to stand your ground as the steaming horde approaches, but I've never been mowed down yet. The group splits and they steam on around me. Some have been known to stumble a little in the shock of having a body suddenly loom into their oblivion. A few drops of man-sweat spattered on my arm are a small price to pay for claiming my right to my half of the damned path.

No more will this polite woman be held hostage by the rude of the world. Or at least the oblivious of the canal path.

I am here, and YOU can get off MY side of the damned path.

Lovely tall, slim, handsome European dad down the street gives me a warm smile. How nice! He's new on the street, and so far, a bit reserved. Ah, well. He's probably warming to me because I've been nice to their family.

Earlier this week, you see, I invited their a three-year-old to trail about my house for a morning. I figure they could use a bit of a break, what with the move and all. She's a cheerful and chatty little thing, and, apart from her complete lack of personal space, was no trouble at all.

We did everything together, Small Girl and me. We ate, we 'coloured' (she with crayons on multi-coloured paper, me with pens on lined paper), we played on the computer (I on my laptop, she on one of those noxious talking 'educational' toys with a touch-screen, provided by mum). We listened to my music, we listened to hers. I peed, she peed. I peed in company. I'm fine with this, and I'm quite sure her mother, a died-in-the-wool Attachment Parent (yes, you actually hear the capitals when she says it) will have no problem with it, either. Besides, mum is European, and we all know how loosy-goosy sensible those people over there are about privacy and nudity and sexuality and all manner of things that give North Americans (particularly my neighbours to the south) conniptions.

So. I have my pee, and Small Girl decides she will have one, too. We wash hands and head downstairs again, well pleased with our accomplishments. Shortly thereafter, mum comes for Small Girl.

The next evening, as I sit on my porch with a relaxing beverage, mum drops by to say thanks and let me know how much Small Girl had enjoyed her time with me. And how much Small Girl had learned, too.

Yes?

Oh, indeed. Mum explains. "Out of the blue, she says to me, 'Why you gots hair on your 'gina, mummy?'"

I know where we're going here. I have, after all, recently gotten married. My marital bits have been especially cleaned and tidied for the event and subsequent celebration.

"All ladies have hair there, sweetie."

"NOoooOOOo!! Laura doesn't got any hair there at all."

Ah, yes. Body hair. Another European-North American difference.

And when did this conversation occur? While Small Girl was going potty? During bathtime, generally taken with mummy? At bedtime, also taken in company of the parents? At some time when people's nether regions might reasonably be expected to come into conversation?

Noooo... at the dinner table, with two older brothers, daddy, and the lovely couple next door in attendance.

Which may explain dad's particular and unexpected warmth this morning. Ooo... am I now the exotic focus of his naughtier daydreams?

I must babysit that child more often.

But I'm much, MUCH smarter...

Your Celebrity Boob Twin:

Jessica Simpson

Who's Your Celebrity Boob Twin?

Victory is mine!!

A couple of weeks ago, my two daughters, who I thought were with their dad for the weekend, show up at my door. In tears. Zoe, the eldest, was taking her younger sister shopping for some necessary summer clothes. At almost-thirteen, Becca has grown phenomonally in the past year. So, the girls asked their dad for forty dollars to go to Value Village. Value Village, cheapest of the cheap.

They ask their dad for the funds, and dad "went ballistic"! Said he paid child support to me, I should provide their clothes. Which of course I do. For my home. Plus I buy their outerwear and footwear, their sports equipment, their uniforms for bands, etc, etc, etc. The girls wanted to buy some shorts and t-shirts for weekend wear. That's all.

But no, it's my responsibility. Since when? We've been divorced eleven years, and, having sent a goodly start-up supply of clothes, (bedding, toys, etc.) when he found his first apartment, I've never provided clothes for his household. This is just bizarre.

The next thing I know, I get an email, saying he wants to revisit the support agreement.

You have to understand that he was abusive. Conflict with him was scarey, and often dangerous. Years after being safe from him, I still have to force myself to stand up to him. But this time? For some reason, this time I'm up for this fight. I seem to be totally fearless. Do you know what a complete breakthrough this is for me?

I responded with an email that said, basically: Yes, we could do reopen the agreement. You could cite the eldest's residency (because she's living with him this summer). You could do that. For my part, I could cite the fact that you're only paying 75% of the table amount (my suggestion, BTW). I could suggest you're underemployed and ask that the judge impute income. I could do a bunch of stuff. But, bottom line, I think you'd have a hard time convincing anyone you're so hard done by. In the end, I think you'd be wise to leave well enough alone.

That is TOUGH TALK for this woman, with this man. You have no idea.

He responded with, "I was starting a discussion, and instead I get a vicious personal attack. Can we not discuss this like civilized people? We can meet to talk, we can use a mediator. I do not want to involve lawyers." (I bet. Last time we involved lawyers, after six months of lawyer-free mediation which made no progress at all, our issue was resolved in three weeks. In my favour. Because I'm rational and he isn't.)

Strange, I thought I was being civilized. He mightn't have liked what I said, but it wasn't vicious, and it wasn't personal. If he wanted to discuss this, he could have responded to my email civilly. But no. Indignation and ire.

So I send an email, reminding him that he's a month late with his support cheques. (An unfortunate coincidence, we were recalibrating the amount for next year's supply of post-dates, so of course he's going to withhold them until he gets his way. Of course.) I request that they be handed over by such-and-such a time.

The time slips by, and - no cheques. Big surprise.

So another email, this one saying "You are a month late. Please have the cheques to me, the whole year's worth in the amount stipulated by 7 p.m. on May 31, or I'll consult my lawyer."

Another email from him, fuming.

I send another email to him. Well, actually, I send the same email as before. Exact same one. Deadline for cheques, or I see my lawyer.

This afternoon, a knock at my door. A friend of his, with - A YEAR'S POST-DATES!!!

I win, I win, I win.

HA!

Gah! Is it possible to express how much I loathe my youngest daughter's school?

In the classrooms, it's a school like any other: some truly great teachers, some truly awful ones, and most of them decent folk doing a decent job. Thus I am content to leave Bekah there until she graduates from it in another year.

But the bureaucracy of the school - aka (to me) the Policy Police? The office staff - aka, officially, the "support" staff, a term so ridiculously out of touch with reality I can't even type it with a straight face? (Gee, it's hard to type when your fingers are involuntarily clenching into fists.) I loathe it. Loathe, loathe, loathe it all.

Today I had to drop off the girl's flute. She'd called me from the office at recess, telling me she'd forgotten it, and needed it for band practice after school. Okay. I can do that.

I swing round to the school with said flute. The large office is silent and entirely empty of students or teachers; two secretary-types sit at desks. I approach the counter with a cheerful smile. The secretary-types look at each other; the closest one rises with some reluctance, doleful expression on her long, horse-like face. Evidently it's her turn to deal with the riff-raff; just as evidently, she's not thrilled by the prospect.

I explain why I'm here. She looks at the flute dubiously. I wait, expectantly.

"She knows you're coming? She doesn't have to be told to come get it?" Because, God knows that actually paging a child is far, far, above and beyond the call for an office-type person. I assure her that, yes, Bekah knows to come get it.

Pause. She's trying to think of a reason to refuse, I just know it. With an air of resignation, she hands me a yellow post-it note.

"Well, just put her name on this, and you can leave it here." She has a pen in her hand. I reach for it. She jerks her hand and pen below the counter. Her eyes glance down and left. I follow the glance. There is a bank-style pen there, secured to its holder with a beaded silver chain. All righty then. I'll just use that pen then, shall I? Thanks for the tip. I jot the girl's name and homeroom number on post-it note.

When I look up, for instructions as to the next step in the process, Lugubrious Secretary Woman has vanished. I go a little cross-eyed, trying to change my focus from the spot a metre in front of me, where she was 45 seconds before - where I was expecting to see her - to her new position back behind her desk, three metres away. Swift, silent, and deadly, this woman. Seems she's done with me.

I lift the flute case, place it on the far side of the counter, closest to her. "I'll just leave it here then, shall I?" I'm still smiling cheerfully. She looks concerned. Evidently I am the first parent, ever, in the history of this school, to leave an item at the office, because she sure as hell doesn't seem to know or want to know how to deal with my constant demands. She pauses, then speak.

"I suppose so."

I raise my eyebrows, smile - though by now the bared teeth probably look a little more feral than friendly - wait for clarification. She returns her eyes to her keyboard.

"Well, that's what I'll do then. It's RIGHT HERE NOW. So you'll make sure Bekah gets it, correct?"

She continues typing. I throw the flute case at her head and she sinks, unconscious, beneath her desk. I'm sure no one will notice the difference, though the atmosphere of the office may be improved.

Aging gracefully. I think it's time.

Not that so far I've been one of those pathetic clutchers of a fading youth who shop at the same stores as her teens and accepts as cool and desirable only the things that they admire. I pretty much hated being a teen the first time through. I have no desire to remain there the rest of my life.

But I'm female and I'm a little vain. I like to look good. I like to garner attention. However, I'm also of a pragmatic bent and kind of lazy. Fighting the forces of maturity - that takes a LOT of effort. Apart from a predilection for lingerie (mmm...lace and silk and lift and swish) I'm not the sort of woman who likes to fuss. I wear make-up on a weekly, not a daily, basis. I don't have the funds for routine salon visits, nor for a fancy wardrobe, and I'm too practical to pine for what I can't have.

I like my age. I don't want to be in my twenties again. I don't even pine for my peak physical year - which was 34, oooobaby. I like the crinkles at the corner of my eyes. I miss the tightness of my more youthful skin, but the softening I begin to see has its own attraction. If looking twenty meant I had to be twenty, to think twenty again - I shy away in horror at the very thought. Never!

So, aging gracefully it is. My first project? My hair.

I have shoulder-length hair, currently "light medium brown", as per the description on the box. When it grows out, what colour will it be? Not sure. Grayer than now, I know that, but beyond that? No idea.

If the difference between dyed and undyed is so striking that I end up with that vile demarcation line along the side of my head, I may find myself in the odd position of going to a salon to get my head dyed grey on purpose. How often do they see that, I wonder?

Once it's grey, if it is grey, can I keep it long, or will that look silly? And will I decide to go back to brown? Who knows? I only know that I am very tired of fussing over it...

So, I am making my official announcement: Nice and Easy will have to do without my financial support hereafter. I am herewith Going Grey. Or as grey as I get at this stage, whatever that is.

Unless I really hate it.

Which of Henry VIII's wives are you?

Found this out in the ether. Being me, I did it more than once. Because, hey, I'm a multi-faceted person. Who reserves the right to cheat if she doesn't like the way it came out the first time.

What I did this time, though, wasn't exactly cheating. I considered my first marriage, and did the quiz two ways: as if I had children (which I did and do), and as if I didn't have children (how I'd have liked to have done it - "it" in this case being my first marriage.)

Here's the mommy version: Anne of Cleves


Which of Henry VIII's wives are you?
this quiz was made by Lori Fury

Isn't that nice? Wouldn't you like to have coffee with this woman? She's the kind of women to whom men tell their romantic woes and get reassurance, because she's not very sexy, not very threatening, but so warm and, well, mom-like. Wouldn't she be a calm and undemanding listener? Wouldn't you like her to mother your children while you went off and had fun? Isn't she commmmmmfortable?

Here's the non-mommy version: Anne Boleyn




Which of Henry VIII's wives are you?this quiz was made by Lori Fury

Which would I rather be? Apart from the fact that Anne of C lived a long life, far away from fat and syphillitic Henry, and poor Anne Boleyn ended up sans head, it's Anne B all the way. Witty and sassy. I'm that. Specially after a beer or two. Or, now that it's hot a G&T or lime margarita or two. And you'll like it.

Okay, a confession: I am kinda loud. I can tone it down when need be, but if I don't have to, I'm happier. I figure I have to when we have house guests. Or now that my kids are teenagers, and likely to a) be awake when we're indulging, and b) know just what it is they're hearing. So these days I'm quiet a lot...

ANYWAY.

So my brother and his new bride stay over one night a few years back. My brother being oh, forty or so, and his bride a mere 26. This is not the oo-la-la coup for him you might think: they're both pretty homely folk, and the "bride", despite her masters degree in Women's Studies, looks and talks like a middle-aged small-town 1950's woman: broad in the beam and narrow in the mind. (Oh, nasty. But really, it's true.)

So they're spending the night. My brother has annoyed me all evening by his unctuous uxoriousness. (Pretty good, huh?? I didn't even have to look those up! But you can, if you want, down at the bottom of this page.) It's really quite nauseating, as much because I know, I just know, he's doing it to show off as the actual display he's putting on. "Look! I have a WIFE! Look at me! I'm being a HUSBAND! And we're so IN LOVE!!" Okay, so he was 39 before he married, he's probaby still amazed it happened at all - I know my mother and my sister certainly are - but enough with the showing off already. "Honey, dear, darlin', pookey, lovebug." Bleah. Oh, and the play-fighting. That can stop, too. The pretend hits and the 'loving' name-calling and the wriggling and the shrieking. On my couch, four feet away. Ick.

Off we go to bed. And they start making out. Squeaking bedframes and creaking floors I can ignore, because they're unavoidable in our old house, but the noises... They're in the NEXT ROOM. Is he still showing off--"Oh, look! I'm MARRIED! I have a WIFE! We have SEX!!"--or is he really that stupid? Could be either.

After ten minutes of "oh, babies" and "mm, yeses" and gasps and sighs and more shrieks and giggles, I nudge my sweetie. We could just hammer on the wall, I suppose. We could just put in ear plugs. But revenge is sweeter. So, sitting on the edge of the bed and facing the adjoining wall, I fake - just like Meg Ryan - a spectacular orgasm.

Sudden and complete silence from the other side.

No eye contact at breakfast the next day.

They've never slept over since. Bwah-ha...

---

Unctuous: adj : unpleasantly and excessively suave or ingratiating in manner or speech (Source: WordNet ® 2.0, © 2003 Princeton University)

Uxoriousness: excessively devoted to one's wife; excessive fondness. (Dictionary.com)