My husband Matthew's ex is a woman of drama. She is large, loud and hearty. With her friends, she has a ready laugh, she's a bit coarse but a lot of fun. "Rough around the edges", I called her, with an affectionate smile.

I was a friend once, you see, until I experienced the darker side to that larger-than-life personality, the rage that, until she screamed at me on the street on day, loud and long, I hadn't realized was also part of her character. Insults, slurs on my character, confidences I had shared with her, twisted into weapons... all this poured out on a public street at maximum volume.

I didn't scream back. I am not a screamer. I'm not sure what provocation could make me scream on the street, beyond someone's imminent demise. "LOOK OUT FOR THE CAR!!" Certainly not a misunderstanding about when we were supposed to meet.

I didn't scream back, I didn't even talk back, but I did walk away, and I never walked back. Had any of her subsequent communications with me carried the faintest hint of an apology, I might have considered, but what I received were explanations of why I had made her behave that way.

I was married to an abusive man, once. A man who was always convinced that I had "made him" do whatever nasty thing had just happened. Righteously convinced. That's an abusive pattern, and I was not about to continue a friendship with someone who, I had just discovered, was abusive.

It was karma, of a sort, when Matthew and I fell in love. We had both been in abusive marriages, we two quiet, bookish people who, when faced with conflict, share an urge to talk, talk, talk. No bricks hurled, just bridges built.

It's lovely.

Matthew's ex married not too long ago, but, as per the plan, she and her new husband are not living together, but will continue living in their own homes until the children have left home. This has always struck Matthew and me as odd: the children are growing up and leaving home; at this point, they would have three kids between the two of them. Given that Matthew and his ex produced five of their own, one would hardly think three kids too much to manage. Two of these three are within a year or two of moving out. Odd.

We didn't say anything to anyone else, of course, but we couldn't see the logic.

It was the youngest who let us know that the reason is the inability of the two 17-year-old girls to get along that is at issue. They each have one, and, apparently, they "scream at each other. All they do is scream. They just can't get along. And mom is depressed because she just wants to live with New Husband and be normal."

A loud, angry woman whose idea of conflict management is to scream long and loud has produced a loud, angry daughter whose idea of dealing with a step-sister is to scream long and loud. So bad is it that she and the new husband don't feel they can cohabit until at least one of the girls leaves home.

Now that's karma.

If you head upstairs after dinner, returning to the kitchen half-hour later, do not expect me to respond with cheerful gratitude when you say, "Are you done the dishes already? I was going to offer to do them!" For, even though I believe you are quite sincere in this, I am not a mind-reader to leave them for you without hearing your intention spoken aloud, and now I am only more annoyed that I did the dishes when I could have been doing something else.

Just sayin'.

News of Note: As of October 26, it will be illegal to use hand-held cell phones while driving in Ontario. A wise law. There will be a three-month weaning-in period, in which offenders will simply be informed of the law, and beginning Feb.1, they will be fined. A generous concession.

The same law will also make it illegal to text while driving.

Excuse me while I collect myself. And my jaw from the floor.

Text?

While driving?

While I suppose I am grateful for such a law, I am astounded that it could possibly necessary. While yet astounded, I ruefully concede that it is very likely necessary. I sigh for humanity.

So, Driving Texters, be forewarned: You have until Feb.1 to break yourself of your ludicrous habit.

And while we're at it, driving texters? Because it seems we can't take any degree of sense for granted... It's also a Very Bad Idea to drive blindfolded. Write that down. Just not while you're driving, please.

Heard on The Debaters this morning. Topic under discussion: "Newfoundlanders are the sexiest people in Canada".

On the Pro side, one Cathy Jones, a dyed-in-the-wool Newf. Among her gems: "Newfoundlander says, 'Wanna have sex?... No?... Wanna lie down while I do?' "

How about that? All these years later, I find out my first husband was from the Rock.

Parenting brings wisdom. Wisdom and humility.

Know why?

Not because of the mistakes you make and learn from, though of course they help. Not because you constantly run the risk of psychologically damaging your children. I think that risk is HUGELY over-rated by parents. Kids are just not that frail. (Look at how many parents are terrorized by their toddlers and teens. Frail? Pfft. Those small (and not-so-small) bullies are causing trauma, not receiving it.)

No, parenting brings wisdom, and a cold dose of humility, because you can see yourself in your kids. You see echoes of your younger self in their behaviour, and thus, you get an adult perspective on your own behaviour.

This particularly applies to adult children. My eldest is 23 now. A young adult, but an adult. Given that she's been living mostly on her own since she left for university, and that since graduation she's had a job in a different city and paid her own way completely, she's earned those adult stripes.

But she is a young adult.

We're just wrapping up a conflict, she and I, and a significant one. At one point, I greatly feared we were heading for another estrangement. We had one of those for the three years between 17 and 20, and I'd assumed that with adolescence behind us, we'd left that kind of thing with it. This week, I seriously questioned that assumption.

But it seems we'll make it out of these woods. And what have I learned?

1. Keep my opinions to myself.

Not that I am terribly forthcoming with them. Once they hit their late teens, my kids can go months without hearing an opinion. They get lots of questions bytimes, exploratory questions, not aggressive ones. But I don't often pronounce on their lives. When they leave home, I do this even less.

At this point, though, I'm thinking that I won't tell her anything I'm thinking, at least when that "anything" is at all critical of certain areas of her life. I think I'll be reluctant to do it even if I'm asked (which, we can all note, I wasn't this time). We will call this A Lesson Learned. From here on in, she is welcome to learn from bitter experience.

Lesson 1b: It is probably best she learn from experience.

2. She is not as measured and mature as I thought she was.

I'd expected disagreement with my position, expressed with some degree of huffiness. I did not expect a full-on onslaught of furious outrage. I expected her to disagree with my opinion, even to tell me I had no business imposing it upon her; I did not expect her to deny my right to an opinion. (Obviously, expecting a negative response, I did not embark on this conversation lightly. I felt it necessary, a maternal duty shouldered with stoicism rather than enthusiasm.)

She is certainly not as meaured and mature as she thinks she is... which leads me to the Most Important Lesson of all:

3. At age 23, I was not as measured and mature as I thought I was.

Without a child of that age to point the way, I'd have only my memories to go on... and they are, of course, the memories of a 23-year-old. I'd have a 23-year-old's perspective on the situations, the people involved, their responses, my own behaviour.

Of course, I've gained perspective over the years, even without my children's input. I've learned some stuff about my younger self along the way, but I will tell you now, NOTHING shows you how blinkered and restricted a 23-year-old's thinking is like arguing with a 23-year-old, even a sensible, mature, intelligent 23-year-old such as mine.

Wow.

Um, mom? On the off chance you ever stumble across this blog?

Sorry.

This is not the post I was going to write.

I was going to write about something I overheard the other day while walking home through the park after an afternoon's Christmas shopping. A most exquisite and delightful piece of concrete irony. Two young women were chatting as they strolled toward me, and one, in all sincerity, said something to the other which was so totally at odds with their dress and demeanour as to cause a snort of appreciative laughter irony-loving me, and which gave me the seeds of a most excellent blog post. I had it all sketched out in my mind. Short and pithy, it was going to be, and in less than a hundred words I'd give any readers (I hoped) the same delightful jolt of laughter I'd just enjoyed.

I was going to write about that. I would still be writing about that ... if I could only remember what it was. But I can't. I've lost, completely and utterly, the kernel of the post. I cannot remember what the girl said.

I can remember where I was. I can remember the weather, what I was wearing, who I'd just gone shopping for, and even much of what I purchased. I know the young women's approximate ages. I can remember that what I overhead was very brief, one, perhaps two, sentences. I can remember it was totally at odds with something very obvious about them. I recall making a mental note and telling myself it would make a great blog post.

I can remember all that. I cannot remember what was said. I cannot remember what it conflicted with.

This happens all the time. It is utterly maddening.

Why, oh vagrant memory, do you torture me so? Why torment me with that sense of incompletion, why tantalize me with an almost-memory, the memory of an intention without its substance? A fusty nut with no kernel, indeed.

If my memory is going to drop the key element, why not just drop the entire damned thing?

With all the surrounding data, you'd think I'd be able to reconstruct the memory, but oh, how sadly rarely does this happen. I lay in bed in the very early morning, before I was quite awake -- the best time, I've discovered, for this sort of exercise -- and let the thoughts drift around this image, trying to hear their words again. I got close, once or twice. I had that "aha" feeling... and then, nothing.

Bah.

I suppose this is better than losing it entirely. A semi-recalled conversation can be brought to mind if the other party is there to fill in the gaps. They don't even need to know there were any gaps, because I can recall enough to fake it. A semi-recalled intention can often be accomplished anyway, if enough wisps of surrounding memory lead you to the point of action.

I am not going senile. I watched my lovely grandmother slip steadily away into a smiling, peaceful senility, senility which caused this woman who was my second mother, who lived next door and whom I saw every day of my childhood and adolescence, who taught me to sew and to cook (my mother being a little domestically challenged), to now welcome me with the kindly graciousness she bestowed on all strangers. I'm not going senile, but don't think the fear hasn't run through me once in a while.

No, I'm just middle-aged forgetful. And yes, that kind of retention is to memory and overall brain function what parrotting the times tables is to higher math -- a useful skill, but low-level, and usually pretty easy to live without. I can do all sorts of high-level brain stuff: I'm creative and analytical; I can think laterally. I've developed a decent supply of wisdom, I think, which will only increase as the years go by. I'm good in a crisis, I can retain my ability to reason clearly despite massive amounts of stressors. I can separate emotion from reason, and balance the interests of both sensibly. (Try doing that one as a teen or even as a twenty-something.)

So. The old brain is ticking along just fine, thanks.

But, damn, I wish I could recall what that girl had said.

Observation:

When, in a confict, someone says, "Not to belabour the point, but..."

They are belabouring the point.

Moreover, they know it.

Why can't I get my eyeliner to look this good?

I stubbed the middle toe of my left foot a while back. Damned thing would ache. Oh, how it would ache. And hurt when I touched it. Then it got better. Then I stubbed it again. Then it got better. Then I stubbed it again ...

Not that I ever remembered stubbing it, mind you. But that often happens with me. I'll come up with a bruise, and have no idea where it came from. (No, I don't bruise particularly easily, I don't think; I just have a terrible memory. It takes a while for a bruise to emerge, see. Ample time -- AMPLE -- for me to forget the originating mishap.) But whether I remember or not, I must've banged myself, obviously, because I have a bruise.

So, the toe? I must have stubbed it, because it kept aching.

Gradually, however, it permeated even my oblivious consciousness that this toe had been "stubbed" an awful lot for an awfully long time. Perhaps I should take a look? Sadly, not as straightforward a proposition as one might think. Recalling the facts of the back (bad) and the age (fortyplus)... Not a combination that makes for easy access to the underside of one's toes.

Though I don't get as close as I might prefer (who ever thought I'd be nostalgic about the days when I was young and bendy (and disgusting) enough to be able to chew my own toenails?), I do manage to ascertain that this toe, when viewed from underneath, is quite evidently blue. As is a spot on the big toe, two doors down.

One should not google these things. Did you know that there's a sydrome, caused, near as I can make out, by vascular detritus collecting in the tiny veins of the toes, which will make your toes go blue (and eventually, if left untreated) develop gangrene and fall right off?? Well, you do now. And so did I.

I made an appointment with a podiatrist that afternoon.

Three days later, I'm sitting in an enormous red leather reclining chair with my bare feet raised well up. After a mere, oh, 35 minutes, the doctor enters. Before she's even settled her butt onto her small beige stool she says,

"You've got frostbite."

Frostbite? When did that happen? Surely one would notice? Which is pretty much what she said to me when informed that I didn't know when it had happened.

After all, I live in Ottawa. It's cold here. From time to time, despite decent footwear, one's feet do get very, very cold, like when one is standing waiting for a bus that simply never comes. After the tingling comes the numbness. If one decides the damned bus is never coming and walks home, the toes don't much cooperate with the venture for the first half-block until they warm enough that you can feel them once again.

And then, perhaps, when one gets home and, removed from the cold air within the boot, they meet the warm air of the house, they might perhaps ache, sting, and burn like a bugger. This, however, has happened to me any number of times over my life -- not that often, all in all, but our winter are long and cold. There's lots of opportunity for this to happen.

Lots of opportunity, multiple occasions, yet never have I gotten frostbite from it. Well. Never before, at any rate.

Now, apparently, I have it, and will always have it, and the only solution is to avoid extremes of temperature, hot or cold -- no more revivifying, comforting, chill-banishing hot baths! damn!! -- and keep my feet warm. Lest I get it again (which is now more likely), and/or damage the toes further. Lesson learned.

I left her office $200 poorer (!!!) but laden with goodies. I've got creams (to soften and to warm), I've got lengths of natural wool in which to wrap my affected toes, I've got neoprine (sp?) insoles for my current boots, and I've got a shopping list: new, better boots, and new, better socks, and the catalogue from which to order them. Too bad she can't write prescriptions, because $18 for a pair of socks??? And those boots she suggests are twice as much as I usually spend.

Though, if you like hiking boots, they are very, very nice...

Frostbite.

Yeesh.

"And then one of the kids hollered, and I ran down the hall, totally forgetting I was just wearing the panties and the boots."

Yep, she really said that.

She'd been getting undressed, see, and was down to her fancy new knickers and her boots, and one of the children cried out in their sleep, and she just had to race down the hall, catching her husband's attention -- he was uploading pictures from his camper to his computer -- and then (imagine that!) he chased after her, this vision of near-nudity in high boots, with his camera.

But she didn't set that up. She didn't intend for him to take her pictures! Oh, no, no, it was completely unintentional.

Why do women say stuff like this?

Granted, she's about ten years younger than me, but that puts her in her mid-thirties, not her mid-teens when such sexual self-deception is excusable, or even her mid-twenties, when it might still be lingering. In my mid-thirties I wasn't playing those kinds of games with my own head. I might play them deliberately with a willing partner, but neither of us believed the pretence. It was for play.

But she seems to expect that I believe it was unintentional. A child cries out in their sleep, and she MUST race to them. Immediately. Wearing nothing but a pair of silky panties and high boots? What will THAT do to the psyche of a nine-year-old boy?

Honest to Pete.

Silliest thing I'd heard in a long while. And while this is a strong example, I hear this sort of thing a lot. Women who just can't allow themselves to take ownership of their sexuality. Women who pretend they're not courting male attention, women who just don't know how they managed to end up having sex. Come now. Unless you were unconscious, you have to have cooperated a little. (If you weren't cooperating, you were raped, and no, you were not complicit. At all.)

But I'm not talking about rape. I'm talking about women like my friend who set up sexual exchanges, but pretend they're not doing so. Women who manage to have articles of clothing removed "without realizing" they were being peeled off their body. Women who stare at a fellow across the bar and then react with outrage and disdain when he approaches.

I don't get it. I'd far rather be party to what happens to my body, far rather play together with the man, than be played with.

But no. She races around the house 2/3 naked, but it has nothing to do with flaunting her gorgeous ass and long, lean flanks to her husband. Not at all.

"He chased me down the hall with the camera! Can you believe it?"

Well, yeah, I can. What I find harder to believe is your wish to pretend you had nothing to do with it.

Sigh...

Someone out there thinks I have a penis. Quite a few someones, actually. Moreover they firmly believe it's insufficient, or at the very least, it's malfunctioning. Often both.

It's an interesting peek into the world of male insecurity, these Get a Bigger Dick ads. First of all, it is universally accepted that anything less than -- what? 6 inches? 9 inches? a whole fucking foot? -- is wholly insufficient. It is a Problem that must be resisted with every fibre of your manly being: never accept your small d'ck as the inevitable.


It's unacceptable, and seriously detrimental to your quality of life: yo yo, dn't let your tiny cock rule your life. (It is, however, perfectly acceptable -- appropriate! Required, even! -- to let your huge cock do just that. Because Big Cocks RULE, dude!)

And it must be fixed! great way to increase the size of your penis is here for you. Now! If not sooner! not tomorrow, not next week, enlarge your cock today. There is not a moment to lose hurry to accept this unique offer, because it means your s'ex'ua well-being. (We shall not dwell on the inherent contradiction of dozens of identical "unique" offers.)

You see, if you purchase whatever mysterious lotion, potion or mechanism that effects this wondrous enhancement, your girlfriend will be amazed at your new gigantic penis. See, though she's never said as much, your a long way from really satisfying her. This lack of satisfaction has nothing to do with your lovin' style or complete and utter lack of foreplay, it has nothing to do with your obsession with your manly bits. No, she's frustrated when you make love so why don't you give her more meat. And we're not talking steak.

You want proof? Just listen to the testimonials from satisfied customers. my friends ask what my secret it, and I say it's in my pants.


Yes, indeed. Once you're packing a solid seven, eight, ten manly inches into your pants, women will be yours for the asking. You don't have to improve your conversation, you'll never have to learn the fine art of eye (as opposed to nipple) contact. No worries about namby-pamby stuff like time, attention, patience and nuance. Shit, no! Get yerself that giant dick you've always dreamed of, and women will be having orgasms in your wake as you walk by.

If only life were really so simple...

And thank GOD it's not.

Every couple develops their own little rituals, little domestic patterns of behaviour, patterns that you very often scarcely notice, but which give comfort to both: the comfort of consistency, the comfort of familiarity. Two people moving in the comfortably worn, familiar, soothing patterns of mutually satisfactory domesticity.

Little rituals that you scarcely notice unless one of them drives the other mad.

Every night, when I get undressed for bed, I put such items as require it in the laundry basket, conveniently located on the floor next to the shelves on which our clothes are stored. Such items as can be worn again are hung or folded, and put away. Then I wash my face, read for a bit. If Matthew is in bed and awake, there's usually ten minutes of snuggling and talk before we turn out the light. Sometimes the snuggling becomes more ... focussed ... and takes considerably longer than ten minutes, but we'll fade to black on that. It is not the point of this post.

Every night, when he gets undressed for bed (often, though not always, at the same time as me), Matthew leaves his clothes in a heap on the floor beside the laundry basket. Then he brushes his teeth, reads for a while. (Ditto the snuggling and talk and fade-to-black as per paragraph above.)

I have no idea why his laundry has to spend the night on the floor. Usually (though not always) it makes it to the basket in the morning. I have asked him why; as I have utterly no recollection of his answer, it is clear to me that it was neither convincing nor compelling. However, whatever it was, it is both convincing and compelling for Matthew, because, happy in having explained all to my satisfaction, he blithely continues in this irksome habit. Not wanting to disappoint his cheerful self, and, because generally he does put it all away in the morning, I have decided to let it go.

So what if the socks'n'boxers'n'shirt'n'jeans sit in a rumpled heap in the dark overnight? No skin off my nose. Once it's dark, I can't see them. Once I'm asleep, I'm unaware of them. It's a small thing, a fleeting thing, an insignificant little quirk.

AND IT DRIVES ME CRAZY!!!

But here is my dilemma: To object to such a small thing would be petty, and I deplore pettiness. I will not admit it in myself, nor, worse, display it to the man I love. The nightly freeing of the laundry is a very small thing. And he has his reason -- whatever it was -- for this little domestic Chinese water torture ritual.

Despite all my nobler inclinations, despite my efforts to rise above it all, it still irks me. Whenever I pass by the laundry basket -- sometimes to see a sock, or even the sleeve of a shirt draped, in tantalizing potentiality, right over the rim! (Why not all the way in? Why? WHY?) -- it irks me.

So I've come up with a solution, brilliant in its simplicity. Every morning, when he is in the bathroom, I take from his pocket the largest value coin in there: a loonie or a twonie. So far, in two weeks of employing this new strategy, I have accumulated close to $20.

Now when I see that heap o'laundry in the evening, instead of an itch of exasperation, I feel a small rise of smug vengeance, knowing that in the morning, he'll pay for the privilege of parking his clothes outside the designated area.

It's a system that works for both of us. One of those little domestic rituals that evolve between couples, enabling us to rub along with minimum of abrasion, a ritual and a pattern that brings comfort and satisfaction to both.

And it's not petty. Nuh-uh. Not at all.

"Where did this come from?"

Matthew stands in the entry, holding a clear plastic bag.

"It was going out with the garbage. It should have been leaning up against the bin. Why?"

"That's where I found it. I mean, where did it come from?"

The item in question, inside the bag, is a crocheted blanket. My grandmother would have called it an afghan (I'm not sure why). It's a hideous affair, huge granny squares made of something thick and scratchy, more twine than wool, in a visual assault of orange, brown, green, and yellow. I found it in the back of a storage area in the basement, where it's sat for a least three years, and am sending it to its just reward.

"It came from the storage room. You know I'm decluttering down there." He pauses. I can tell he's waiting for something more from me, but lord only knows what it might be. Communication is a tricky thing. I'm saying words, he's saying words, pretty simple words in this case. We each know what the other's words mean, but somehow, I can tell, meaning is not attached to the words we're tossing at each other.

We pause in befuddlement.

Then he says the words that make the whole thing clear.

"This is the blanket that my granny made for me when she was dying."

Oh.

Good Lord.

And he found it propped up against a garbage tin in the drive. The blanket his granny crocheted for him as she lay dying. Oh. I feel a little sick.

"Good heavens. I didn't know that. Well, I guess we won't be throwing that out then, will we?"

And I take it from him and give him a hug. We have a cup of coffee, we chat of this and that. A couple of hours later, he heads up to bed.

Leaving me staring at this thing.

Which his granny made for him on her deathbed. We can't throw it out. (Damn, I wish he hadn't spotted it!)

But it's still ugly. Really, really ugly. (Utterly out of the question to toss it out now.)

And scratchy. And heavy. (How could she lift the damned thing on her deathbed? Maybe she smothered to death? Oh, good god. How crass of me. I am should be ashamed. No, I am. Sheepish, anyway.)

Oh, dear. (If he hadn't spotted it, it would be gone before breakfast, and no one would have been any the wiser.)

Oh, dear. (Because, after all, it's been in a basement storage room for three years now, and I had not a clue what it was. Nor did he know where it was. Or miss it, apparently.)

I return it to the storage room.

Where it will stay.

Sigh.

My kids gave me this Wise Woman Starter Kit for Mother's Day. It contains a tub of "Regenerating Day Cream", one of "Regenerating Night Cream", and a spray bottle of "Vitality Serum".

Pretty, no?

Now, I've not been the type of woman to fuss much with my face. I like feeling pretty as much as the next woman, I shave my legs (and other bits), I love flowy skirts, plunging necklines, moderate amounts of perfume, and I keep my hair a burnished auburn, despite the steady encroachment of gray.

But a "beauty regime"? Seems an oxymoron, really. Anything that calls itself a 'regime' lacks a certain, oh, gaity, joie de vivre, spontenaeity. More to do with drill sergeants, drudgery and drab than beauty.

But you know what? Time is pretty regimental. It marches inexorably on, taking pity on no woman.

So, though I didn't request this particular gift (are the kids trying to tell me something?), I was pleased enough with it. (And of course, I made out I was deee-lighted! Because, wrinkled crone though I may be, I am a Good Mother.) Besides, I've always been little Polly Perfect when it came to assignments. I actively enjoyed worksheets in school, liked lining up my facts in neat columns, liked ticking items off a list. There is a part of the discipline of a 'regime' that does appeal, I confess.

So I opened the package with interest, seeking the Instruction Sheet. (Because that's what we Polly Perfects do, you know: we RTFM*s. Religiously. Because we like to.)

And boy, did I hit paydirt with this one. A very long, accordian-folded leaflet on flimsy paper - in fourteen different languages! Fourteen! But all I learned as I scanned it was how wonderful this product was, and what wholesome ingredients were contained within its creamy essence.

So much for the insert. Where were the directions for use? Not on the tubs, not on the spray bottle, not on the box. There were no more bits of paper hiding within the box. Mystified, I returned to the leaflet.

Because the day and night cream I could pretty much figure. But "Vitality Serum"? What, exactly, does one do with a "Vitality Serum"? It was housed in a pump bottle, so I'm guessing it's not to be ingested. Undoubtedly it's to be smeared on the skin, but when? How? (Why?)

And a second, more thorough read of the insert, and there they are! Directions for Use!! (Not that they were identified as such, but they are there!)



See them? Two short sentences at the end of each paragraph of promotional sludge. Oh, come on. Surely you can find them! After all Wise Woman does want you to actually use its product.

Doesn't it?

I'm not entirely sure. That picture is life-size. That is how big the pages were, that is how big the font is. Teeny, isn't it? My real-life version is probably a little clearer than this scanned version, but the font is no bigger.

Now, I am 46 - probably smack in the middle of the target audience for this product. Like most people my age - that is, like most people in the product's TARGET AUDIENCE - my eyesight isn't what it once was. Nor, what with all this perimenopausal hormonal shit I have going on, am I as patient as I once was. Not with the flim-flam-flummery of self-congratulational sales puffing, certainly. And then to place useful information at the tale end of all that crap verbiage? In micro-font?

How much awareness of (and respect for) their TARGET AUDIENCE does this show?

And then? When you finally unearth the information? You get these little nuggets:

For the Day Cream: "Apply to face and neck. Use with Regenerating Night Cream."
For the Night Cream: "Apply to face and neck. Use with Regenerating Day Cream."
For the Vitality Serum: "Use AM and PM before applying your Wise Woman day and night moisturisers."

Useful, no?

No?

Not particularly, huh...

So many questions left unanswered... Does one use Day and Night cream together, both products applied morning and evening? It sure seems to say as much! And, now that I've found the "instructions", how do I apply the Vitality Serum? Direct to my skin? To my hands, and then rub in? To a cotton ball? Do I cleanse my face first, or do the products do it all?

Okay, so I know better than to apply moisturizer without first cleaning - oops, I mean cleansing - my skin. I also know that Day Cream is for the daytime and Night Cream is for the nighttime. Not too tricky, that. An adherent of a Beauty Regime I may not be, but a complete feminine-culture idiot I am not. However, I didn't get any of this awareness from the insert, where one might reasonably expect to find it.

All is not lost! Being of that Certain Age, I am a resourceful woman. I now know how to use my Products, most notably the mysterious Vitality Serum. How, you ask? How, given the company clearly has no interest in giving me the goods once I own them?

Because I googled it. No kidding. I ended up googling, and found a very useful instructional video at Wise Woman dot net! Wise Woman dot net - imagine that!! There is one! But I had to hunt it out! The insert didn't include information about their very informative website, either. Imagine that...

So, I now have these Beauty Products, which I am using, oh, four times a week. (Not quite Perfect, but I'm trying!) And I'm enjoying them. I'm not sure if it's the feeling that I've joined the Woman Club at long last, or if it's because they're making a difference. I do like how they smell...

But if it were up to Wise Woman and the Beauty Shoppe, I'd still be squinting at the labels.

*RTFM: Read the Fucking Manual. What you should do before you call tech. support**.

**Not, I admit, that the manuals are generally any use to anyone who isn't technically inclined, which is to say, anyone who isn't tech. support...

*** Oooo, look! Footnotes in teeny, tiny font!!! Feel free to sneer at the inconsistency.****

**** But not this pre-menstrual, perimenopausal week. Could be bad for your health.

I check my email account. I see I have a new spam. (Yes, only the one: the filters work well.)

Do you know how much I enjoy the fact that my obnoxious service provider sends its very own promotional emails straight to its very own spam file???

"Let's do something different tonight."

Matthew's smile is coaxing. Which is funny, really, since if there have been any spontaneity-predictability tussles in our relationship, he's been firmly at the 'predictable' end of the spectrum. But we do seem to have established some pretty predictable routines for our weekly date night.

Dinner, or, if money's tight, just drinks; or, if money's flush, dinner AND drinks, at one of two local pubs/restaurants. There are some variables, but, now that his question prods me to consider a bit, not many.

If we go to the pub (Patty's), we're likely just going for a pint (Kilkenny for me; a black and tan for him). If we go to the restaurant (Mexicali Rosa's), we're probably going to eat. If we're going to eat, I will have the Mexicali salad, the one with the chicken in the tortilla bowl, and, on a particularly flush night, one of their excellent lime slushy margaritas for dessert. He will have nachos with beef and either a tonic water or, in the summer, a Corona.

We chat as we walk over, we chat as we eat and/or drink, we chat as we walk home. It's very companionable, but, excluding the hot sauce on the nachos, notably lacking in spice and excitement.

"Different? Like, a different restaurant?"

"No. This is the last week for the Mueck exhibit at the National Gallery. I thought we might do that."

Ooo. That is different. There is one Mueck piece in the gallery's permanent collection: an enormous baby head, so large it would fill my entire (admittedly small) living room. I find it a little unsettling, frankly, but it's interesting. The figure on all the posters you see everywhere throughout town show the seated nude you saw in the link. (Because you followed that link, right?) Thus, this exhibit is known locally as "the giant naked fat man exhibit". And what we all want to know is "and are his naughty bits equally huge?"

I suspect the answer to this could be even more unsettling than the giant baby head, but still - when one gets a chance to peek under the fig leaf...

We arrange that I will bus and he will bike over after work. Whoever gets there first will buy the tickets and wait for the other guy.

I get there first. Whereas normally I've been able to walk straight in, this evening there is a line extending 20 metres out the front door. Hmmm... Once in the line, I'm relieved to see that it's moving at a pretty efficient clip. It's only three or four minutes before I'm through the doors. But instead of an airy lobby with four cheerful bilingual gallery employees manning their respective lines at the ticket desk on the other side of the lobby, I see a mass of people.

A seething mass of people, an immensely long snake of people, one hairpin bend after another, filling the entire lobby area. It's unfortunate that claustrophobic me is the first to arrive, but the lovely glass walls and the steady forward motion of the line keeps panic at bay. I call Matthew and apprise him of the situation.

"Well, it's your call. I'm at the bike racks outside. Shall I lock the bike, or do you want to come out and meet me?"

I hesitate. I look to my right: there are six employees at the desk, and the line continues to hum right along. Maaaybeee... I look to my left: the long, wide, gracious ramp that slopes up to the rotunda and the galleries beyond is completely filled with people. Completely. Eight, ten, twelve abreast, all the way up the very long - lordy, how long is that thing? 100 metres? 200? - ramp. Even if we do get to the exhibit before midnight, there will be no pausing, no time to observe, consider and look some more. No obvious gawping at enormous manliness.

"I'm coming out."

"That's fine." Matthew is a flexible man. "We're in The Market. There's all manner of stuff to do here."

"Well, I'm hungry. I didn't have time for dinner, so I'll need to eat. What do you fancy?"

"How about nachos?"

Nachos. When we get to the Mexican restaurant I had in mind - nice, but a wee bit pricey for impecunious we - there, up the street is another restaurant, also Mexican, but cheaper. It wasn't there last time we were in The Market. Cool!

And when we get there, I have the Mexicali salad with a lime slushy margarita, and he has nachos and a tonic water.

And it was lovely.

I do not understand my husband's ex.

She's ultra-religious. To church twice on a Sunday, and in various church groups through the week. Most of her friends are church folk. Now, no faith-bashing, Christian-mocking here. I consider myself a Christian. I was even 'born again' as a teenager, though my beliefs have changed a helluva lot since then.

The ex-wife is what Andrew Sullivan terms a 'Christianist'. She doesn't have much in the way of a genuine, vibrant, giving faith; she seems to have no Christian principles at all, certainly not in her dealing with people she doesn't like. (I am counted among that number.)

What she does have are a lot of Rules. (Rules which only really count when someone whose opinion she values is watching, mind you. Which does not include her ex, and certainly not me. However, it seems not to God either, who, one would think, is always watching...)

So. The Rules say, "No sex before marriage."

Which had been no problem for the eight or nine or so years following her divorce, because there were no takers for Her Bitchiness. Meantime, her ex (my sweetie) and I were shacked up without the blessings of Holy Matrimony. The self-righteousness that came our way via the children and various comments and emails for the first year or so were sickening in their moral superiority.

And then - wonder of wonders! - she found herself a boyfriend.

After two or three years of steady dating, they are still not having sex! We know, because the children assure us of this fact. Their mother has told them so. They are not having sex. Even when they go away for weekends together. Even though they spent an entire week at his cottage last summer. Imagine the self-control! Even though mom's boyfriend not a Christianist, even though they each have their own home, even though they have every other weekend child-free -- the relationship is platonic.

We don't argue, obviously. One doesn't undermine a parent to the children, and there'd be no point in it, anyway. They wouldn't believe us.

However, the mother does believe that sex before marriage is wrong. (Which justifies lying about it to one's children, because of course, lying isn't a sin...)

So, when her children get to be sexually mature, ready for dating, she of course impresses upon them the importance of modesty, caution, self-restraint.

Well, no. Those are Principles, and this is the Rule Lady.

I must explain for those who've just popped in for this one post. I am not opposed to adolescent, pre-marital sex, providing it's respectful, loving, and they take appropriate precautions. It makes me a bit nervous, of course, because teens are young and make stupid mistakes. But I don't think it's a sin. I don't think it's a moral evil. It's just sex.

So, the Rule Lady tells her kids:

1. Pre-marital sex is wrong.
2. Don't ever come home telling me you're pregnant, or the girlfriend is.

That's about it. Useful guidance for a teen who's sure he/she has met the love of their life, but is under legal marrying age, don't you think?

I understand all that, though. Despite the hypcrisy of her position, it's consistent with a life lived guided by Rules and other's opinions rather than by principles and internal integrity. I've seen lots and lots of people like her.

But here's the part I don't understand.

Her just-turned-seventeen-year-old daughter has a boyfriend. They've been going out three weeks or so. He's nineteen, a university student. With his own apartment. When she was out with him earlier this weekend, she phoned an hour after she was expected home, asking if she could spend the night. We said no.

(We refused because:
- we had hardly seen her all weekend, and a sleepover means we wouldn't see her till early afternoon the next day.
- we have not had a serious sex talk with her, and have no idea where she is on the subject.)

We've talked about sex and birth control with all our teens, of course, his and mine, but it hasn't gotten personal with this one yet. It's all been theoretical information, and she's poo-pooh'ed the possibility. Her expressed intention was to "save it for marriage". (Just like her mother!!!) Naive girls who think they "aren't that kind" are thus unprepared for the eventuality are the ones who end up pregnant. Duh. So, before she's allowed an overnight at the boyfriend's, we need to know she's prepared for the eventuality.

In the ensuing conversation, we discovered:

1. The girl has no curfew on weekends at mom's house. (We're not stupid; we double-checked this claim with the girl's mother.) The girl has NO curfew.

2. The girl has already spent at least one night at the boyfriend's house during a weekend with her mother. (We double-checked this one, too.) She has indeed spent an entire night with him.

So, we have a mother who believes pre-marital sex is wrong, who would offer no support if a pregnancy occured, who has not provided sex education, but who allows her teenage daughter to spend the night at her boyfriend.

What the HELL is she thinking?

Last summer, Daniel had a bit of a personal crisis. Though I got the bare bones of it, he didn't want to talk about it with His Mother. Could he please go see Dr. D, the psychologist his older sister had seen for a few months after the separation? (Who his sister still chats with once in a while.)

The sessions cost $155 an hour. This is not small change for me. However, my children's well-being... And maybe the boy will learn some useful emotional and life skills.

After a couple of months, I asked how it was going. The crisis was over. $155 every week...

Well, he said, I like talking to her. It's nice.

("It's nice?" Um, no. NOT worth $155/week.) Okay, son. Can you give me some idea what you're talking about?

Well, mostly about communication.

COMMUNICATION!!!!! My son was discussing COMMUNICATION! My son, my cheerful, easy-going, largely cooperative son, who can and will talk your ear off about a quirky cartoon or a computer game, becomes completely mute when conversation threatens to become personal. My boy is getting an hour a week's tutorial in COMMUNICATING??

Worth every penny. Every single penny. Worth it even more when, by dint of a doctor's prescription for psychotherapy, our insurance started paying the lion's share.

However, I'm still forking out a chunk of money every month. Six months now. Time to check in with the boy.

Me: How are your sessions with Dr. D going?
Daniel: Fiiine. (Tones of mild suspicion.)
Me: Are you enjoying them?
Daniel: Yes. (Suspicion rising.)
Me: Are you getting anything out of them?
Daniel: Yeees. (Hint of defensive, self-protective edge to the voice.)

Longish pause. Will he divulge?
Pause continues. Apparently not.

Me: So, what do you think you’re getting out of them?
Pause.
Daniel: Well, that’s hard to say, really.

Ah, yes. Money well spent, wouldn't you say?

So, you're driving down the road with one of these on the passenger seat beside you, or worse, the whole rainbow cluster of them. Better hope you're not in Alabama, Georgia, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Indiana, or Virginia...

"No, officer, it's not a vibrator. It's my Banana Guard."

"Yeah, right. I've heard that one before. Out of the car, please, ma'am."

Vibrators illegal? Yes, indeed. Not guns. NEVER! There's a constitutional right to bear arms, you know. Because goodness knows, it's better to be able to kill someone than let them have an orgasm...

Illegal? Illegal?? This means legislators in those states (and in S. Carolina and Tennessee, where such laws are being considered) believe that, somehow or other, sex toys are a threat to society.

-- Well, yes, indeed, little lady. Think of all those innocent children have been killed by dildos!

Now, now, Mr. Misogynist Legislator, please rethink. Remember! "Dildos don't kill people; people do."

By and large, I am a live-and-let-live person when it comes to parenting styles and techniques.

With my own kids, I used a bit of this, a bit of that. I co-slept for the first few months and breastfed on demand for over a year. These are all "attachment parent" values. I started out as a spanker, but discovered that it was unnecessary. More attachment goodness. However, I am a total hardass about sleep, believing that it is just as essential as food to my child's health. I would no sooner let my children go without food, or feed them only one meal a day than I would let them go with inadequate sleep. So, with the one child who would not learn to sleep any other way, I let her Cry It Out - which puts me in the Seventh Circle of Hell, as far as Attachment Parents are concerned.

So, no ideologue, me, and willing to let people do what's right for them and their family.

But some days...

I have a friend whose youngest, almost three, is still breast-fed on demand and still co-sleeps. I'm fine with that. When the friend complained that middle-of-the-night temper tantrums have been robbing her of hours of sleep each night for weeks, I did not go all holy and superior and self-righteous and rhyme off all the things that others would be too pleased to 'share': all that child needs is a Little Discipline; that mom should just put a lock on the damned door; that it's the fault of the extended nursing, and she should just wean the child; that the child is spoiled; that she should just...

No, I offered a sleepover. Because I am her friend, and she needs some practical support. I picked a night when the Man was away, so tot could co-sleep with me, give her that security.

You understand, this is the first night in almost three years that she would have had to herself. The child still nurses in the night, but it wouldn't be a problem at my house. No mummy, no yummies. The tot has made that adjustment lots of other times during the daylight. Besides, I was willing to make this sacrifice for my friend's health. She's beyond exhausted.

Dad was ecstatic. He went right out and bought a box of condoms. Twelve of them. Such a man. Heh.

So, tot comes to me, and though it's not a flawless night, it's not so bad, either. She was up talking to herself WAAAAAAYYY too late - till almost 11:00, well past MY bedtime - but when she woke at 6, I was able to tell her "it's not daytime yet" and she went back to sleep for another two hours. NOT a given, as any parent of a toddler knows.

So, I'm a little sleep-deprived, myself, but not so bad. Mom comes for tot at 9:00.

"So, how did it go? Did you have a good night?" I ask.

She sighs. "Well, kids. They have a radar, don't they? No sooner had we gone to bed than Max (her seven-year-old) was in bed with us."

AAAARGH!

Do NOT tell me I did this (because it was a LOT more effort than my nowadays night parenting!) for a woman who can't say - to a SEVEN year old - "No, son, this is my private time with daddy, and I'm desperate for a solid night's sleep. You can be in my bed any other night, but not tonight." Her first baby-free night in ALMOST THREE YEARS, and she can't defer the kid ONE night?!?!?

She sighs again, "What can you do?"

Oh, I don't know: tell the kid NO, perhaps? Assert your right to your own valid needs?

Argh.