I had a birthday a while back. A milestone birthday, in that it ended with a zero.

So today I was heating water to make a cup of tea. As the water heated, I moved quickly through the house to find my cup, so I could drop another teabag into it. I had to be quick, because I'd set the microwave for a minute, and I wanted to have my cup ready when it beeped. I knew which cup I'd been using all morning... but it wasn't in any of the usual spots.

Bah. Hell with it. I got a clean cup and dropped a tea-bag in, just as the microwave beeped. (Timing!!)

And when I opened the microwave door...

there was the cup I'd been looking for.

Full of tea. Hot tea. A full cup of tea, which I'd been re-heating, as I'd left it steeping on the stovetop a little too long, and it had gotten a little cooler than I prefer.

Steeping, because I'd made it, as I always do, with an electric kettle. I have never once made tea in a microwave. Not only is it an enormous waste of energy to boil water in one of those things, the times I've drunk tea made this way at someone else's home, it makes the tea taste weird.

(Yes, it does. Does too.)

But in my addled and distracted, soon-to-be-senile, post-milestone brain, I'd managed to morph "re-heating tea in mug in microwave" to "preparing fresh cup of tea in kettle".

Oy.

My step-son is getting married next fall.
At the ripe old age of twenty-one.
To the girl he's been dating since he was fifteen.
A stable sort, my step-son. A good boy man.

Their marriage will probably be fine. Two worthy, if unimaginative, sorts doing what is right and necessary day by day, with enough good will and mutual respect to keep it going in a companionable way. For years. They may not be burning up the world with passion, but they're solid, kindly, grounded.

I am dreading the wedding.

Just dreading it.

Where shall I start?

With the ex-wife's alcoholic dad? No, not likely to be a problem, since when he's in his cups he (reputably, I've never met the man) gets quiet.

Unlike the ex-wife's mother, who, when in her cups gets loud and aggressive. Usually the aggression is directed against her husband. (Hence his quiet retreat to the friendly haze of alcohol, one surmises.)

Though of course, knowing the conservative bent of the happy couple, the reception could well be dry. Where will that leave them?

With the ex-wife? Maybe. She's been known to go off the deep end at weddings, but since she's recently remarried and, so we hear, very happy, perhaps her general good feeling about life will translate to good behaviour. It may, however, translate to too much bonhomie -- barbed, of course -- directed our way. This has been known to happen, and it is not comfortable. She is a woman who, if I saw her on a bus, I'd sit as far from as possible, fearing the possibility of a loud an inappropriate conversation.

She usually delivers.

So there's that.

It could be the ex-wife's SIL, who hates, hates, hates my husband. Because he was supposed to be a failure, and he didn't fail. Instead, by her standards, she did. Unhappy marriage, stalled career, no publications, no children. And she, like all the womenfolk in her family, is loud and aggressive.

Then there's the ex-wife's brother, who, unlike his dad, gets loud and aggressive when in his cups.

There's my eldest step-daughter, who has very little control over her tongue or her temper. Less when she's drunk. Which is mostly. She also hates her dad. We're not quite sure why. Even her siblings are not sure why. Apparently, he 'ruined her life'. Her ruined life has nothing to do with the alcohol, or course, nor of her chronic abuse of her mild-mannered boyfriend. (Verbal, emotional, and physical. She's a big girl.) When she's angry, which is mostly when she's drunk (which is mostly), she is not just loud, she SCREAMS. She can be heard blocks away.

God, I hope it's a dry reception!

And all those people? The ones who like being angry, who rage and scream, make barbed comments, delight in unkindnesses small and large?

They loathe my husband, for divorcing their daughter/sister/mother. Even though it's been 15 years. Even though she's much happier now. Because they like to have someone to loathe. Pouring contempt on people is fun, fun, fun.

And me? They've never met me, but I hear, through the endlessly un-self-censored grapevine of my step-children, that they hate me. They're curious about the bitch "he" ended up with, the one who (despite the year and a half gap) "broke up" their daughter/sister's "perfectly good" marriage.

Oh, goody.

"Bracing" does not begin to describe what I'll need to get through this ordeal.

god

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'.

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.

Candy?
Check.

(Second batch. Matthew bought the first bags a FULL MONTH early. (What was he thinking?). He bought the second batch two weeks early -- again with the WWHT -- but I tossed them into not one, but TWO grocery bags, each seriously knotted, and bunged them into the back porch. Out of sight, out of mind holds firmly true with a memory as porous as mine...)

Jack o'lantern decoration on the front door?
Check.



Two pumpkins, one on either side of the porch steps?
Check.

One of which is carved into v. traditional jack o'lantern.
Check.

(Cheery little bugger, isn't he?)

Candle for inside jack?
Not yet.
Check!



Hand-made ghost decorations made?
Check.



Hand-made ghost decorations hung across porch?
Not yet.
Check!


I think we're just about ready!

Isn't it exciting? Small children across the city are already abuzz with excitement. They'll have a hard time eating dinner, poor mites, so eager will they be to don those costumes and glean all the candy their greedy innocent little hands can scoop.

Hallowe'en is most fun when your children are little. The tiny ones, the four-and-unders, still amazed and awed that people keep putting candy in their bags! They tend to forget to say "thank you", but their expression of astonished delight says it all. By the time they're eight and nine, and the best you get is a muttered "thanks" as they dash off to the next sucker, it begins to pall a bit. Particularly when the mutterers include your own beloved offspring.

My children have all outgrown trick-or-treating and will spend the evening at one party or another. And I will woman the front door, opening to each shouted "trick or treat", dropping FUNSIZE chocolate bars into bags, plastic pumpkins, and, for the truly dedicated, pillow cases. I will get up and down 50 times in two hours. I will feel the chill drafts of late October dampness swirl around my ankles and into my living room. I will coo at the preschool sweethearts and silently sneer at the mutterers. Mutter for mutter.

"Thnx"
"Greedyungratefulbrat. You're welcome!"

I will keep this annual event up until my children have all left home, till all pretence of caring can be dropped. Then I shall join the ranks of the few cheerfully unfettered curmudgeons on the street, and stay cosy behind firmly closed doors on the last day of October.

Bah, humbug.

Updated: But that little ladybug, with the hearts on her wings instead of spots, who could only lisp out a shy, "Merci"? Oh, lordy, she was cute...

One of the great pleasures of the fine months is the amount of time we get to spend in the local dog-friendly park, chatting with the other dog-owners and watching the dogs romp. One of the dog-owners, we'll call him Mr. Nasshole, has taken it upon himself to make an email list of all willing dog-owners, so that we can be apprised of events pertinent to us -- like the end-of-summer party or the annual spring poop scoop.

(Yes, indeed. Conscientious dog-owners of the strong-stomached sort gather in late April armed with gloves, shovels, bags (and gas-masks?), to clear the park of the six months' worth of dog shit that has emerged as a winter's snows melt away. We are nothing if not Sterling Citizens, because you know those of us who gather to take on this wretched task are not those who neglected to pick up their dog's leftovers all winter long. We do it for The Good of The Community.)

Although we both agree that the list is a good notion, and that Mr. N. is performing a useful service to the dog-loving community and to our local park, Matthew and I have quite different responses to Mr. Nasshole as a person. Matthew thinks he's basically friendly, perhaps more socially skilled with dogs than people, but otherwise a nice enough fellow. I think he's a belligerant, self-important dork with bully tendencies, who needs to be In Control at all times.

My reasons for this assessment arise out of an event which I will not recount here. However, my impression wasn't altered at all by the following email exchange. (He is Ima Nasshole; I am Laura V.).

Sent: Monday, October 13, 2008 11:47:29 AM
Subject: Re: Warning for Dog Owners/Walkers (Riverside Park)
To ALL :

Thanks Suzie ( Kevin ) and to Frank Weldon the park forester-warden (who sent me the below cited bits)
Ima Nasshole

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Warning:
>>over the past week, there have been two reports of dogs
>>having been poisoned in our area. One of the reports was
>>for Riverside Park. The other was for MossyGlen Park.


>> The source of this information is extremely reliable.
>>Although the reports are UNCONFIRMED they felt that
>>it was worthwhile passing along a caution...


On 14-Oct-08, at 2:21 PM, Laura V. wrote:

Hello, Mr. Nasshole;

Thanks for sending this out. It's good to have information, so we can be more aware and cautious.

The email leaves important questions unanswered. I suppose no one knows what kind of poison, or how it was administered? How are the dogs faring? I do hope they've recovered!

I would like to speak with Mr. Weldon directly, if that's possible. If you're not comfortable giving me his email address, would you please forward this email to him, so he can decide what, if anything, he can tell me?

Thank you,
Laura V.


Sent: Wednesday, October 15, 2008 4:22:30 PM
Subject: Re: Warning for Dog Owners/Walkers (Riverside Park)

Mr Weldon is the forestry guy; it was Suzi Franklin who sent me the info on the poisoning
I.N.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++


Sent: Wednesday, October 15, 2008 6:18:14 PM
Subject: Re: Warning for Dog Owners/Walkers (Riverside Park)
My mistake! It looks like I should have asked you to forward my email to Suzi Franklin, then. Did you/would you do that, please?

Thank you,
Laura V.

Three days have passed. Full radio silence from Mr. N.

So. Who's right, boys and girls? A well-intentioned man, if lacking in social skills (Matthew's take), or a self-important dork whose need to control things will ensure he never passes along the address that will take his almighty hand off the spigot of information?

I have a love-hate relationship with the idea of honesty. Yes, I believe it's a virtue, but I do not believe it's "always the best policy". Does anyone, really?

"Does this dress make me look fat?"

If the question is asked in the changing room, you can be honest, and thereby prevent your friend from buying something that makes her look like a ship in a tent. If the question is asked moments before stepping onto the stage of an awards banquet, you lie, lie, lie. What could possibly be the value of perfect honesty at such a moment?

People don't consider that principles/values can and do come into conflict: when honesty and kindness come into conflict -- and they often do -- which will you choose? Many would vigorously declare for "Honesty, of course!", as if honesty is the only path to integrity. Too frequently choosing kindness is seen as mere squeamishness, a lack of moral courage. Sometimes it is, of course, but...

Keeping something to yourself, refusing to expose person A to person B, allowing something to pass unremarked... all these various kindnesses can be harder to maintain that honesty. But at what cost honesty? Is honesty always worth the price?

And even then, when hard, clear honesty is the only way to proceed, must it be done without kindness? Must it simply be blurted out because "you need to know", or "you have a right to know", or "you need to get your shit together"? The gut-wrenching pain that honesty can cause needs to be approached with compassion, not blurted out, all the pain only the recipient's problem, because "it's for your own good."

How came knee-jerk, unreasoned honesty to be seen as a sign of integrity or purer virtue? That kind of honesty is the refuge of the simplistic. It's not high-mindedness, it's simply a lack of thought; it displays a certain shallowness of thinking. Why waste time and emotional energy weighing pros and cons when you can simply blurt out the callous facts -- and then claim the moral high ground for your insensitivity?

I can be very straight when need be; I rarely see good reason to be cruel with it. Clarity does not equate brutality, and when pressed, I'd rather err on the side of kindness.

I've often noted that people who dish out that kind of honesty are often outraged when they get a dose of it back... which shows a certain lack of integrity. Someone who weighs the pros and cons of honesty vs kindness, who knows the pain of honesty and deals it only when necessary and only to the degree required, that person will accept honesty when dealt similarly.

Those who dish it out willy-nilly, they don't like getting it back so much.

Methinks they deserve more than they're getting.

There's something soothing about plunging your hands into hot water. More so in winter, when, at least for me, the intial sensation often sends a rather pleasurable tingle down my spine and into my arms -- if it's particularly potent, right down to my calves. No idea what that is, but I like it.

The tangy citrus scent of the dishwashing liquid as it enters the sink and churns to a froth under the pouring stream. And that froth! White and clear, yet somehow studded with blue and red and green and turquoise iridescence. You could get lots in the colours.

Swirling the wet cloth across ceramic plates, working it along the tines of a fork, those are tactile experiences, experiences to be savoured. The undulation of the cloth in the water -- visual sensuality. Even the sounds, the muted rattling of cutlery under the water, the tap of china against glass bring pleasure.

And then, pulling the dish, clean and dripping, from the water, watching the water curl across its surface and away, the steam rising, the plate newly-minted and angled perfectly amidst its peers in the drying rack.

If you think about it the right way, it's a glorious medly of sight, sound, taste, touch and smell.

.
.
.
.
I tried.

I really, really tried.

But I still hate doing dishes.

Yesterday evening, returning home from an evening with a friend, I scoop one of the blue boxes in front of my house, and set it on the porch.

(Blue boxes, for those of you not in the know, are large plastic bins into which we toss our recyclables: plastic, glass and aluminum, primarily. These are set at the curb and collected the same day as the garbage. Alternate weeks, we set out our "black boxes", which are filled with paper and cardboard. In the summers, blue box week is also garden waste week, and we set out bins or bags of lawn clippings (assuming I had such a thing as a lawn), leaves, weeds, etc.

It's a fine system.)

There is another blue box still at the curb, still full and awaiting the morning's collection. So why is this blue box, formerly full, now empty?

We have yet another recyling option in our fine city. (Actually, I think this one's provincial.) You can still toss your empty booze bottles in the blue box, but you can also take them in to the Beer Store (yes, that's really what it's called) where they will be re-used. Not only is this arguably more efficient, (and saves the government some money, likely; I seem to be feeling parenthetical today) but you get paid a small premium for each bottle returned.

Having no car, I'd long ago arranged with a neighbour that when they returned their bottles, they'd take mine, too. And were welcome to the two or three dollars profit that might result. To that end, bottles were accruing in a spare blue box on the shelf in the back porch.

They were accruing, that is, until my son, not aware of the system, noticed the extra blue box and put the bin of bottles out at the curb a few weeks back.

Oops.

Or maybe not. For that night, some while after dark, I heard the distinctive clinking of bottles. In the shadows is a fellow, a little down-at-heel. He's astride a bicycle which has a clever little hand-made trolley behind it, a trolley which houses a large black metal bin. He's tipping the bottles into his bin.

A recycling scavenger!

Well, that's cool. I won't have to impose upon my neighbour. I need only to put my bottles at the curb with enough time for the recycling bike guy to come by. A symbiotic relationship: the bike guy gets the proceeds, I get rid of the bottles, and they end up where they should be, the Beer Store instead of the recycling depot. Perfect. I rather enjoy the nice, tidy balance of it all.

Upon conversation with neighbours, I discover that this is disapproved of. That others on my street have been known to chase him (and his colleagues; there are many of them) away, like raccoons out of the trash.

I am a little appalled. They are not expressing fear for the security of their homes. They do not fear they're being checked out for future burglarization. These people coming round, quietly in the evenings, do not make a mess, they are not intrusive, except for the clatter of bottles. The objection is territorial: my neighbours do not like these outsiders (these, let it also be noted, evidently poor outsiders) messing with their stuff. Even when their stuff is being discarded.

They object to their appearance. Not because they look potentially criminal. Because they are shoddy.

Shoddy? They are clean, they are appropriately dressed for their task in jeans and t-shirts. They are simply not dressed in the styles, colours, and labels of the affluent.

Some of my neighbours sneer at these people. "Losers."

Losers? They bike for miles, they haul loads of bottles each week, they appear to be pretty systematic in their rounds. Couldn't this be viewed as laudably entrepreneurial? Seems to me they're working pretty hard for a paltry few dollars. And if that's pathetic to you, that's only because you've been privileged enough never to be in a situation where a few dollars really matters. What's pocket change to you might be fresh vegetables on the table for these people.

Or, as one neighbour pointed out, a pack of cigarettes. So? Your pocket change buys you the wine you sip on your porch most evenings. How is that so very different? -- except that these people might well have to do without their personal vice were it not for your discarded bottles and their hard work.

It's so easy to be superior. Why does it seem so hard to be kind?

I knew it would hurt. I'm not an idiot. I picture the procedure (as described in fairly graphic detail by a helpful girlfriend), and I just know, you can't have that happen without pain.

However -- and here I haul out that tried-and-true test of female fortitude -- I have had three babies. More to the point, three labours, and even more to the point, all of them without drugs. Sure, they hurt, but I was up for it. I can deal. I am focussed, I am stoic, I am capable. I don't like pain, but I can manage.

So yeah, this was going to hurt, but I knew I could cope.

So I lie down on the table, wearing nothing south of the navel but a pair of disposable panties. (Indeed. Who knew those existed?) And the sweet young twenty-year-old sets in to deforestration.

It's not so bad. The wax goes on, warm and almost soothing. The wide strip of cloth is applied. I press where instructed, to hold the skin taut, and -- FZZT! -- the cloth is ripped off, taking a decent amount of foliage with it. And sure, it stings like a bugger. My skin is burning. It ain't pleasant, I'm not having fun, but it's nothing I can't deal with.

And that's as bad as it would have ever been, had I just been getting a "bikini wax". But, brave, gallant fool that I am, I was not stopping there. For I was getting a brazilian.

Why? Because I am a generous and considerate woman, that's why.

See, we've just passed an anniversary, my sweetie and me. Our first, if you're measuring from the wedding. Our twelfth, if you're measuring from our first kiss. (Yes, we married on the anniversary of our first kiss. Isn't that so sweet and romantic? It was he who made note of the First Kiss date, not me. I'd never have been more specific than "sometime in the spring, wasn't it?")

So, because he is such a wonderful, sensitive man, and because I am still very happy to be with him, I thought to commemorate this occasion in some way. In addition to the small piece of sculpture I bought him, more of a desk ornament than anything, I thought I would get him something more personal, more ... intimate.

Given how many highly satisfactory hours the man has spent (all told over the years) nuzzling about down there, considering how he gets far more up close and personal with the lady bits than I've ever managed -- more so than any of the various medical personnel, even -- I thought I'd buy "him" a wax. And no half-measures here. We're doing the full monty. Nothing between him and the object of his affection but ... air.

The sweet young twenty-year-old bends to her task. "Press here." "Just once more, then I'll move over there." "Push down here, please." "Just once more for this spot." "Gee, those ones are stubborn, aren't they?"

Gradually, she moves in from the outer edges. Gradually encroaching on ever-more-sensitive tissue.

And when she gets to the crux of the matter? When she's into true brazilian territory?

"I'm going to use this kind of wax now," she chirps, indicating a different pot on the table beside us, "because it's gentler."

She daubs it on, taps it to test for consistency, gets a good grip, then ...

I passed out.

KIDDING!!

I only WISH I had.

There is nothing, people, nothing more painful than what happened next. There is no pain on earth to match it.

Okay, I exaggerate. We all know that. If you've had an arm gnawed off by rats, if you've had toenails removed without anaesthesia, if you've had smallish portions of your body seared with hot irons, you've experienced worse. But in the ordinary run of things painful?

Nothing can match having goodly sized chunks of hair ripped from the edges of the lips of your labia. (Too graphic for you? Too bad. I lived through it. That's far, far worse.)

I stared at my focal point. I did the labour breathing -- the third stage, high-level, I'm-going-to-die-if-this-doesn't-ease-up-in-12-seconds breathing. It helped. I know it did, because I stayed there on the table. I did not, as flashed through my mind at intervals, beat the sweet young thing unconscious with the magnifying mirror and make a break for it.

I did not even scream, though at times my head jerked back and my chin jutted to the ceiling as my eyes rolled up and gasps, ohmyGODithurts gasps squeezed past clenched jaws.

And, when the waxing is finally, finally over, when she puts away the pots and the wooden spatulas and the bits of cloth, just as you're starting to think you have indeed survived... she goes in with tweezers. For the hairs that didn't come out with TWO kinds of wax. That is, the REALLY, REALLY STUBBORN ONES. Tweezers.

My labour analogy?

A brazilian at its epicentre is worse than all but the very worst moments of labour. In fact, if a brazilian lasted as long as the average labour, women would go insane. Totally mad with pain. And possibly never recover.

If labour hurt as much as a brazilian throughout its entire duration, women would certainly never have a second child. Not without heavy, heavy drugs.

I am not having a second brazilian without heavy, heavy drugs...

On the way home, shaky with a combination of pain, adrenaline and sheerest relief, I phone my girlfriend, she of the graphic description. Who has had, I now note, never had a brazilian, but only the far gentler bikini wax. Because when women experience something we need to TALK ABOUT IT. At length.

I inform her that when the esthetician left the room and I had a look ... there were a fair number of stray hairs. 45 minutes of unpleasantness which included 30 of sheerest agony, and there is STILL HAIR DOWN THERE!

"So did you call her back to finish it off properly?" A reasonable question. I paid an exorbitant amount of money for the procedure; the damned thing should be done right.

Did I call her back in?

"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND???"

"Call her back in"... Good lord.

Matthew is delighted. And very solicitous of my comfort, and beside himself with appreciation for my self-sacrifical agonies. I have earned many, many, many Wife Points.

So there's that.

And I will never, ever do that to myself again.

The End.

Great excitement in the Irreverent household today! Bekah and I finally got around to trying out the cookie press we bought at the Pampered Chef party a month ago.


(Note to self: Do NOT take enthusiastic and social teen to party at which one might be tempted to spend outrageous amounts of money on luxury goods. Enthusiastic and social teens are so damned appealing that it is very hard to say "NO. No, we will NOT be purchasing the cookie press at $41.50, and we will even more so NOT be purchasing the $40.00 deep dish pie plate, even if it IS in a very pretty cranberry and even if you DO love pies and even if you WILL make pies yourself -- AND clean up the kitchen, mum, really!!!" It is very difficult to say NO to all that sweet and sincere enthusiasm without looking like a total wet-blanket drip of a mother in front of a room full of completely besotted adults. "Isn't she cute? My 14-year-old is never so sweet and enthusiastic.")

So we haul the cookie press out from under the counter. We mix up the recipe included with the kit. We ooo and aaaah over all the different shapes.

We learn a bunch of stuff, too. We learn that you need to set the press flush against the cookie sheet. Flush. And press the handle once, and only once. We learned that it is wise to scrape the exterior surface of the disk after every couple of cookies. We learned that if you tip the barrel up, you will get air bubbles in the batter. We learned that when you change disks, you need to tap the barrel to get the dough to settle against the disk again.

We learned so very, very many things!

Then we set the three dozen cookies into the pre-heated oven. And within three minutes, we have learned another, VERY important cookie-press lesson. When you are preparing cookie-press dough, you may not (NOT!) substitute margerine for butter:


Ahem.

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 ...

I look at my reflection in the mirror. And sigh.

"It's a nice shirt, otherwise, but I just don't like the neckline," I tell Bekah, who stands at my side, considering the image before us. "I hate it when the 'v' ends way up here. It should come down to..." I loop my finger at the nadir of the 'v' and give a vigorous tug, "... at least here."

She nods. "Yeah, because otherwise it looks like 'My boobs should be up here'..." She waves her hands roughly in the area of her clavical. Which, as it happens, is right where her 14-year-old breasts hang out. If such a word as "hang" can be used of their perky perfection.

"'...but I'm old, so they're way down here." The hands flicker somewhere slightly north of her elbows.

Ouch.

Thing is, she's nailed it. That's exactly what's wrong with the shirt. And, while not exactly a National Geographic woman, I am 46, and these reasonably substantial breasts have seen three pregnancies and a little over three years of nursing. Perky they ain't.

"Hey, missie. Enjoy those while you can, because you're built just like me." We are. Sometimes she borrows my bras.

She grins. "I am! But I just mean that shirt makes your boobs look old and saggy, not that they are."

And again, she's absolutely right.

The shirt is now in the going-to-Goodwill bag. My long-suffering, well-served and still-noteworthy breasts do not deserve to be so maligned.

“I did start it. I mean, maybe I hit him harder than I intended. Maybe he didn’t realize it was supposed to be playful.” I'm on the phone with a good friend, venting, questioning, ranting, debriefing; trying to gain perspective on an event that had shocked me to the core a day prior.

“Your first marriage was abusive, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but - “

“But nothing. There is never any reason to hit someone in the face. It is never all right for a man to hit a woman in the face. Don’t start excusing his behaviour.”

“I’m not trying to excuse his behaviour. I was shocked, humiliated and absolutely livid. I’m just trying to determine if my emotional reaction is fair, if it’s justified.”

“Your reaction is justified. Your poke in his stomach was playful. Everyone could see that. When you hit someone in the face, that is not playful. It's never playful. A blow to the face is intended to put you in your place, to establish dominance.”

“Huh. I hadn’t thought that through, but it would certainly explain the humiliation I felt. In fact, it was the intensity of my response that had me wondering whether I was over-reacting.”

OVER-REACTING???? You were the fucking BRIDE! This asshole didn’t just hit someone on the face, which would have been bad enough, male or female. He didn't hit some poor sap at a dinner party. He hit the fucking BRIDE, at her fucking WEDDING.”

Yes, indeed. At my very own wedding, the boyfriend of one of the guests smacked me across my face. Not just any guest, one of my two closest friends.

A moment to remember, indeed.

Let me recap.

The wedding had drawn to a close. People had met, people had congratulated and hugged. The ceremony - short, sincere, and touching - had gone without a hitch. More chatting, some eating, some drinking, and then a gradual drifting away of the guests until only a handful of us remained: me and my wonderful groom, my two friends, and the one friend's boyfriend of five years.

Now, I've met the boyfriend before, and we hadn't quite hit it off. We didn't not hit it off, either. I just didn't feel comfortable with him. He's a bit intense, a bit persistent, persistent to the point of aggression, almost. I've felt judged by him when my opinions didn't mesh with his standards. But we live in different cities, and I've not had a lot to do with him, so it didn't really matter. I did my best to be nice, because I value my friend and don't want to alienate her.

So.

The five of us are chatting, and my local friend suggests that we three women get together before my out of town friend has to leave with the boyfriend. We've spoken many times of the possibility of getting together, the three of us, but never had we had such a good opportunity as this. Out-ot-town friend defers the decision to her boyfriend. She further defers the responsibility of asking to me. In BF's presence, she tells me, "YOU try asking BF."

So, it's my party. Though Matthew's entirely sober, I've had two glasses of wine, enough to put a small spring in my step, and we've all been getting along famously. Lots of laughter, a little flirting, lots of light-hearted fun. I'm feeling more comfortable with this fellow than I ever have. So, with everyone watching, I approach him, put my hands on his collar bone, say his name with a saucy grin and a bit of a wheedle in my voice. "Oswald? Do you-"

He shoots out an abrupt "No" before I finish my sentence. I stick out my tongue - done right, this is charming and coquettish and just a little naughty - I stick out my tongue at him and pop him in the tummy with my fist. Not enough to wind him, not enough to dent his (not too toned) abs. Just a poke.

He laughs and puts his arm around my shoulders so I am swung to face the others. And with his other hand, he slaps my face.

Had he poked me back in my stomach, I would have laughed. Had he smacked my ass, I would have grinned. Like my poke in the stomach, those would have been playful.

He slapped. my. face.

Everyone went suddenly silent. Local friend was dumbfounded. Out-of-town friend was uncertain. My groom was shocked. I don't know how the jerk was feeling. Triumphant? If I didn't want an Incident to mar the very closing moments of my wedding, I had to react carefully. I didn't want this to be The Thing that everyone remembered. I didn't want this bizarre event to taint the whole day for my sensitive husband. Further, if he comprehended the depth of my rage, he'd do something dramatic in defense of me. The way things were going at the moment, an incautious response from me could have this ridiculous Thing devolving into a fistfight between these two men. Further violence would taint the day for me even further.

So I swallowed my rage and humiliation, and smiled. Just as I had swallowed it so many times in my first marriage. Swallowed hard, smiled, said something - I forget what - light and flip and casual. Swallowed very, very hard, and moved across the circle to join hands with my beloved. My warm, kind, courageous, firm, sensitive beloved. Within moments the out-of-town friend is on her way, and my in-town friend is walking home with Matthew and me. She reads my mood well, and we talk lightly about how wonderful the afternoon had been. Which it had, all but that surreal 90 seconds.

Out-of-town friend called a couple of hours later on her cell phone, "just to check in", but in reality to probe about my response to the slap. She was in the car with him, so I didn't feel free to really get into it with her and besides, I was still recovering and not ready to talk about it. I said as much. As she hung up the phone, I heard her telling him I was "all right".

And I am, once again, shocked. On the two occasions in ten years when I've felt Matthew has treated someone inappropriately, I have responded clearly. Once, in private, "That was unkind. I think you need to apologize." Or once, in the presence of the offended person, just a shocked, "Matthew!" In the first case, he did not agree with my assessment of the situation, but the discussion that followed was respectful and helpful. In the second instance, he immediately realized what he'd done, and his apology to the offended party was immediate and sincere.

My 'friend' did no such thing. No shocked exclamation. Not even a dismayed murmur. No drawing him aside. Nothing. Though evidently distressed at the time of the incident, she drove away without a word, and then made the call for him. Is she abused? Not physically, I'm fairly certain. Is she emotionally abused? We've had that conversation. She says not. I'm not so clear. There's something "off" about that relationship, something that makes me uncomfortable every time I'm near it. But she won't hear it. I've tried to be there for her, for the time when she sees the nastiness in their dynamic, but that's over. A line has been crossed, and there's no going back.

This phone call, which he had not the integrity to make for himself, was for his own reassurance. He was not seeking to know how I felt - only that he was in the clear. He did not speak directly to me, and he did not apologize. He did not apologize!

Apparently, he thinks it's okay to slap the bride at her wedding.

Bizarre.

A pretty twenty-year-old woman suddenly loses her composure. Sobs shake her slender body. An uncle spots her, hastens to her side and drops his arm around her shoulders. He gives her a squeeze of comfort and encouragement.

"Now, now. It's all right. Dry those tears. He wouldn't want that."

"He" being the dearly departed.

You know, at every funeral I've ever been to, someone has said that. It's a truism. The mother, the uncle, the brother, the friend who has just been lost wouldn't want to see his/her loved ones so full of sorrow.

Well, true enough, if he were alive. But, since we are all gathered at his funeral, this is clearly not the case.

A friend of mine recently admitted to having avoided a co-worker's funeral. "They're just so sad," he said. "Someone always cries, and I just hate that. I see someone crying, then I cry."

To which I responded, "Well, of course. You're supposed to be sad. That's what funerals are for: to mourn the person together, to gain support from the presence of others who care."

Grief can be a very isolating experience. It's nice - well, it's comforting, at any rate - and healthy, to be able to grieve together.

I don't object to the idea of a wake, I don't object to the notion of celebrating someone's life with a rollicking party. I don't think it's wrong to laugh at a visitation, or at the reception following the funeral (though it's probably best not to break into hysterical laughter during the ceremony). After all, if you cared for the deceased, you will have happy memories. So, yes, you can celebrate their life, remember the good times, laugh with others who share those happy memories. I would hope that, when my time comes, people can laugh with each other in fond remembrance of my more loveable eccentricities.

But there will also - should also - be sorrow. Which may just be expressed through tears.

I just want to say, for the record, so my expectations are clear and unequivocal: I will be seriously pissed off if at least a few tears aren't shed at some point during or after my departure commemorations.

Really.

I would like to think that my death will leave a sizeable hole in one or two peoples' lives. I would like to think that someone will genuinely grieve my passing. I would NOT like to think that, after mixing it up at the visitation, after listening to a few solemn proclamations at a funeral, each and every one of them would then proceed blithely onto the rest of their lives without a single backward glance, the occasional tear, a wistful glance, a sense of loss.

Come on, now.

I'm not demanding that every single person who ever knew me, no matter how slightly, be devastated. I'm not demanding a full two years' formal mourning from my family. I don't expect, or even desire, that people never recover from their grief.

But, for a few people, the people I care most about?

Yes, I would like some tears at my funeral.

Sheesh.

Phone calls in the small hours are never a good thing.

My mother has been admitted to hospital due to a possible heart attack. She had one last year, following surgery. Another is always a possiblity.

At first all seemed well. Tests indicated that no, there'd been no attack. The chemical they look for was absent. Bloodwork was perfectly normal. Everyone breathes a collective sigh of relief. Mum will probably be home later that day.

More bloodwork that afternoon, however, showed signs that a heart attack might be immanent. Suddenly, the heart attack chemical, whatever it might be, was there. Not a lot, but there'd been none before. Mum would stay in overnight for observation. Everyone moves into a state of mild alert.

That evening, her blood presssure starts popping up and down. This is the thing that had me up in the small hours, worrying. When vital signs aren't stable, nothing can be relied upon. I am now in a state of red alert.

You all recall that I'm getting married soon?

With the first call, we wondered if mum could attend the wedding. With the second call, we decided she wouldn't. "That's okay," says mum. "I'll come and visit as soon as I can afterwards." I'm disappointed, but we're within days, now. The deed is almost done.

But now, in the small, dark hours of the morning, my mind is filled with dire possibilities. If she doesn't stabilize? If they can't control the blood pressure? If this attack is worse than the last one? The decision is clear: if mum is in serious danger, I will cancel the wedding. Obviously.

The wedding that was years in the making. The wedding that was so very difficult for me to accept without panic.

But my mother could be dying. There is no question.

By dawn, I am resolute. Calm, decided. I will call the hospital, speak to the nurse in charge of my mother's case.

I have to wait till after the morning shift change. I rehearse in my mind the words. I am clear. I am at peace. I will seek the information I need to make the decision.

"Hello, this is LauraA, Mrs. V's daughter. I was wondering how she's doing this morning?"

I can picture the woman behind the voice. She's of average height, broad and soft. She's mostly grey, there are wrinkles around her eyes which speak of motherly compassion. Her voice has a warm, friendly down-east twang. Cape Breton, perhaps? If she's from The Rock, she's been in Ontario a lot of years. But it's homely and comforting, her voice.

The voice is reassuring. Mum has had a good night. Her blood pressure has stabilized, the blood tests are now all normal. She's alert and in good spirits, moving about comfortably. Relief washes through me. Nonetheless, I need to ask the question. I have my script, I know what I will say, with compassionate and calm resolution.

"That's good to hear. Here's my situation: I'm supposed to be getting married this weekend, and I was wondering if -"

and suddenly my voice is out of control, soaring skyward, as sobs shake me -

"I should cancel the we-eh-eh-eh-eh-ding?"

You understand that it is not the possibility of cancelling the wedding that is causing my distress. It is the fact that I am making concrete plans that pivot on the possibility of my mother's immanent demise. If this woman says I should cancel, it means I may realistically lose my mother in a matter of days. All my rehearsing and resolution melt in a pool of tears.

The nurse's response is immediate and patently sincere.

"Oh, NO! You mustn't do that! It would be terribly upsetting to your mother!"

'Probably give her a heart attack' almost pops out of my mouth. I bite back a hysterical giggle.

Later, my sister confirms the nurse's words. "Mum was saying yesterday, 'Goodness, I hope Laura doesn't do something silly like cancel the wedding'."

So, we're all settled. I will have my wedding this weekend, which mum will not be able to attend. Nor my sister, who will stay close, just in case. They will visit me as soon as mum is able to travel.

Physically tired from my sleepless nights and wearily worn to my last frayed nerve, I decide to take a restoring evening walk by the river. I've always loved to walk by the path, see the river in its moods and colours. In the evening, you're likely to see muskrats, be serenaded by peeps and croaks. It's therapy.

Bekah asks to join me. She's generally a companionable little thing, so we set off together. We chat quietly, idly, then she begins to worry about the state of her face. She's thirteen, and her complexion is becoming a focus of concern. There are tears in her eyes. It's things like this that confirm the solidly "child" status of a teen. The poor girl is in true distress. Nothing like having a child around to pull an adult's mind out of the grubby adult world and into the small concerns of daily life. One could argue the therapeutic value of this conversation, too.

And so I say, with loving affection.

"Sweetie, it's been a very difficult couple of days, and you know what? I simply cannot find it in my heart right now to care about pimples."

Good mothering involves giving your child the Larger Picture. We can call it Reality Therapy.