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Misery Loves Company

complaining

I was at a workshop this weekend (yah, you know, the kind that privileged middle-aged-middle-class women attend to re-energize their lives). Our warm-up was to introduce ourselves one-on-one and tell the other person what our dream was.

For a split second I faltered. What was my dream? I knew what it was, but would that sound foolish???

Yah, that was my saboteur talking, so I gave her the finger and a shove, and repeated myself over and over until everyone in the room knew what my dream was, and I believed it could happen.  Worth the money and the time, thank you very much.

Although we were focussing on realigning our lives, there was a lot of misery in the room.  I supposed that’s why we all went – to banish it to the realm of 80’s hairspray and baby oil sun-tanning.

My mother, whom I relied on to teach me how not to be in the world, imparted  two solid pieces of wisdom upon me;

  1. Time goes by faster as you get older.
  2. There will always be assholes.

She was right about both of those things.

What I also learned from observing her was that misery loves company. And what I’m learning at this ripe old age of mid-forty-something is that not only does it love company, it absolutely requires it to survive.

There seems to be something entirely blasé about this time in life for most people. Whether they are in the throes of child-rearing, stale marriages, or realizing that their prowess now gives up the occasional purr rather than a ferocious growl, people in general connect via the lack in their lives rather than the abundance and joy. Cool has become the preferred carnival mask of middle age.

giphyI’m too old for cool.

I’m middle aged,(don’t argue with me about what middle-aged is, I’m a mortician, and mid-forties is way past middle aged for most of us, so get with the program), I want to be cool about nothing. I want to be passionately engaged about what gets me excited, and dismiss what drains my energy.

Misery invites company, it’s a seducer. It loves to lock it’s lips on our sexy, positive energy and suck the last breath from it.  Leaving it limp and impotent.

Misery is easy. Being miserable means you don’t have to invest or commit to anything.  And that’s so fucking easy to get away with. Misery sucks the life out of everything around it, in order to stay above water.

Joy, unlike misery is so busy smelling the flowers and investing in more joyful interactions that it generates enough energy to keep itself afloat.

If you are lonely go out join something. If you are bored at work, take a class and learn something new. If you’re fat, go for a walk. If you’re sex starved, trust me ladies, it’s out there to be had. If you don’t have enough time to do what you love, set boundaries….You get the picture.  Oh, and quit making excuses, that’s misery wrestling you to the ground, and not in the sweaty, sexy, one-garter-came-loose kind of way.

If you were to step into the room that I did on the weekend and were asked to everyone what your dream was, and you don’t know…you absolutely need to know. Misery has kept you company for far too long.

 

 

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Posted in Andshelaughs, andshelaughs writing, Art of LIving, Canadian Writers, Creative Life, Creative Writing, Healthy Living, International Travel, Joyful Living, Letter Writing, Life, Life Lessons, Lifestyle, Living, Midlife, Paris, Paris Travel, The Art of Living, Travel, Travel Advice, Travel Guides, Travel Writers, Travel Writing, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, Writing Inspiration, writing prompts

What You Need to Know About Paris

 

First of all, you need to know that I love Paris. Like: Love as-in-I-would-move-there-tonight-with-nothing-but-a-carry-on-kind-of-love. Looooooove…..

giphy-1

 

Recently I was asked by an acquaintance to send some information about my most recent holiday in the City of Light. It took me forever to get back to her. Mainly because I knew just how into it I would get, and therefor how much time it would take me to compose an email as full of useful information as I could muster with all of the enthusiasm I have for the city. I enjoyed every.single.second.

I went on about my favourite places, included links and maps, tips and tricks, and loads of my very own opinion. Which, of course, the world needs more of.

paris cafeYes, I adore all of the idiosyncrisies of the French. This includes terrible and rude (if not also terribly rude) service and their casual sense of elegance.  I love the tiny streets of Montmartre with the colourful shops squeezed together like hippies on a road trip. I love the billionaire-on-a-budget attitude of St. Germain, the connection to great artists I feel when I sink into the reading nooks on the second floor of Shakespeare and Company, and the thrum of those places where new worlds collide and your footsteps become unsure.

Had I only been able to make one suggestion to her though about getting a feel for what to expect, it would be this;

Find a lovely scarf which is slightly too long to wield delicately, and get thee to a crowded outdoor patio in the spring time. Order wine or coffee and a tiny glass of water, and no matter what the menu, expect an exquisite presentation of deliciously prepared food. All of this served to you by the most disinterested and apathetic server that you can imagine while your scarf blows in the wind like a prop from an Audrey Hepburn movie.

Welcome to Paris.

 

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Just Say No

grocery storeI’ve spent the better part of my 40’s scouring the grocery store for Shake’n Bake and marjoram, figuring out that flannel jimmies stick like velcro to flannel sheets, and annoyed at how closely hostility boils at the surface of every-single-freaking retail transaction I make. Hey sweetheart, I’ve worked retail too, so please, save me the passive aggressive bullshit and bag my groceries already.

By all accounts, I’ve achieved an acceptable definition of success; I have had a career most people find fascinating, I married, produced offspring, and divorced. I am in a socially acceptable relationship. Despite the lively shenanigans in my second and third decades of existence, I have remained alive and don’t have a prison record. Success!

I now have nothing to prove to anyone but myself. So I  can finally work on my own definition of success, writing, creating, and spending my time off imparting my hard won wisdom onto my child whilst sipping copious amounts of gin and wearing the grooviest muumuus I can find.

Oh, and I need to shed some of this joy-weight. You know, the kind that comes from trying to be the best mom, gal-pal out for drinks, and stress eating (because a lot of people are selfish assholes). The rest of the people are cool, and should be considered kindred spirits. Good luck figuring out which are which.

If you are a young woman reading this, skip directly to where middle age has positioned me emotionally.  Do not give a shit what others think.  Speed immediately past GO and tear up your Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free Cards. Screw it…just keep doing what you feel you must do, and save yourself a tidy little nest egg while you’re at it. If you can’t save, cultivate your charm. You’ll need it.

This rant comes courtesy of telling myself not to take my own self care seriously, giving up my yoga and writing time until my routine at home becomes somewhat normal again.

As I wandered down a grocery store aisle (for the second time) in search of Shake’n Bake, I realized that what I was feeling was not frustration. Just an aside, Shake’n Bake should be sold above the meat cooler like the wise old grocer did in my childhood village. What I was feeling was not frustration, but resentment. Resentment that it was my precious time being wasted searching for the solution to someone else’s craving for baked chicken.

But the thing is ladies, no one holds a gun to our heads while we frantically search grocery store aisles for 1970’s chicken coating. No. We take it on all by ourselves, and wear our tidy, well-stocked homes as a badge of honour.  I am the only one in my house who ventures to Costco because they know what a colossal time-sucking-black-hole the entire expedition is, same goes for restocking grocery trips and big-box store runs.

As I was finishing my errands today ( on my day off when I should have just ran away with my laptop to some wonderful cafe for four hours) I received a text;

Hey, can you stop by Costco and pick up a couple of boxes?

 

Which begs the question; Seriousfuckingly???

Seriousfuckingly ladies. Just say no.

 

 

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New Year Week Two

Week two of the new year and all is well.

Relatively. I think. And hey, what I think is the only thing that matters when it comes to my own reality…right? Don’t answer that.

A few years ago the big thing was saying YES to new experiences and and opportunities, whether they were scary or not. I think that keeping with my focus for the new year (more exposure to new people, experiences, places and events), it will involve a lot of saying yes.

So,  I said yes to an invitation to meet someone new, and to go somewhere I’ve never been.

I set out via transit (I’m a suburbanite who always drives), and loved this new route. This opens up new ease of access, to places I’ve yet to discover, and also allows me to drink more margaritas.

campechano

I met a lovely new woman who had suggested a Toronto Fringe Festival play (Cannibal), which was well-written and marvellously executed on stage.   We strolled down to Campechano for dinner. I’m not going to rate the restaurant because I totally overdid it on Mexican food this year, and if I have another lime and cilantro soaked ceviche any time soon, I’ll die. Just beware that they are a taqueria, and the menu reflects that.They did have tres leche cake on the menu for dessert (the only dessert on the menu), so that’s something.

New acquaintance, new restaurant, new theatre. Not bad for a night out.

I simply could not leave the King Bathurst area without a spree at Forno Cultura, by far, my favourite Italian and Mexican bakery. I tried a new sour cherry type of strudel and me ta lovely employee who reminisced with me about the good-old-days of Terroni prior to one of the founders’ passing. He graciously provided me with an olive oil tasting to win me over from my Terroni stand-by, and pointed out that the  chef behind the wall of glass, who was calmly cutting blocks of butter into uniform cubes was on Iron Chef and won in the flavour category.

bookshelfOn another excursion to return my flu-addled kiddo to university I made my way to a really cool looking place that combines a very well-curated bookstore, with a cinema, and not one, but two restaurants in the same building. It’s called the Bookshelf, and it’s an amazing place to spend time (and money).

All of this because I said yes.

 

 

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For Women Over 40 – Period.

enhanced-7925-1428613781-1This is a blog about menstrual cycles.

There. That should be enough information for you to decide whether you want to read this or not.

Having reached the age of, well, too old for the pill and too old to be convinced I need extra chemicals in my body, I found myself in need of (for the first time), supplies.  Having opted for the Mirena for years, I had little if any need for pads or tampons. But when my body had had enough, and the Mirena was removed, I needed to get back to the wonderful world of feminine hygiene products. Aside; I despite terrorizing reports about the Mirena, I loved it. The worst part was having it implanted. Removing it was a snap, and my doctor did it in her office. Easy-peasy.

I’m convinced that until men start bleeding from their penises, women will be unfairly taxed for feminine hygiene products.

Introducing the Diva Cup. If you haven’t hear of it, just click on the link there. Promoted as being reusable, and a cost saver (because you simply wash and reuse it), I’ve heard excellent things about it.

The Diva Cup isn’t the only menstrual cup out there, but it’s easy to find.

menstural-cup-small-cups-menstrual-cup-greece-menstrual-cup-comparison-india

Basically, it’s a reusable cup that’s supposed to be inserted into your vagina. It forms a seal and catches your menstrual blood. There’s a little tip on the end (kind of like the tip of a condom, but more solid) that you can, theoretically, grab hold of and pull it out.

To make it interesting, the Diva Cup comes in sizes. Since I’m over 30 and have given birth, the general instruction is to go to the largest size, a size 2.  I picked myself up Diva Cup for the standard $39.99, and took it home, eager to see what it was all about.

First of all, the material is  a lot thicker than I thought it would be. And it gets slippery when it’s wet.  Ideally you’re supposed to kind of fold it in half and slide it up into your lady hot-stove. Ideally.  Let’s just say I had to make more than one attempt to launch my Diva rocket, and I was convinced that despite my age and history of childbirth, that I still had a nice, tight woo-hoo. The discomfort did da lot for my gynaecological confidence.

Maybe I needed a smaller size? After a few attempts, the Diva Cup did make it’s way  to where it was supposed to be. But it was still folded over, it had not opened up into the full circle so the cup could form a seal.

Instructions said to give it one full turn to make sure that it was sealed. Easier said than done. It’s slippery up there! It was like trying to grab hold of a soaped up piece of rubber in a narrow, squishy drain pipe. I’m sure it just takes practice. Having my fingers inside of my nether bits while I’m menstruating wasn’t really a fantasy that I dreamt of living out when I slid the pretty Diva Cup box off of the pharmacy shelf. Alas, there I was, bloody fingers slipping all over the outside of a wet, rubber vaginal insert…already panicking of course about a myriad of things to be anxious about once you have a foreign object jammed inside an orifice.

After monkeying around bent over like a dog digging at mange on it’s stomach, I finally got the seal.  A seal I wasn’t entirely confident of. And then I waited.

Actually, I went to bed. What better way to test the seal than to lay down, roll around and get things moving in the morning.  No leaks. This was a plus. No horrific feeling of having a giant bowl stuck inside of me. I was convinced  that I could get through a yoga class without any concern of leakage or discomfort. Bonus.

Time to remove it.

It was cold last night when I took the Diva Cup for a ride,  and I had snugged in tight underneath my fluffy duvet. Turns out the Diva Cup also snugged in tight. The small little doo-hickey that I had carefully examined prior to inserting the cup seemed to have shrunk overnight.

handwashing_fight_germs

Let me just start by saying that I have short fingernails. Shorter than average. I also excelled in microbiology. ‘Nuff said. I’m quite convinced that had I tried to remove this cup, which seemed to have formed a vacuum seal, with fingernails, that I would have broken one off in my vagina.

Getting the damn thing out was difficult. Yes, I was likely tense, but getting ahold of that little tip was like catching a greased pig. Bent over the toilet, I thought that worse case scenario, I could get a pair of locking forceps and pull the damn thing out.

Please see a video on YouTube for an official DivaCup informercial, including insertion and removal.

Having said all of this, I can see the benefits of using the Diva Cup. It does what it’s supposed to do, and it saves money over the long-term. Who really knows about environmental benefits. After all, does the material in pads and tampons degrade more harmlessly and more quickly than medical grade silicone? That, I do not know.

pads.jpgI will be using the Diva Cup again, and hopefully becoming more and more comfortable with inserting and removing it.  I loved the idea of using this while camping and travelling but the reality is that being in a clean environment for removal could  be problematic under those circumstances.

Yes, it is more environmentally friendly, and the cost would definitely be worth it if you are going to use it all of the time. Provided you’re in an environment where you feel comfortable inserting and removing it, I think the Diva Cup could be a lovely addition to an active woman’s lifestyle.

The big plus; Not trying to get to sleep  with a mattress sized pad between your legs, and dare I even go as far as saying, sleeping completely a la mode.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in Andshelaughs, andshelaughs writing, Creative Life, Healthy Living, Life, Lifestyle, Living, Midlife, Mindful Living, The Art of Living, Uncategorized, Yoga

How Full is Your Cup & What’s With the Heavy Breathing Guy?

yogaIf you don’t already know, I’ve been captive in my own home, caregiving. As much as I have come to appreciate my mobility, I also miss it. The big kind of mobility. The kind of mobility that finds me doing  completely selfish, self-care. The kind that involves hot yoga every day I’m not working the night shift.

I like to think of self-care as part of what any good social liberal would call boundaries; the things I need to maintain balance and health.  Let there be no mistaking it, these boundaries are for the privileged. Before you go all first-world-problems on my ass, I’ve not always been so privileged. I appreciate it, and in order to live my best life, I will pursue these things. Hot yoga, time to write, and dates that inspire creativity.

A mere week before I unexpectedly had to change course and stay home to caregive, I sustained my own injury, which required physiotherapy (which I haven’t had) in order to heal. Today, with the help of some respite at home, I was able to make it back to a one hour class to get my sweat on.

The first thing that I noticed was the stink. The unique odour of an unwashed yoga towel.   Actually, that’s a lie. The first thing I noticed was annoying heavy breathing guy. If you’ve ever gone to a yoga class, you know exactly who I mean; the one person in the room who is the equivalent of the asshole on the train who sits with his legs spread, crotch on display, taking up the width of three seats.  His clear sinuses infect the room like a swarm of mosquitoes.

He was already in the room when I went in to place my mat on the floor. He was actually in my spot, breathing like, look-at-me-I-was-raised-in-the-sacred-culture-of-yoga-and-I’m-going-to-breathe-in-all-of-the-heat-and oxygen-and-I-want-you-to-hear-my-dominance.  I’m nothing if not flexible, so I moved to my third favourite spot (on the opposite side of the room) and took to my stinky mat. By the way, heavy breather also farts through the entire class.  My third-favourite spot is now my second favourite spot. Sans farts and annoying noise.

I had to baby my injury, but it felt soooo good to get back to something normal. Something that has become a huge part of my self care. Part of what today’s instructor referred to as ‘my cup’. Before we began, she asked us to evaluate how full our cup was. Flat on my back, breathing deeply into my chubby belly, I decided I was at about 75%. And and I was pretty damn happy with that. Not so bad under the circumstances, especially considering that I knew what I needed to add the 26% which would create a convex surface atop  the cup, making it dangerously close to overflowing…

Sweat dripping onto my turquoise  towel, I felt hot, sweaty, healthy, radiant and for the first time in a long, long, time, more like myself.

Today I welcomed the inappropriate presence of  heavy breathing guy, hipster-shirtless-beard guy and the Asian business lady who was oblivious of the silent rule who interrupted my mojo by asking me questions at the beginning of the class while I was clearly getting down to it in Savasana. She also moaned painful ‘Oh God’s’ as she transitioned into each new position. Come to think of it, maybe that middle-aged lady knows a little trick that I don’t know. A little Oh God moaning might do me a world of good…

Regardless of your situation in life, I urge you, as I urge myself, to maintain your boundaries. Ensure you know how to refill your cup, even if you’re going through a stage where it’s not full. Know your boundaries, and skedaddle like hell when you get the chance to give yourself some of that self-love that you need. If you don’t get time, fight the good fight to make the time.

 

Posted in Art of LIving, Comedy, Creative Life, Fearless Living, Graceful Living, Gracious Living, Humor, Joyful Living, Life, Life Lessons, Lifestyle, Living, Meaning of Life, Middle Age, Midlife, The Art of Living, Uncategorized

New Year-New You, Which Includes New Undies

giphy-2Amid all that can be happening on any given day, death always calls us out.

As many of you know I’ve been bound to the house, with little social contact other than running necessary errands.  Ironically, today, my outing was to a funeral. There’s nothing more poignant than the thud of cold dirt hitting a plain, wooden casket on the bottom of a single grave. It makes you think about what’s important (my kid), and the things I can’t control (my kid).

As a young funeral director, death brought a hunger for life that was sated by sexy shoes, late, late nights, and a swath of of decadence for every hunger.  As an old funeral director, death brings the longing for continued relationships with the old friends, time to create and new friends with whom I can explore all of the fun and excitement still left to savour.

Which brings me back to shoes. Am I the only forty something mamma who has let her shoe game go the way of extremes? I’m a beach baby from birth. My professional uniform consists of  ultra conservative shoes and my home life is a melieu of thongs and runners.

womensundies

And then there’s undies. Today I pulled out a black pair of barely-there delicates when I was reaching into my pink and white drawer. When  was the last time that I wore these, I thought to myself, as I pushed them to the back and frantically felt around for the giant suckem-ins that I hoped I still had. You know what I’m talking about ladies, the one stretchy pair of gitch that hides the abundance of the good lord’s handiwork. The ones you pull out when you wear one of two types of outfits; one that’s a size too small after the holidays, or one that’s meant to leave little to the imagination.  I haven’t worn the latter for a very, very, very long time.

Standing at the graveside, with my tights having slithered down past my crotch against my teflon-slick miracle-granny-panties, my new friend Hayley was describing the ideal of humility that was at the core of Jewish funeral traditions. I was trying to focus on what she was saying at the same time as I was wondering how, exactly one was supposed to get tights to stay up against the ugliest slipperiest undies in the world. Perhaps I’ll go back to garters; sexier, and less likely to leave you with your tights around your knees in minus five degree weather while you shovel dirt onto a casket. I waddled back to my car like a baby penguin, knees pressed together so my dignity didn’t slip down any further underneath my black overcoat.

A few years ago, after experiencing the death of someone close t me, I  went back to a simple uniform and community anonymity.  It was a big relief.  I went from where everyone knew my name to a place where no one did.

There is always something within passion itself that opens doors to a different world and a different way of embracing the world in which we find ourselves.

The new year may bring something much different for me though. Socially I mean. My private life finds me in hippie style, barefoot and outside as much as possible, with flowy dresses, jeans, and flip flops. My mom-life is a sports mom-life (jeans, sweaters, and anything that will keep me warm while sitting on cold metal bleachers in late fall).

This new year will find me back out and about. I need it. I need you. Besides my regular ‘resolutions’ of acquiring more grace and patience, I’m going to give two new resolutions a go; no judgement (I can be such a hardass),  and new friends to go out to explore the world. This must include socially appropriate duds, including functional undies, sexy undies, and stunning footwear.

My passion is writing, and what better reason to give new experiences with new friends a try? After all, to write stories, we must have some, even making friends at a Jewish funeral with your tights around your knees.