Middle Age Crazy

It's funny how life creeps up on you. My friend Anne and I tried to see "Mamma Mia" (the movie) last night and it was sold out for the early show. We could have seen "Hellboy II" or "The Dark Knight"...but Mamma Mia was sold out. Things that make you go hmmm..

Anyway, we were walking back to the car, and saw a couple of other women our age walking TOWARDS the movie line. We told them that "Mamma Mia" was sold out and they turned around and headed for their car as well. Sometimes, you just know what movie people are going to see. Anne commented that with the selections available when you "see another pair of middle aged women, you know what movie they're going to see."

Her comment caught me off guard, because I don't think of myself as middle aged. Of course, logically and chronologically, I AM middle aged; 45 certainly qualifies for that. However, I have a 3 year old daughter running around so I often talk with other moms (who are young enough to be MY daughter had life turned out differently)who are much younger than I am, but we're on the same level because our kids are the same age. I can relate to them because we're all going through the princesses/Dora/toilet training phase, regardless of our age on our birth certificate.

Hormonally, I'm certainly middle aged. I was warned 5 years ago by an Ob-Gyn when we were going through fertility stuff before we found out it wasn't medically possible for me to conceive and carry a child to term that I would be in full blown menopause in 3-5 years. I just finished a period that lasted into 4 weeks. I suspect the Ob-Gyn was right. My other friends who are "of that certain age" are variously starting to notice weird things with their cycles as well. My friend Wendy, who has a son going off to university in the fall, was 2.5 weeks late a couple of months ago and was terrified that she was pregnant...turned out, she's just going into "the change". She was both relieved and saddened by the news. She watches me chase my 3 year old, and she's raising 3 boys in their teens-she doesn't want to go back to diapers, but she was sad that she's losing the choice.

I guess, in the end, age is an attitude. My maternal grandmother lived to be 86, and she was the coolest person I knew. She knew the latest movies, the latest songs, and she danced a mean hustle. She made it her business to keep up on things, and was a verocious reader. She wanted to relate to her grandchildren, so she immersed herself in their world and their interests. She was the epitomy of "young at heart." My father, in contrast, decided that he was "old" at 60 and started walking with this slow, shuffling gait. It wasn't until he was mistaken for his younger brother's FATHER instead of brother that he snapped out of it and started walking upright again. I know children that are "old souls" as my mother would say-far more worldly in their outlook than they should be for their chronological age.

It's taken me this long to be comfortable with who I am and what I believe in. I wouldn't go backwards for anything. I'd like to right some wrongs, or make better choices about love and romance, but then, I wouldn't have the life I have now if I did. Hindsight is always 20/20. I don't think I'm in danger of a Mid-life crisis, because I'm finally comfortable (most days, anyway unless there's a bathing suit in public involved) in my own skin, in my own person and with my own values and life choices. If that's what being "middle aged" means, then bring it, baby. I can own that. But I still want to learn how to tap dance, belly dance and do that hip hop booty shake...I've still got almost half my life left, after all!

Definition of Multitasking...

Here is a definition of Multitasking:
This morning I was simultaneously

• highlighting my hair in the bathroom
• reading material for a course I just started to take
• cleaning the bathroom while the highlights "highlighted"
• making beds
• chatting with my daughter about which teddy bear she was taking to playgroup this afternoon
• listening to the weather report on the radio
• drinking my naturopath-prescribed drops in my water

And that, boys and girls, is multitasking...

Perceptions

I'm always fascinated by how others see us as opposed to how we see ourselves. I had an interesting conversation (okay...facebook IM conversation) with my friend Thea a few days ago about perception and it's stuck with me.

According to Thea, I was the envy of the "cool kids" in high school because I could sing. You could have knocked me over with a feather. First of all, I didn't really sing all that well in high school-not compared to now anyway after I've had some training. Second, I find it hard to believe that I was the envy of anyone in high school, except perhaps for the girls who were less endowed than I was. (and believe me, if I could have traded boobs with them I would have). I was a geek-I'm still a geek; I just dress better. Third, I don't even know who the "cool kids" were; they operated on a different plain of existence. They hung out with my cousins.

High school was tough for me on a number of levels. I grew up in Quebec (Dollard-des-Ormeaux to be exact) and went to elementary school there, and 2 years of high school. In QC, high school was considered grades 7-11, and then you did 2 years of CEGEP before university. When we moved to Kitchener in 1977, I had spent grade 7-8 in a private girls' school that only accepted 50 students a year and required an entrance exam prior to acceptance. Academics were paramount; a 75% was a failure, and if you were not in the top 5 in the class, you were worthless. I was in the top tier in class in everything but math, and I still maintained a math average in the 80s. We were also taught almost exclusively by nuns-Sisters of St Joseph-with the exception of the Spanish teacher and the gym teacher. We were allowed to fraternize with the boys' school 3 times a year for school dances and other than that the company was estrogen-driven. I had asked to go to that school because I was terrified of the high school I would have attended in DDO. It was safe, it was protective, and it in no way prepared me for high school in Kitchener.

Because of my academics, when I arrived in Kitchener, I was placed in Grade 10 instead of the Grade 9 I should have been in. My cousin Pat has never quite forgiven me for that one, even though I had no control over it because we were supposed to start Grade 9 together, and instead I ended up a year ahead of her.

To say I was overwhelmed is not even close to the feelings I encountered. I was in a strange city, in a new school with the only similarity to my previous one being uniforms and girls only. It was easily 3 times the size, and the emphasis was more on sports and student council-at least it seemed like that to me. I don't make friends easily and the culture switched from French to German. Kitchener can also be very insular and I had trouble understanding how to fit in. I still do; I just don't care anymore.

Music and theatre were my salvation. I loved to sing, and I loved music and choir became my solace. Theatre was perfect because I could be whoever you wanted me to be. If you didn't like me; wait one minute-try this persona instead. It took me years to shed the chameleon tendency and just be me. The theatrical productions took place in the all-boys school across the road from the all-girls school because the boys school had a stage. The theatre crew were all a bit eccentric-we were smart (we read Thoreau for fun, listened to Springsteen and stopped parties on Saturday nights to watch Saturday Night Live-it was still funny then. Of our group, 3 are now university professors, others own their own businesses, at least one is a professional musician, and most of us completed at least college or university) we were loyal and we were not into sports or school politics. I loved it and I felt like I fit in. It was okay to be smart in our group.

I was the kid who sat in the back of the class and said nothing. I was debilitatingly shy and hadn't learned yet how to live as an introvert in an extrovert-dominant world. Every once in awhile I would be compelled to say something and usually caused jaws to drop all over the classroom. I was bullied in high school; the wings of the theatre became by safe place. I also had no social skills and struggled to make friends.

I look back on that teen who almost committed suicide in high school and wrote a poem called "The nobody poem" and am truly amazed that anyone would envy me then. Of course, I have a hard time imagining why anyone would envy me at all.

I'm a 3rd generation, half-empty glass-raised girl. I've been actively trying to change my thinking, but it's tough to change 45 years of thinking overnight.

People who don't know me (and some that do...) have called my profile picture gorgeous. I don't see that, because it looks like me. All I see is fat face and big nose. Now granted, it's a good picture-my friend Dave took it in our backyard. My father used to call me a stupid, ugly, lazy slut and it stuck. Now I know I'm not stupid(except in math and that's why accountants and calculators were born) and I'm not, nor have I ever been, a slut (and I really don't think he knew what that meant when he called me that in high school but in any event...you hear it enough...) I can be lazy but I can also work like a mad woman-I work from home around a 3 year old after all. That leaves ugly and it's how I've always felt.

I'm average height and I was born in the wrong era. I would have been a poster girl in the Rubenesque period. I'm short waisted, big busted, wide hipped (my friend Clare's mom once said I had good child bearing hips-you could turn a bus in them. The irony of that is I never managed to carry a baby in my uterus long enough to find out) and have fat thighs and cellulite that won't go away. I have short stumpy little legs and short stumpy little fingers on a short stumpy little body. Yeah...that's gorgeous alright. I've always felt like the Pillsbury doughgirl with PMS, regardless of what the number on the scale said. Shopping for clothes has always been a nightmare because if it fit the bust it didn't fit anywhere else. Unfortunately, Mother Nature and Father Time have now balanced the scale so that clothes fit now...in sizes I never dreamed existed.

I don't think I've ever felt pretty. I've certainly rarely felt sexy and gorgeous-never. These days, mainly I feel fat and frumpy. Some days I know I look better than others, and thanks to no smoking and carefully staying out of the sun, I'm aging pretty well. I know I need to start working out again, and I always liked to swim, but there's that whole "bathing suit in public" thing. I'm afraid to go to the beach lest Greenpeace spray me with yellow paint and throw me back in the water...and I've felt that way since high school. I have worn a bikini exactly ONCE in my life (I was probably 13-14 and it was my cousin Kim's castoff) and I wore it for about an hour and never again-not even on my honeymoon.

I have a picture of myself at 18, standing beside my life-long friend Laureen (we've been friends since were were 3) on her deck in Vancouver. We were both in bathing suits. Now, Laureen is 6 ft tall and was a twig then. I was 5'5" on a good day standing straight and tall. She's tall, leggy, long waisted...and makes column dresses look amazing. I'm...none of the above. I was certainly not fat then but compared to my willowy friend, I always felt fat. All I can see when I look at that picture is how fat my legs look and how wide I looked compared to her.

I recently read Valerie Bertinelli's autobiography and found myself nodding in agreement many times in the book. I think we were sisters in another life. (except for the drugs part...)

I can sing pretty well, and I've been a member of the Grand Philharmonic Choir for 12 seasons. However, I don't have formal training, and when the conductor, Howard Dyck starts talking about singing a minor third scale or "to start at the E flat major bar" I panic. I sing by ear and always have. I still can't read bass clef-I'm a soprano...why would I need bass clef? :-) There are lots of people who sing much better than I do in the choir, and who have much more training than I do. I panic when we have to re-audition every year because I always feel like I'm 1 sour note await from expulsion. I don't think I'm anything to envy. I'm okay, better than some not as good as others.

I know I need to change my self-talk so that I don't pass ideas to my daughter. She is going to be tall and leggy. She's going to be really tall. Luckily, I have cousins who are raising tall girls because heaven knows I don't know what it's like to be tall. She's going to learn to be accepting and happy in her own skin...if it kills me.

And for the record:

I am not stuck up; I am shy. I have always used humour as armour and as protection. I see the world in a warped way...and it gets me through.

I am not a diva; I sing in church choir because it's how I pray. I am not there to take over or drown you out. I have a big voice. I'll do my best to blend but I suggest you sing louder and I'll stand at the far end away from the microphones.

I am not, nor have I ever been an extrovert. I have learned to deal in an extrovert world but I am very happy working from home.

I am not a hardass judgemental bitch (as an ex boyfriend once referred to me). If I come across as hardass it's because I'm protecting myself because I hurt easily and feel other people's pain acutely. I am honest. But I am also loyal and will fight fiercely for my friends, or for people who need to be fought for...if that makes me judgemental, I can own that.

I am not unapproachable. I am focussed and shy. I was always willing to help anyone who asked. If you thought I was unapproachable, you didn't try and I'm sorry you thought so. I lost alot of sleep over that particular label.

I can be intense. I'll give you that one. I can also be downright goofy. Just ask the kids who were in Annie with me...

So that's me. How do you perceive me?

All about Pee

I bet I caught your attention with that headline, didn't I! I've been swimming in urine the last few days, both human and animal. My cat and my kid have been peeing on the floor; my husband has been known to miss the mark, so to speak, from time to time. I'm seriously considering abandoning the toilet in favour of peeing on the floor. If you can't beat them, join them.

So what am I talking about? Well, Vampira, Mistress of the Dark started a playgroup this week, and she needed to be toilet trained. Last September, we were within days of having her fully trained, and then she broke her leg in two places, and by the time the cast came off and she was mobile again, she'd lost the urge. (Pardon the pun) and we've been struggling ever since. She knows what to do; it's more fun to push mommy's buttons and do her bodily functions in her pants instead.

We've tried stickers, treats, rewards. I practically stand on my head and dance the merengue (which I actually know how to do and dance rather well, being a former ballroom dancer) when she actually manages to complete the deed in the toilet. I've been keeping her in training pants or "big girl underwear" in the house and not switching back and forth (that is, until I'm too tired and have run OUT of training pants and big girl underwear and the laundry isn't finished yet). I've been effusive in praise and neutral about accidents. I've read just about every article and talked to reams of people.

I should mention that Vampira has more than her normal dose of stubborn. She is managing quite well at playgroup to stay dry. As soon as she gets home, it's peefest on the floor again (or worse, bowel movement in the pants-yuck.) I have given up this weekend and I'm leaving her in a diaper. I made her clean up her own pants in the toilet the other day after the bowel movement...I know we'll get there. Eventually.

And then there's Max. Max is a black panther who has had anxiety issues since we adopted him from the animal shelter 6 years ago. At first, we thought he was morally opposed to plastic-an eco-warrior cat who peed on plastic bags to tell us to get rid of them. The solution was not to leave plastic bags on the floor. Then he started peeing on shoes, papers, briefcases, gym bags...We've tried Feliway, Bach Rescue Remedy, Herbal infusions...and still he pees. We were really worried when our daughter arrived because we weren't sure how he would react. Turns out, he loves her. When she was a baby in the crib, he would hop up in the rocking chair in her room and hang out with her while she napped. He's been remarkably tolerant of her pulling and prodding him (and we taught her from day 1 to be gentle with him) and still likes to hang out with her.

So is Max sympathy peeing on the floor? Dunno. Is Max reacting to my stress about VAMPIRA peeing on the floor? Dunno. Max peed on Vampira's bed last night. Not good. I know from talking with animal behaviorists that Max is likely to pee for comfort on things that he is bonded to, so he usually pees on my stuff or Vampira's stuff. Shoes are one thing; beds are another. I went out this morning and spent a ridiculous amount of money I didn't really have on special litter, a special litter box and 2 cat pheremone diffusers that are supposed to make Max feel better. I also at some point in the next couple of days have to trap Max in a room with a litter box to get a urine sample to take the the vet. They have to rule out some medical stuff.

Husband was out of patience with Max a year ago. I called in an animal communicator and things got better for awhile. Things have been a bit wild the last little while here with health stuff, so no doubt he's picking up on all of the stress in the house. He's the uber-sensitive cat and he's really intuitively tied to me.

The next step is Prozac...for the cat not the kid. Might slip some to the husband to see if it helps too. (only kidding...I only slip him Rescue Remedy) Me-white wine and dark chocolate should do it. Help Me, Obi-Wan Kenobi (or St Francis...whoever is available) you're my only hope...