More conversations with Mrs. Maiden

You know, I thought she got it. I did.

I was telling her, early on, of the differences in culture between program and policy.

And then? At Christmas, she told me how she was looking for elegant things for me to wear to my new executive position.

'It's really not executive, mom', I said 'It's actually farther, kind-of. I'm no body's boss anymore...'

'Oh,' she said, 'I know that - but it's dressier, you said?' 'right.' I said, thinking of them, 'yeah. that's right.'

So then I received the package. There's a lovely bracelet, to blind them, and a shirt which had been described to me as 'terribly elegant'. Well. Uh. Um, I'm trying to think of how to work it in. It's 'washable suede'. Not a fabric I see that often here. So anyhow, thanks, Mom, really. Thanks. I really, really appreciate it.

But the real clarity on the lack of clarity? Oh, that happened Monday, when we had the following exchange. 'Is your office the type of place you could wear a really fancy Valentine's Day vest?' 'nnnnoooooooooooo.' 'oh. Because I found two (!) at the St. Vincent de Paul and bought them both.'

Now. I must admit that in the 13 seconds it took me to finish that word, I also thought of suggesting that Mindy Dallas, being a teacher like she is, would most certainly appreciate a gift such as that.

Just me. Payin' it forward....

2009

I'll do the math for you. The math that hit me about a month ago in the shower. I knew it was coming; I knew it. There I was, not bothering anyone but the unfortunate hair oils that like to call my scalp home, and wham. WHAM!! 2009?!? Hell.

That makes it my 20th high school reunion this year.

Dammit.

To be fair, I went to high school in this fabulous little beach town. Really - go take a peek - I'll be right here.... By way of explanation, that area is the self proclaimed "Blueberry Capital of the World" and has a Blueberry festival in early August. Heavily settled by the Dutch Reform, the area still boasts a very high population of the descendants of the original settlers. Aaaand for those of you wondering where my big, blonde, tanned and handsome imprint came from (mmmmmmmm), well, there's your direct line.

In fact, and this is Husband's FAVOURITE story bar none, when I took Husband - then only Hot Boyfriend - to my 10th year reunion, we had only been dating about 5 months or so. I was showing him the state park dunes just outside of town, when I kid you not, the entire boy's volleyball team ran past me after their beach practice, and I tripped. He's never, never let me forget it.

So anyhow - I'd love the excuse to go back in the summer. I mean, I grew up there, and for lack of a better place, it's one of the places I'd say I was from. I think we're going to plan a trip. It's a nightmare drive from here, and I'm not sure what I'd do with the kids for the evening - it's not like we still have family there, but if I can swing it, I'm in.

Which brings me to the dammit part. DAMMIT!! It's my 20th. These things are competitive. It's already ramping up on the Facebook. Now. Here's the thing. Well, several things. First. Because of the joy of the profile pic, looks like Mrs. Maiden's promise of early bloom/early rot did not completley pan out (bugger), but I might be holding my own. So at least there's that.

Of course for those who voted me 'girl most changed' at the 10th year who are now telling me I haven't changed a bit, uh, whaaa? Nevermind.

Secondly, and here's where I'd really appreciate your input, is the whole Facebook business itself. I'm a stickler, but a general rule for my Facebook usage is that I'm usually friends with the folk that I am friends with. That is to say - if there's not been a hole in my life for the past 20 years, we didn't hang out then, or you've never, never tried to reach me before, I'm generally good. (oh, and here's a little shout-out to my old rez neighbor who was last in contact when he looked me up on my Alma Mater's alumni site and tried to sell me life insurance 15 years ago. No. No. No. Not even for the sake of all of those full-body-boob-grope massages from back in the day. And that would be the same response to your wife. Yes, I remember her. NO, I didn't like her then, either.)

Is that harsh? I don't know. I really don't. To the cheerleader who has recently friended me. I haven't responded because I don't know what to say, other than you could not have picked me out of the crowd in school. (Here's a hint, look for the one carrying the flute in the purple and gold marching band uniform - naka* the man magnet - at the home games.) Seriously. You never spoke to me. I remember you, because you were a cheerleader. I doubt you remember me because of the flute, know what I'm saying? I'm not carrying baggage about it - but why on earth would I want to befriend you on Facebook?

You confuse me. I think you might recognize my name, and, as I have pretty much the same haircut as I did in grade 12, you can see that it's me. But seriously. That doesn't make you my friend. Does it?

Does an impending reunion require that I friend everyone from my graduating class that pops up? How about the dude that sat behind me in Grade 7 history with the awesome nickname that has followed him his entire life (think common term for soosie, or Olie Polie's next-door-neighbor's little brother)? I mean, I remember him..... So do I friend him too?

They'll know I never responded to their requests when I'm at the reunion. How to explain that? Well, seriously, I hardly think they'll talk to me then either.... And then afterwards, will they notice if I delete them?

Should I care?

Should I??

What's on my mind.

So here's the thing. There's been quite a lot of discussion about Oprah lately. And it's made me think quite a bit about my own situation (so NOT like Oprah) and what I think about being a woman in general.

A few weeks ago, I was sitting next to a female colleague in a meeting who was complaining about her butt getting flat. I think I smiled in a friendly and amused way, when she said, just wait - as you age, as soon as you stop working out for a week or two, your butt gets flat. Huh, I said - well, it certainly happened to me when I had the kids. Poof - kids came out, ass was like a pancake. It took months for it to come back.

And by the way, I said, regarding getting older, I'm pretty sure we're about the same age. I dunno, she said, looking at me, I look a lot younger than I actually am. I paused, looking at her, and she said, I'm 37. Me too, I said, I'll be 38 in September.

Huh, she said. I guess I look exactly the age I am.

So what did that mean? Did she think I looked way younger than I am? Did she think I looked way older than her?

Why is age and ageing so incredibly important? Why is it that arguably, other than the Queen, one of the most powerful women in the world can't just be one of the most powerful women in the world? She can't just be? It's as if sure, she's powerful, but she's not as worthy if she's not running marathons with rock hard abs.

What's so wrong with saying yep - I've got more money than the queen of England, and I'm rich enough for people to hand sew me lovely things in my size, and dammit, it's none of your business what I had for supper. Why is the size of her ass even an issue? What is it about us that makes thin and young more worthy of all other things?

Why does it take a part-time job to maintain weight?

I always say that it's because I'm too broke to buy new clothes, but really, if I think about it, it's vanity. It might be a little comfort - I hate having to hold my breath to paint my toes, but really, it's pretty much vanity.

It doesn't seem fair, either, that as my number gets closer to 40, this dorian grey painting gets harder and harder to hide in the closet. In September, as I've explained to Janey, my points drop by another one.

Because it's a lifestyle. Snort. One I've been doing for 15 years. I can't really think of where that food or lack thereof will come from. I bring my lunch. I stopped eating toast except for the weekend. My snacks in the afternoon mostly consist of tea and some fruit. Sure, I can get more food by exercising, but seriously. Read the blog. I'd pretty much sell my soul for a week of sleeping through the night. I don't really have the extra to work out all the time, you know?

Damn. It didn't used to be this hard. When Husband and I were dating, he would pick me up every Monday after my meeting and we went out for Chinese. And we ate out every meal on the weekends. It was like that. And I still maintained a weight 10 or 15 pounds down from here.

I often pick on Janey for being too mean to her. I mean, one pack of oatmeal for breakfast is concentration camp food. At least internment camp food.

It's not cool.

So why do we do it? Who's making us do this, if it's not us?

Why is it so important?

I'm mean to me because my stomach doesn't look like it did before two people lived in it. I recognize that's not entirely reasonable, but there we are.

So for those google searchers, I'm sorry. But really, aren't the three people who routinely see Katie Valentine naked enough? Especially since one of them (hint - not necessarily the one you'd expect) is so very fascinated with Katie's kitty hair?

Isn't it?

first and foremost

Happy birthday (and anniversary) to the fabulous Dr. Watson!!!!!!!

Hee.

I hope it was a terrific one of each! Clever, clever you to arrange having been born on a long weekend in January. And thanks again to Facebook!

Why's it so cold in here???

My dears.

There are several stories in my repertoire I like to think the catch phrases of inspire my audiences to request them again, for example, there is of course:
1. The story that involved the sentence "well, First Fiancé was a robotics engineer. He worked with……….well, as you can imagine, robots."; and
2. The story that included "Husband came home early to find him up our tree with a running chainsaw and liquor on his breath".

There are some stories best seen in person (like my sun).

And there was something that happened just last night that I think will, for
me, gain it's own little place on the list of favourites.

It starts, innocently enough, with me tidying up the always strangely cold family room. It has electric heat in there, and we frequently turn it on just to take the chill off, despite it having just the same amount of heat as the rest of the house.

I have long suspected it of poor insulation, the same suspicion I hold of the rest of the house, but this addition was built sometime in the 80s, so I would have thought it would be a tad warmer. No. The outside wall has always been remarkably cold. We can also strangely hear our neighbours close their car doors with surprising clarity.

In tidying up, I moved MlleL's craft/tackle box away from the wall and was surprised with the almost frozen quality of her paints. Very cold, they were. Very cold. And also, a bit stiff.

Strange.

So I felt around, and realized that the little hole our electrician/waiter friend had helped us remove the live wire from (hah, no, seriously, yes. It was a wire, poking out of the wall. She had had the couch on top of it.) in the trim was actually blowing cold air into the room. Sorta the reverse of say, the furnace.

I was very proud of myself for having found what I assumed to be the source of the problem, particularly after the success of shrink wrapping the upstairs windows (they're now almost clear!), and went off to find Husband to happily report what I thought might be able to be fixed with a can of Great Stuff (at least for now, until we think of a prettier way to deal with that room.)

It's down here, I said, behind the futon… We pulled it out. He felt the outlet. No, I said, pointing again to the little hole, about a toonie in diameter, here!

Leaning over the back of the futon, he pulled the spare portion of the mattress away from the wall to get a better look, and had to tug harder because the frost had stuck it to the wall.

Now let's just pause and read that last phrase again. The. Frost. Had. Stuck. It. To. The. Wall.

Now. I'm no Mike Holmes, but I am a big fan (hi, Mike!) and do watch the show, so I know that that? That's not right. Not right at all.

Fudgesicles.

Dear Timothy's:

Thank you, thank you, thank you for your recent introduction of the Matcha Sugar-Free Caramel Latte (made with skim milk) - I hope that your decision to offer this beverage for a limited time only is something you will reconsider in the coming month. As I'm sure my readers are aware, I am nothing if not a self-proclaimed sugar freak, so I dearly appreciate your catering directly to me with its surprising level of sweetness, as I recognize that I am a somewhat limited target audience.

I would also particularly like to note how extraordinary a beverage this really is. If one was to rely upon the nutritional information posted on your website, I would be under the impression that while taking wholly into consideration the 150 calories it is claimed to contain, I have also unwittingly consumed an impressive 150 grams of carbohydrates, a surprising 23 grams of protein, and a jaw dropping 28 grams of fibre. The total sum of calories for these components would normally roughly equal 900, but instead, they defy Plato's description of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts. For this I thank you.

I shall henceforth consider this wonderful beverage to be a super food, and totally, miraculously worth every one of the extremely valuable 3 points it cost me. I look forward to seeing you again at my very earliest convenience.

Yours in ways you cannot imagine -

Katie V.

PSA for lovers of the sun

All is not as it appears.

Running on the treadmill right next to our floor-to-ceiling terracotta styled sun on our basement wall (for those who haven't met me or seen it - it's more than you can imagine, almost 7 or 8 feet in circumference, with texture, an eyes, nose and mouth in a sort of southwest style and IT WAS HERE WHEN WE BOUGHT THE HOUSE.) I wondered at the flaking mud coloured paint.

And peeled it. Just a piece.

And discovered that under the mud coloured paint there lurks what appears to be blood fire orange tempera. Which explains the strange mottled appearance around the most textured bits - the flames, the nose, the mouth.

Which also means that the current colour scheme must have been a super-tricky plan to stage the basement to make it EVEN MORE ATTRACTIVE to potential offers.

Clever, clever girl.