humor

Not Quite a Midlife Crisis, AKA Getting My Act Together

/ Sarah / Leave a comment

The last day of September. The month has flown by. And with it, another birthday.

Over the course of the past 30 days, I have come to a realization; at 41, I am half way to 82.

82. Eighty-two. If I’m lucky.

The last time I felt this way, I was 15 and freaking out because I was half way to 30 and that was so OLD! Foolish, foolish girl. Perhaps it was the anniversary of my arrival, or the lack of sleep, but I had a stern talking to Myself. It would seem the two have come to an understanding.

1. ME, MYSELF AND I – I have moved myself up my own list of priorities. This is huge for me. I have taken my role as a mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, as being my priorities and then felt frustrated when others haven’t acknowledged the effort I put out. It’s not their fault. It’s mine. No one can change it but me. So I have. I just need to work on the guilt!

2. SALLY FREAKIN’ SUNSHINE –  I am pulling away from negativity. I have always been a positive person, and I think that positivity has drawn people who are less than sunny. Their frustrations and sour demeanor has been a drain on me and I’m simply going to focus on people who are willing to find solutions, not dwell on the problems.

3. LET’S GET PHYSICAL – Taking care of myself kinda fits in with #1, but this is a more literal, physical interpretation. Get my arse moving. I missed an entire summer of playing ball, and I hated not being more active. I asked for a treadmill for my birthday, and The Big Guy was obliging. I’m hoping that having this conveniently located in the Rec Room, near the DVD collection, will keep me walking through the winter.

4. GETTING ON THE FUN BUS – I’m taking advantage of any opportunity for something fun. While 82 would be awesome, suffice it to say that none of us are guaranteed tomorrow and I don’t want to look back on a life of work. How much fun have you had lately?

5. THINKING OUTSIDE OF THE BOX – I’m keeping my mind open to things. Just in this past month, I’ve given myself the latitude to explore ideas and ideologies that I hadn’t really considered before. I don’t think it’s too late for me to learn and investigate concepts outside of what I’ve accepted as the “norm.” I’m really excited by this and can’t wait to stretch my brain!

6. NO MEANS NO – I’m learning to say NO. Because NO is such a foreign word to me, I’ve evaluated the things I devote time and effort to and asked if I’m enjoying doing them. If it’s not a resounding YES, it’s a NO. NO gets the boot every time.

So while I haven’t had much to report here in this past month, I’ve certainly done my homework. When you look back at your life, however long or short it will be, will you be satisfied with it?

I’m doing what I can to make sure I am, and I’ll be rocking with the 82 year olds.

 

Fifty Shades of Silver AKA A Hair Raising Situation

/ Sarah / 3 Comments

I have had a love/hate relationship with my hair for a long time.

Growing up, I had long hair. Think waist length. My parents loved it. Both Little Sister and I would go years between trims and I can remember how  exciting it was, that I might get a hair “style”, but no. It was just a trim of dead ends. I begged for shorter hair like some of my friends. I was told I could cut my hair when I was “older”.

Well…that wasn’t Grade 8…

Lookin’ like I just fell off the buggy….

Hair as thick as a horse’s tail and would give me a headache when it was up in a ponytail. My friends had adorable shags, bowl cuts, perms. I had brown-blonde hair. Although my mother will swear on a stack of bibles that I am a blonde.

I enjoyed some relief in Grade 9 when I was sophisticated enough to trim off some length.

WHOO – HOO. Trimmed all the way up to my shoulders. Daring!!!

I must have forgotten to book my back to school trim, because I have a mane full of hair again the next year.

Holy Nelly, the girl has bangs. Or is that fringe? Or just a sad excuse of….oh forget it. Like those “bangs”.

In fairness, I should mention, I did have braids, the occasional bun and was the proudest owner of the largest barette collection this side of my sister’s room.

At some point in my later secondary school career, I sported the Wilson Phillips; that is the same chop job sported by Chyna Phillips. Somehow, I didn’t look as good as she did. Now I know it is because she has fine, thin hair, and mine, uh, isn’t. So it grew back out once more and by the time I was in college, it was long. Again.

I waited until after my graduation photos were taken, and hacked it off again. The only thing that consoled my father was that he had the photo of me with “normal” looking hair.

Not long after that, I became engaged, and thought long hair sure would be helpful if I wanted to sport a bun with the very chic and simple veil and headpiece I had in mind. Two years later, I had the hair I needed. Two days after the wedding, I step off a plane in the Caribbean and my hair went up four dresses sizes. I couldn’t do anything with it. I had also neglected to pack a trunk for all my barettes.

With my new husband in tow, I found a fellow passenger whose coif I fancied and asked her to help me. We found a hair dresser and he cut off my hair. From that point on, the honeymoon was a blast and I needed A LOT less conditioner.

My return home was less smooth, as Little Sister, who had just completed her training as a hair stylist, was severely annoyed that I dared to let someone else tame my tresses. She finally forgave me when I agreed to let her put highlights in my hair.

“Don’t do it!” my mother warned. “You’ll end up coloring your hair!”

I scoffed. A couple of well placed touches of sunlight couldn’t possibly hurt. Two years later, I’m blonde. Like the blonde my mother thinks I’ve always been. Like, Marilyn Monroe and I finally have something in common.

In the years following, the longest I got my hair was to my shoulders. I couldn’t imagine letting it grow any longer. My hair was a rainbow of colors from red, to black and even blue. When I worked in the entertainment business, my hair became somewhat of its own persona. People discussed it, admired it and actually anticipated seeing me again, just to find out what color it would be. In my current position, my coworkers could give a rat’s ass what color my hair is.

Over the summer, with my “blonde” look matching my sunny disposition with the warmer weather, I watched my roots grow out. I wondered what colour my hair was, exactly. After another trip to see LS, this is what we got…

Something special in here!

Perhaps you can’t see it on this side, or the blonde tips are blurring your vision. Let’s try again.

I don’t like to call it “grey”; I prefer “platinum”!

When I was 19 I noticed a patch of grey, which obviously spread and took residence on the rest of my cranium. Reaction to this new do has been mixed.

The Big Guy doesn’t get a vote. I told him that since I don’t get a vote on whether or not he loses hair, he doesn’t get to comment on my silver follicles.

First Born Son was very supportive. He liked the idea that this was my “real” color. He thinks I should keep it like this.

Second Born Son, however, thinks it ok. He doesn’t want it to be a permanent move though.

“You have to color your hair, Mom!” he declared.

“No, I don’t, actually,” I replied.

“But your hair, it’s your….THING!” he said. “People know you because you color your hair!”

While he most definitely overstates this, I can’t help but think it might be novel to actually move away from coloring my hair and just stick with what I “am.”.

Who knows, maybe the next thing will be waist length locks!?

Highly unlikely.

Nineteen

/ Sarah / 2 Comments

Because the when I look back, some of my best times are with you….

Because in some of my most challenging times, you are the first one to step up for me…

Because your first reaction in dealing with anything, is to laugh…

Because after 19 years, I’m not sure I’d want to train someone else…… KIDDING!!!!!!

Love you lots Big Guy. Happy Anniversary!

*For those of you haven’t given up on me – THANKS!!! I will be back in a week so we can all catch up!

Birthday Boy

/ Sarah / 2 Comments

What is summer without a party or two?

For those of us in Boweryville, the first (so far) of the year was last week, as we celebrated the 80th Birthday of The Big Guy’s uncle. This birthday is particularly important to me and The Big Guy since Uncle B is the reason we met.

 

Back in The Day when I was young and naive and lived on a farm, my family and I attended the Anniversary Sunday of our local country church. Following the service was a potluck meal, which was the pride of the ladies who lived up and down the Concession. Homemade salads, heaped platters of meats waiting to be tucked into fresh rolls; it was as much a feast for the eyes as it was the palate.

My contribution was a chocolate cake (surprise, surprise). As we enjoyed fellowship, a neighbour to the south, Uncle B, came up to me to compliment me on my dessert. I was hugely flattered. As I knew this gentleman was a bachelor and his family lived a distance away, I thought I’d make him an offer.

“If you tell me when your birthday is, I’ll make one for you!” I exclaimed.

“July 12th,” he replied.

So on the morning of one of the hottest days of the year, I got up, started the oven, and made a chocolate cake for my new fan, the birthday boy. When the cake was cooled and iced, Dad offered to drive me three farms over to deliver the cake. Little Sister had nothing better to do, so she came along for the ride.

As we drove up the lane way, we noticed a tractor heading back the lane way, past the main bank barn further along to the back fields. We followed the tractor and arrived at a smaller cottage style house and smaller bank barn. There we saw a trio of people, as well as a fourth on a second tractor in the field behind the house.

I was about to meet my future husband, and inlaws.

All I could think of was that the cake I was holding was going to melt in my very hands. The older couple were concerned that  a) they forgot it was the actual birthday of Uncle B, and  b) that they didn’t think they had room in their fridge to keep my confection from becoming a puddle.

Our exchange was short. The driver of the tractor we followed back the lane was indeed The Big Guy, and Uncle B was behind the house, round baling and giving a small wave of the hand as he went past our group. I handed over the cake and we left.

“That guy liked you,” said LS.

“Who???” I asked incredulously.

“The guy wearing the necklace.” she said. (Referring to The Big Guy who was a slick City Boy – gold chain et al.)

I had no recollection of what the guy was wearing, what he thought of me or what his name was, even though formal introductions were conducted.

A few weeks later, we would meet again, thanks to Uncle B. The rest, as they say, is history.

25 years ago history.

Hard to believe baking a cake could land you a husband! Happy Birthday Uncle B. Happy Anniversary Big Guy.

Love you both!!

I’m Going to Hell – Who’s With Me?

/ Sarah / Leave a comment

I saw my first stripper when I was 15.

I’ll give you a moment to grab your jaw. It’s over there, on the floor.

To clarify, the guy was an impromptu addition to a 50th Birthday Party for one of my dad’s coworkers. I was asked to provide music for the party since I had an enviable collection of music, and let’s face it, the BEST person to spin tracks for a 50-year-old is a 15-year-old. Yup – that’s sarcasm. It was during that event that it was revealed that a certain “special” aspect of fete was being thrown in. Before you knew it, some oiled up muscle man was bumping and grinding his way around the birthday girl.

She loved it. I was somewhat repulsed and yet secretly thrilled that he left his thong on. After all, my parents were in the room.

So perhaps I’ve had a more liberal outlook on these topics, but I was really taken aback by a posting by a fellow blogger I happen to have read last night. Usually I enjoy her take on parenting, being a young mother and family life in general, but yesterday’s entry gave me pause. I’m not going to share a link because frankly, I don’t want to give a platform to the kind of blather she was dishing.

In short; she thinks I’m going to hell, and that my marriage is doomed.

Cuz I’m going to see Magic Mike tomorrow night.

Helloooooooo There!

Her take on this is that by watching a movie (she doesn’t name it specifically) I will open the door for Satan to pervert my mind. I won’t be able to help myself from comparing my relationship with my husband with the relationship I would wish for with one of the characters in the movie. She then stated it was part of the bigger issue facing society today, the break down of the family, blah, blah, blah.

This must be some flick! I just thought it was about a bunch of guys who made loads of cash dancing for women. What power this movie must have!!!

She then went on to throw 50 Shades of Grey under the bus. Again, not being strong enough on point to name the book, she references the pop culture following “a certain book” has, and looks down her nose at the idea of a book discussing sexuality, as being something lowly and sinful. Can you say “Repressed?”

I then thought about how I would feel if The Big Guy was going out to see strippers with his friends. Nothin. No issue. No beef. We’ve actually laughed at how NOT jealous we are of each other. Perhaps we are too secure in our relationship (is that possible?) but I’ve pointed out good-looking women to him, and he’s shared his perspective of my admiration of various specimens of various males of the species. Isn’t it a GOOD thing that we don’t get wound up about each other’s appreciation for the option sex??

The blogger then draws a comparison, saying women should not see Magic Mike or read 50 Shades of Grey because they would be up in arms if their husbands went out to a movie about female strippers or a book that glorified sex from a male’s perspective.

Instantly, the following rebuttals came to mind;

1. We’d better get every beer commercial off television.

2. Somebody better tell the music community that women dressed in anything less than habits are evil and any dancing more risqué than the box step in a rap video will get you a first-class ticket to hell.

3. Survivor, Big Brother and every other reality TV show that allows women to flaunt their T&A is responsible for the erosion of the family unit.

4. Victoria’s Secret Angels are actually the minions of Satan (envision Church Lady saying this!).

Until then, I fully plan on enjoying Magic Mike with my sister, and perhaps my niece. After all, she is 16.

P.S. I didn’t really think I had time for more reading material, but I think I might make the exception and look up 50 Shades of Grey; since I’m already going to hell in a hand basket.

The Call of Nature

/ Sarah / 3 Comments

In honour of Father’s Day this weekend, and as a general Public Service Message to Humanity, I offer the following Skill Testing Question:

Which is Correct?

A)

 

Yes, this is a toilet. In my house. My parents are ever so proud of the education and training they paid for that has allowed me the skill to post a photo of the hopper on the internet.

That’s not the point right now. We’ll get on journalistic high ground another time.

For now, the point is – this is considered the Universally Acceptable Position for a Toilet. It’s also known traditionally known as “Ladies’ Choice”. This way the female user will not have any issue using the feature. And by issue, I think the women readers will acknowledge the “Splash Down” is to be avoided at all costs.

~ OR ~

B)

 

 

This is the Universally Accepted Position To Indicate That Only Men Live in this Abode. The lifted seat allow more area surface for the male user. Why does a male user require more surface area than a female user, you may ask?

It’s simple really. Every since young boys were taught about writing their names in the snow, light sabres and Cheerios, they have required more surface area. Something to do with “creativity”. I’d it has more to do with poor eyesight and altitude.

I doubt our forefathers were caught “doing battle” in outhouses, however I’ve been wrong more than once this week…. But you have to admit, it is hard to imagine Great Grandma Ethel losing her load over the mess left out in the two-holer.

“CECIL! CEDRIC! How many times do I have to tell you that if you are going to make at the same time, you need to use the Hudson Bay catalogue to clean up after yourselves!!!!????”

It also has to do with the less fair of the species having the luxury of being able to use the World as their private urinal. Think of it like you would a cat. When you have a house cat, it uses the litter box and understands the niceties of indoor living. Once that cat goes outside, it reverts back to its most primal instinct and will be spraying all over the patio doors.

Just like men.

Once they get a chance to void in Wild Open Spaces, trying to get them to contain and restrain themselves is almost futile.

Because of the mess male users leave behind (again think of trajectory here, people) I have suggested these users assume the effective and tidy method of use that requires one to SIT on the potty. The negative feedback to this suggestion can only be the result of fear. Fear of falling off, that is. Which is why I’m working on copyrighting a toilet seatbelt.

In all seriousness, as the sole female on this property (Second Born Son wanted a female dog, but I told him I was the only bitch girl in the family.) I have had somewhat of an epiphany.

Is it fair for me to expect three males to keep the seat down on the toilet solely for my use and comfort? Whatever happened to Majority Rule? Being the truly democratic individual that I am, I felt that it was only fair that we find a common ground.

But no one liked the idea of the boys using a Port-A-Potty, so I had to come up with another solution. Which, if you will permit me, IS the correct answer….

 

C)

 

When you think about it – THIS IS HOW THE MANUFACTURER DISPLAYS IT! You don’t walk in to a show room with a stunning four-piece washroom set and the throne is sitting there with the seat up!

I hate walking in and seeing an open toilet. Call me crazy. To me, it’s just a big gaping hole filled with questionable water waiting to catch my earrings, cell phone, keys, infant child.

There should be no battle of the sexes over the loo. It’s a case of common sense and practicality. Both men and women would have to “close” and “open” the appliance to use it, so there is no discrimination!! I know – BRILLIANT, right?

Now that I have saved Humanity from this conundrum, I’m off to create World Peace.

 

 

The Shroud of Mystery

/ Sarah / Leave a comment

As I mentioned before, The Bowery Girl is the latest version of The Bowery – a column I wrote for a community newspaper a lifetime ago.

Back then, as today, I wrote about pretty much anything I chose to. I think the editor was simply glad to have one less thing to assign me.

Regardless – I have always found humour in the damnedest places. Which is where one of my Mother’s favourite column came from. Since she learned I was “live” with my writing, she’s asked when I would share this one. I actually dove into the tote I stored my newsprint life in, but couldn’t find it.  So….for my Mom, I’m rewriting it….sheesh….

My Granny was my Dad’s mother. She was a tiny, tough, Englishwoman. Around her you WOULD drink tea (hence my life-long aversion to the beverage to this day), and you would be scolded for eating HER chocolate covered graham cracker cookies. Why she would bring these around two young girls and NOT think we would inhale them is beyond me. I’m sure she was distressed that my sister and I were not orderly and well-behaved as young ladies should be. We had the run of a farm with neighbours far enough away that they’d never hear your sister scream when you pounded the crap out of her……..ahem.  Around Granny you did NOT shout and you certainly did not use profanity. There’s a whole other entry on the time she heard my father in the barn over the intercom during a particularly stressful morning of chores…

When I was a teenager, Granny died. It was a blessing since she was suffering from a dementia and the last few years were difficult, especially for my father. Now organizing a funeral for a parent is stressful, but this funeral was becoming BRUTAL. Aside from the regular bureaucracy one has to go through when a hospital and nursing home are involved, there were the stipulations laid out by my Granny. We had to get her in the ground ASAP!

Let me explain….

When my Granny was a younger woman, her mother (my great-granny) would tell her daughters that when she died, she wanted to be buried in nothing but a shroud, “Just like our Lord Jesus.” What ever possessed her to decide this was never fully explained, but it was simply understood that these are her wishes. When Granny’s mother died, her sisters refused to bury the elderly woman naked, in a shroud, pointing out it was not “proper”.  So their mother was buried in a “proper” dress and “proper” pearls. Likely with appropriate shoes that had a modest heel. This outraged my Granny.

Therefore, she took on the concept. SHE would be buried naked in a shroud, “Just like our Lord Jesus.” This would honour her religious convictions, as well as her mother’s legacy.

<PAUSE>

Can I point out here that my Granny was ANGLICAN? In anything I have come to understand about religion, there aren’t too many Christian-based beliefs that required wrapping one’s dearly departed in a sheet to honour God. Judaism requires a quick burial, but I am aware of that rule being stretched to 48 and even 72 hours after death. But I only took Religion/Cult/Occult in college as an elective, so I don’t pretend to be an expert…

<PLAY>

When the time came to plan the funeral, my Dad was working as quickly as he could to ensure it was a quick turnaround. My aunt was trying to get back into the country, therefore the little “details” of the funeral were left to my Mother. And she was having some issues. We all knew that Granny wanted to be buried in a shroud “Just like our Lord Jesus”, but was having a really hard time envisioning this tiny frail woman being in the ground with nothing more on her than a bed sheet.

This is when “logic” kicked in.

Mom decides to dress Granny in one of the cozy track suits she wore in the nursing home. She picked the pink one, well, because, well, it’s a visual thing right? She can LOOK like she has nothing on. Then she comes into my room.

“I need a pair of socks,” she said.

“Oh, ok.” I said.

“Make sure it’s a pair you don’t plan on getting back,” she adds.

I give her a couple of pairs, which are deemed unsuitable. Finally I give her a pair of “pom-pom” socks. She picks a pair that are white with pink pom-poms. Even through my Granny is yet to be in the ground, I’m fairly certain she’s spinning.

So with the socks in hand, my mother collects the other items and they are delivered to the funeral home. Oh to be a fly on the wall when the undertaker saw what he’d have to put his latest client in. Thankfully, the casket is closed. Granny is in the ground JUST under the time frame allotted and we are all taking license with the “shroud” concept.

I have since told my mother that her mother-in-law would come back to haunt her for failing to deliver on the final request, and even suggested that she, herself, take on the idea. She’s not interested in being buried “Just like our Lord Jesus.” Guess that takes me off the hook!

We’ve all heard stories young women taken tragically and buried in their wedding dresses, or perhaps a teen who was a cheerleader being laid to rest in her uniform. Men can be buried in military or sport uniforms, or other apparel that has special significance to them.

So I can only imagine what someone might think, years later, if they ever had to open my grandmother’s coffin.

“Look Joe, this one was a GYMNAST!”