Ok, I know y'all must be gettin' tired of hearin' about my dang bed but I really have to tell you one last thing and that's it, I promise.
As I've noted in other posts, sleep has been a real issue for me for several years. Go to sleep fine and do well for about 4 hours and then it was toss and turn and do the 'clock watch' thing. "If I go to sleep now, I'll have 3 more hours in." "If I go to sleep now, I'll have 2 hours in." And so on until the alarm went off. Great. Makes for a really long day afer that. And a very cranky and baggy eyed Deb.
At first I thought it was stress related from my job. But my job is stressful enough, and I've been doing it long enough, that it shouldn't be stressin' me as much anymore. And that's true now that I have the answer. YES, it's the bed! seriously. I mean SERIOUSLY. I didn't comment on it at first because I was scared that it was a passing thing and I didn't want to jinx it, but it's true. This bed has been my sleep salvation for what is it now? 2 weeks.
Honest, Gentle Reader, if I awaken in the night and have to use the facilities, I end up going right back to sleep which, (honest to The Diety at Hand) is a GREAT thing.
And that will be the end of the 'bed thing'. So if you find the jingle in your jeans to do it, go ahead; it's definitely worth the sheckels.
Thanks for listening.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
From the Op/Ed pages of the Calgary Herald
From what I'm reading aroud the blogosphere, this looks exactly like what some of my compatriots are experiencing.
I thought of a great headline . . . but I forgot
When I am writing and suddenly think of a new topic, I hit Ctrl-T, which opens a fresh window on the computer.
This operation requires two fingers and takes three seconds, max, but to my brain, it sometimes presents an insuperable distraction.
My face becomes as blank as the screen I am looking at.
The new idea, whatever it was, is . . . gone. This is the modern equivalent of the classic old-fogeyism of walking into a room and immediately forgetting why you went there. I do that, too.
I'm not complaining, really. If you can banish your terror over it, shortterm memory deficit can be a source of entertainment, especially when two similarly afflicted people engage each other, which happens almost every time I am on the phone with my editor, Tom the Butcher.
I am 59. Tom is 56. Our conversations go like this:
Tom: We need to write a headline for your column.
Me: Which column?
Tom: The one you sent me yesterday.
Me: Oh.
Embarrassed silence.
Me: What was it about?
Embarrassed silence.
Tom: I was hoping you'd remember.
At this point, Tom and I try to work in concert to refresh our memories. It is an awkward, pathetic dance, like two turtles trying to mate with a rock.
Me: Was it about Jews?
Tom: I think it might have had the word "paradigm" in it.
Me: I think I wrote a lot of it in the bathroom.
Tom: I hate that word.
Me: "Bathroom?"
Tom: No. The, uh, one I just said.
Embarrassed silence. I was thinking about this the other day as I watched an old 60 Minutes segment about people who never forget anything. One of them was Marilu Henner, who I think may have starred in a 1980s sitcom whose name I can't recall, but I believe I used to watch.
If you give Marilu a random date from, say, 17 years ago, she can tell you what day of the week it was, what event was on the news, what she wore, what she ate, etc.
She and the others with super-memory seemed pretty smug about their powers, but I'm glad I don't have them.
They scare me.
Sometimes, it's good to forget things. Tom agrees that it's probably preferable to live in our constant state of semi-senescence than in the alternative:
Tom: We have to write a headline for your column.
Me: Let's just go with the same one we used on Sept. 4, 1986, when I last wrote about squid.
Tom: OK, done. Hey, remember the bikini ad that ran next to that column?
Me: I'll say! That's back when my prostate wasn't the size of a baked potato, and I could admire hot women without experiencing searing crotch pain.
Tom: Right. As I recall, on that day I still had 52,509 functioning hair follicles.
Me: I remember. You actually owned a comb. It was black.
Tom: The third tooth from the end was broken off.
Me: I know.
Tom: Hey, I just saw a rerun of Taxi, with Marilu Henner. Remember her?
Me: OW!
Gene Weingarten is a Pulitzer Prize-winning writer with the Washington Post
Read more:
I thought of a great headline . . . but I forgot
When I am writing and suddenly think of a new topic, I hit Ctrl-T, which opens a fresh window on the computer.
This operation requires two fingers and takes three seconds, max, but to my brain, it sometimes presents an insuperable distraction.
My face becomes as blank as the screen I am looking at.
The new idea, whatever it was, is . . . gone. This is the modern equivalent of the classic old-fogeyism of walking into a room and immediately forgetting why you went there. I do that, too.
I'm not complaining, really. If you can banish your terror over it, shortterm memory deficit can be a source of entertainment, especially when two similarly afflicted people engage each other, which happens almost every time I am on the phone with my editor, Tom the Butcher.
I am 59. Tom is 56. Our conversations go like this:
Tom: We need to write a headline for your column.
Me: Which column?
Tom: The one you sent me yesterday.
Me: Oh.
Embarrassed silence.
Me: What was it about?
Embarrassed silence.
Tom: I was hoping you'd remember.
At this point, Tom and I try to work in concert to refresh our memories. It is an awkward, pathetic dance, like two turtles trying to mate with a rock.
Me: Was it about Jews?
Tom: I think it might have had the word "paradigm" in it.
Me: I think I wrote a lot of it in the bathroom.
Tom: I hate that word.
Me: "Bathroom?"
Tom: No. The, uh, one I just said.
Embarrassed silence. I was thinking about this the other day as I watched an old 60 Minutes segment about people who never forget anything. One of them was Marilu Henner, who I think may have starred in a 1980s sitcom whose name I can't recall, but I believe I used to watch.
If you give Marilu a random date from, say, 17 years ago, she can tell you what day of the week it was, what event was on the news, what she wore, what she ate, etc.
She and the others with super-memory seemed pretty smug about their powers, but I'm glad I don't have them.
They scare me.
Sometimes, it's good to forget things. Tom agrees that it's probably preferable to live in our constant state of semi-senescence than in the alternative:
Tom: We have to write a headline for your column.
Me: Let's just go with the same one we used on Sept. 4, 1986, when I last wrote about squid.
Tom: OK, done. Hey, remember the bikini ad that ran next to that column?
Me: I'll say! That's back when my prostate wasn't the size of a baked potato, and I could admire hot women without experiencing searing crotch pain.
Tom: Right. As I recall, on that day I still had 52,509 functioning hair follicles.
Me: I remember. You actually owned a comb. It was black.
Tom: The third tooth from the end was broken off.
Me: I know.
Tom: Hey, I just saw a rerun of Taxi, with Marilu Henner. Remember her?
Me: OW!
Gene Weingarten is a Pulitzer Prize-winning writer with the Washington Post
Read more:
from my in box this morning, HT to Nobbs, a regular contributor
The Washington Post's Mensa Invitational once again invited readers to
take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or
changing one letter, and supply a new definition.
Here are the winners:
1. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time.
2 Ignoranus : A person who's both stupid and an asshole.
3. Intaxicaton : Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.
4. Reintarnation : Coming back to life as a hillbilly.
5. Bozone ( n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future
6. Foreploy : Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid..
7. Giraffiti : Vandalism spray-painted very, very high
8. Sarchasm : The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
9. Inoculatte : To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
10. Osteopornosis : A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)
11. Karmageddon : It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.
12. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
13. Glibido : All talk and no action.
14. Dopeler Effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
15. Arachnoleptic Fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
16. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
17. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating.
The Washington Post has also published the winning submissions to its yearly contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternate meanings for common words.
And the winners are:
1. Coffee, n. The person upon whom one coughs.
2. Flabbergasted, adj. Appalled by discovering how much weight one has gained.
3. Abdicate, v. To give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
4. Esplanade, v. To attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly, adj. Impotent.
6. Negligent, adj. Absentmindedly answering the door when wearing only a nightgown.
7. Lymph, v. To walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle, n. Olive-flavored mouthwash.
9. Flatulence, n. Emergency vehicle that picks up someone who has been run over by a steamroller.
10. Balderdash, n. A rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle, n. A humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude, n. The formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
13. Pokemon, n. A Rastafarian proctologist.
14. Oyster, n. A person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.
15. Frisbeetarianism, n. The belief that, after death, the soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.
16. Circumvent, n. An opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish men
Monday, March 28, 2011
Spring 2005
Shortly after I got the puppies, it started to rain. And didn't stop. Now I'm not talking about gentle April showers that are supposed to bring May flowers, I'm talking about torrential down pours. It rained for the proverbial 40 days and 40 nights. I kept looking toward the mountains and saying 'There's a lot of snow in them there hills' and getting concerned about flooding.
I listen to the radio every day at work and on the 6th of June there was an emergency broadcast of a flood watch for Okotoks and area which is where I lived at the time. I talked to my boss and told him that I may have to leave early, but would keep an ear on the situation. Because I had been so concerned about flooding, I had already made arrangements for the horses and myself if I had to evacuate. When I got home that day, I called my landlord to discuss the situation and he told me "This property has been in the family for the last 50 years and it hasn't flooded yet." In the grand scheme of things, 50 years is the blink of an eye and I was still concerned but carried on as usual.
When I went down the hall to go to bed that night, I put the puppies in their crate (they didn't need to be roaming around all night) and they wouldn't 'settle'. I couldn't figure out why until I went to get undressed and crawl in to bed. I looked out the window and saw water in the driveway. 'Holy crap!' I ran down the hall and looked out the kitchen window and saw water standing on the ball diamond that was right next door. Double 'Holy crap!' I immediately got on the phone and called Kaye. She said that she and her husband Dave would be right down. I called the guy where the horses were going and let him know what was happening and that we were on the way. I ran out, hooked up the horse trailer and Kaye arrived. In the time that this all occured, the water in the back yard had risen to from visible to ankle deep. Dave went to the basement and started boosting stuff off the floor and Kaye and I went out to get the horses.
Now Murphy was never the easiest to catch, it always took a little time and patience, but that night she pretty much stuffed her head in the halter, almost like 'get me the hell out of here.' I handed her off to Kaye and captured Indiana. By the time we headed back across the yard, the water was now shin deep and rising fast. Not only was Murphy a little hard to catch, but she could be difficult to load too. I had worked with her a little after the Parelli clinic I had taken and she was better, but not 100% yet and when I caught up with Kaye she was trying to run over top of her to get in the trailer. What a suprise that was. We got everybody loaded and headed off to Abe's place to drop them off.
When we got there, Abe was asleep on the couch, but I managed to rouse him and he told me which pen to put them in and where I could put the trailer but that he wanted a ride to town; his buddy was in the pub and he was buying. Ok, I have a river running through my house and you want a ride to the pub?
By the time we got back to the house the water was thigh deep and I went in, grabbed some clothes, rescued the puppies and Harley and off we went to Kaye's house. The landlord spent the night with 2 sump pumps running to keep the water to a managable level in the basement and I spent the night at Kaye's.
I got back in the house a couple of days later and we all thought that all was well. The FHU happened to be home the weekend after all this happened and suggested that we go and get the girls and bring them home, but my little voice was telling me that it wasn't a good idea. About a week later, here we go again with the emergency broadcast. Ok, I'll keep an eye on it.
I had a couple of beers and ended up going to bed at my usual time when something awakened me around eleven. I went to the window and looked. Not good, there's water flowing across the driveway. Crap. There's water flowing through the ball diamond. DOUBLE CRAP. Ok, we're not getting off so easy this time. I called the landlord and he told me not to go anywhere, the fire department was on the way. Ok, the water was up to the bumper of my truck, and if I had left then all would have been good. Nope, the landlord said the the fire department was on the way, so I wasn't going anywhere. Well, I waited. And waited. They finally showed up at midnight. I had been watching the water get higher and higher and getting more and more concerned. When they finally arrived they knocked on the front door (which I never used, I was waiting for them on the landing out the back) and asked me "How many occupants in the house?". "One, and three dogs." An incredulous "Three?!?". To which I replied "Don't worry, the old dog will go in one crate and the puppies will go in another." And away we go.
They took the old dog across the yard in the crate and loaded her in to the bucket of a front end loader and then in to a pickup that was out on the road and came back and got the puppies. It wasn't until I was standing on the front step, watching the puppies being loaded in to the bucket that I realized that I could never go 'home' again. I also started to cry as I watched. How scared were the girls? Where's my mom? and where are you taking me?
Two firefighters came back to get me (at least they could have sent good looking ones!) and we headed across the front yard. Down one step, water up to my ankles. Down another, water up to my calves. Down the last step, water almost up to my crotch. Ok, my legs are 36" long. That tells you how deep it was in my front yard. I was escorted across the yard and very unceremoniously deposited in the bucket of the front end loader and then it was off to Kaye's again. Being as it was now about 1 in the morning, Kaye had gone to bed, so I let myself in, brought the girls in and crashed myself.
Unfortunately there was nothing that the landlord could do this time; the river was rising too quickly and it ended up being 6" shy of the floor joists. Everything in the basement was a write-off. We had a stand-up freezer down there that was full of meat and stuff. I had a whole load of dress shirts waiting to go in the wash, and there were several boxes of pictures that also didn't survive. But you know what? That was all stuff, and stuff can be replaced. We all got out alive and safely.
At that time the puppies were about 10 weeks old and we had ben starting to make some head-way house training. Unfortunately while I was at Kaye's the girls spent a lot of time in a crate during the day, so by the time we got situated in a new location, they were a little 'un-broke' and we basically had to start over again. Gotta love Kaye though, we were there for 2 months and she had 3 of her own dogs and 2 of her children still at home, so it definitely was a housefull.
I listen to the radio every day at work and on the 6th of June there was an emergency broadcast of a flood watch for Okotoks and area which is where I lived at the time. I talked to my boss and told him that I may have to leave early, but would keep an ear on the situation. Because I had been so concerned about flooding, I had already made arrangements for the horses and myself if I had to evacuate. When I got home that day, I called my landlord to discuss the situation and he told me "This property has been in the family for the last 50 years and it hasn't flooded yet." In the grand scheme of things, 50 years is the blink of an eye and I was still concerned but carried on as usual.
When I went down the hall to go to bed that night, I put the puppies in their crate (they didn't need to be roaming around all night) and they wouldn't 'settle'. I couldn't figure out why until I went to get undressed and crawl in to bed. I looked out the window and saw water in the driveway. 'Holy crap!' I ran down the hall and looked out the kitchen window and saw water standing on the ball diamond that was right next door. Double 'Holy crap!' I immediately got on the phone and called Kaye. She said that she and her husband Dave would be right down. I called the guy where the horses were going and let him know what was happening and that we were on the way. I ran out, hooked up the horse trailer and Kaye arrived. In the time that this all occured, the water in the back yard had risen to from visible to ankle deep. Dave went to the basement and started boosting stuff off the floor and Kaye and I went out to get the horses.
Now Murphy was never the easiest to catch, it always took a little time and patience, but that night she pretty much stuffed her head in the halter, almost like 'get me the hell out of here.' I handed her off to Kaye and captured Indiana. By the time we headed back across the yard, the water was now shin deep and rising fast. Not only was Murphy a little hard to catch, but she could be difficult to load too. I had worked with her a little after the Parelli clinic I had taken and she was better, but not 100% yet and when I caught up with Kaye she was trying to run over top of her to get in the trailer. What a suprise that was. We got everybody loaded and headed off to Abe's place to drop them off.
When we got there, Abe was asleep on the couch, but I managed to rouse him and he told me which pen to put them in and where I could put the trailer but that he wanted a ride to town; his buddy was in the pub and he was buying. Ok, I have a river running through my house and you want a ride to the pub?
By the time we got back to the house the water was thigh deep and I went in, grabbed some clothes, rescued the puppies and Harley and off we went to Kaye's house. The landlord spent the night with 2 sump pumps running to keep the water to a managable level in the basement and I spent the night at Kaye's.
I got back in the house a couple of days later and we all thought that all was well. The FHU happened to be home the weekend after all this happened and suggested that we go and get the girls and bring them home, but my little voice was telling me that it wasn't a good idea. About a week later, here we go again with the emergency broadcast. Ok, I'll keep an eye on it.
I had a couple of beers and ended up going to bed at my usual time when something awakened me around eleven. I went to the window and looked. Not good, there's water flowing across the driveway. Crap. There's water flowing through the ball diamond. DOUBLE CRAP. Ok, we're not getting off so easy this time. I called the landlord and he told me not to go anywhere, the fire department was on the way. Ok, the water was up to the bumper of my truck, and if I had left then all would have been good. Nope, the landlord said the the fire department was on the way, so I wasn't going anywhere. Well, I waited. And waited. They finally showed up at midnight. I had been watching the water get higher and higher and getting more and more concerned. When they finally arrived they knocked on the front door (which I never used, I was waiting for them on the landing out the back) and asked me "How many occupants in the house?". "One, and three dogs." An incredulous "Three?!?". To which I replied "Don't worry, the old dog will go in one crate and the puppies will go in another." And away we go.
They took the old dog across the yard in the crate and loaded her in to the bucket of a front end loader and then in to a pickup that was out on the road and came back and got the puppies. It wasn't until I was standing on the front step, watching the puppies being loaded in to the bucket that I realized that I could never go 'home' again. I also started to cry as I watched. How scared were the girls? Where's my mom? and where are you taking me?
Two firefighters came back to get me (at least they could have sent good looking ones!) and we headed across the front yard. Down one step, water up to my ankles. Down another, water up to my calves. Down the last step, water almost up to my crotch. Ok, my legs are 36" long. That tells you how deep it was in my front yard. I was escorted across the yard and very unceremoniously deposited in the bucket of the front end loader and then it was off to Kaye's again. Being as it was now about 1 in the morning, Kaye had gone to bed, so I let myself in, brought the girls in and crashed myself.
Unfortunately there was nothing that the landlord could do this time; the river was rising too quickly and it ended up being 6" shy of the floor joists. Everything in the basement was a write-off. We had a stand-up freezer down there that was full of meat and stuff. I had a whole load of dress shirts waiting to go in the wash, and there were several boxes of pictures that also didn't survive. But you know what? That was all stuff, and stuff can be replaced. We all got out alive and safely.
At that time the puppies were about 10 weeks old and we had ben starting to make some head-way house training. Unfortunately while I was at Kaye's the girls spent a lot of time in a crate during the day, so by the time we got situated in a new location, they were a little 'un-broke' and we basically had to start over again. Gotta love Kaye though, we were there for 2 months and she had 3 of her own dogs and 2 of her children still at home, so it definitely was a housefull.
I damaged my push-me pull-you
A little over a week ago I was watchin' the tube when my Jazz pushed the blanket that drapes over the back of the couch off it and on to the heat register. Not a big deal, she's done it before. I reached over the back of the couch to pick it up and stretched and stretched a little more 'cause my arms are just noooot quite long enough to out and out grab it and put it back. That second stretch, the hard part of the back of the couch must have caught me right between two ribs because when I finally got my fingertips on it all of a sudden the worst pain struck me. Dang, now what? I didn't think too much more of it until the next morning when I was sitting here reading the paper. What the heck had I done? At first I thought that I was having a heart attack and then it was 'Duh, the pain's on the right side, not the left, ya ditz'. And then I remembered the move of the day before. Nice.
Well I'm still reminded. You don't really realize how the body is connected to the rib cage by a whole lot of muscles and tendons until you mess it up. It hurts to try to roll over and get out of bed. It hurts to sit up straight and it hurts to slouch. It hurts to pull up your pants and it hurts to pull them down. It hurts to push the door latched and it hurts to pull the door closed behind you. And dang, don't, and I mean DON'T, cough or sneeze!
I cracked a rib once before when I was feeding the horses and hooked my toe in a pallet we were using to keep the hay off the concrete floor in the feed room. In that instance I landed on my rib cage on a 4x4 that was in the doorway and grain went flying everywhere. Steve the pot-bellied pig had a hey day. At least the grain didn't go totally to waste.
The only thing is I can't, for the life of me, remember exactly how long this is going to last.
Ah well, this too, shall pass.
Well I'm still reminded. You don't really realize how the body is connected to the rib cage by a whole lot of muscles and tendons until you mess it up. It hurts to try to roll over and get out of bed. It hurts to sit up straight and it hurts to slouch. It hurts to pull up your pants and it hurts to pull them down. It hurts to push the door latched and it hurts to pull the door closed behind you. And dang, don't, and I mean DON'T, cough or sneeze!
I cracked a rib once before when I was feeding the horses and hooked my toe in a pallet we were using to keep the hay off the concrete floor in the feed room. In that instance I landed on my rib cage on a 4x4 that was in the doorway and grain went flying everywhere. Steve the pot-bellied pig had a hey day. At least the grain didn't go totally to waste.
The only thing is I can't, for the life of me, remember exactly how long this is going to last.
Ah well, this too, shall pass.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
At least I'm in good company
Jennifer Aniston and Spinsterhood 2.0
Used to be that the most famous old maid in the world was a gawky cartoon character who fell hard for a man whose affections were largely devoted to canned spinach. Olive Oyl was a woman of open heart and flapper feet, an awkward eyelashbatting coquette with skinny legs and a tight bun, but try as she might, she never could land her pipe-puffing sailor man, Popeye.
Used to be that old maids were the sad-sack left-behinds, the dried-up shells who drifted on the edges of society while neighbours on street corners whispered about their sad fate, about their lonely days as pale accounting clerks and midi-skirted kindergarten teachers, about their lonely nights behind drawn curtains in quiet apartments, comforted by cats and, sometimes, a favourite niece.
Believe me, Olive Oyl, I ain't, not by a long shot. And that line about being 'comforted by cat and, sometimes, a favorite niece?' No way. I'm gonna go down as the crazy old dog lady (and my favorite niece is my only niece. And she lives in Arizona).
Because in a world where love and marriage are the holy grail of societal harmony and personal fulfilment, there is surely nothing more pitiful than a woman who can't find a man.
But that was before Jennifer Aniston became the poster girl for Spinsterhood 2.0.
And I'm very glad she did. I don't feel that I should be pitied for being single. What the hell is wrong with it? The coffee cup that I leave on the counter in the morning is mine and I know that it hasn't magically multiplied at some point in the day. The 6 or 8 beer in the fridge when I leave are still going to be there when I get home. Yes, it's a struggle some times and I have to call on friends more often than I like (I've been accused of being independent to a fault), or paying someone to do things that may be chores that would, in a relationship, be shared, but I'm ok with that too.
When I was in my early 20's, I knew that I didn't want to get married unless I had a very strong relationship, (which we all know doesn't happen too often, we're not quite mature enough yet) and that I didn't want to have kids unless I had a very strong marriage.
When I was in my 30's, I was too busy getting through my electrical apprenticeship to be bothered. Can you see a pregnant electrician on a construction site, up on a ladder? Oh ya, I dated and fooled around, but that was about it.
And then... And then I was getting later on in my 30's. I had finished my apprenticeship and was now a journeyman electrician and all of a sudden it reached up and, slapped me in the face. Here I was, pushing 40, and still single. Sure, I had lived with some men, but it had never turned into 'the thing'. And so, when my friend of 20 years asked me to be his roommate I said sure. The next thing you know, we're getting married and not too long after that, divorced. Never marry your friends (or do 'the nasty' with them), it rarely works. You were friends that long for a reason, you knew it was best that way.
...a shift that has seen single adults -women mostly -outnumbering married ones in Canadian households for the first time.
...and it's one that is shared with our sisters to the south, where recent U.S. Census figures revealed that 51 per cent of adult women in that country were unmarried.
...Or put another way, single women now outnumber married women.
...If Aniston, who has beauty, wealth and fame but still no love, is riding the crest of this demographic wave, the millions of women who are surfing anonymously in the shallows are oddly comforted in knowing that she is helping redefine the once-pitied profile of the unmarried woman.
I am on par with Jennifer Aniston? Far from it. She's younger and better looking and has a whole lot more money than I do, but you know what? I'm content with where I'm at. I have 'enough'. I'll be happy with what I have.
And if 'the thing' comes along, I'll be happy with that too, but don't be looking for me on eHatrmony any time soon.
Read the rest here.
Used to be that old maids were the sad-sack left-behinds, the dried-up shells who drifted on the edges of society while neighbours on street corners whispered about their sad fate, about their lonely days as pale accounting clerks and midi-skirted kindergarten teachers, about their lonely nights behind drawn curtains in quiet apartments, comforted by cats and, sometimes, a favourite niece.
Believe me, Olive Oyl, I ain't, not by a long shot. And that line about being 'comforted by cat and, sometimes, a favorite niece?' No way. I'm gonna go down as the crazy old dog lady (and my favorite niece is my only niece. And she lives in Arizona).
Because in a world where love and marriage are the holy grail of societal harmony and personal fulfilment, there is surely nothing more pitiful than a woman who can't find a man.
But that was before Jennifer Aniston became the poster girl for Spinsterhood 2.0.
And I'm very glad she did. I don't feel that I should be pitied for being single. What the hell is wrong with it? The coffee cup that I leave on the counter in the morning is mine and I know that it hasn't magically multiplied at some point in the day. The 6 or 8 beer in the fridge when I leave are still going to be there when I get home. Yes, it's a struggle some times and I have to call on friends more often than I like (I've been accused of being independent to a fault), or paying someone to do things that may be chores that would, in a relationship, be shared, but I'm ok with that too.
When I was in my early 20's, I knew that I didn't want to get married unless I had a very strong relationship, (which we all know doesn't happen too often, we're not quite mature enough yet) and that I didn't want to have kids unless I had a very strong marriage.
When I was in my 30's, I was too busy getting through my electrical apprenticeship to be bothered. Can you see a pregnant electrician on a construction site, up on a ladder? Oh ya, I dated and fooled around, but that was about it.
And then... And then I was getting later on in my 30's. I had finished my apprenticeship and was now a journeyman electrician and all of a sudden it reached up and, slapped me in the face. Here I was, pushing 40, and still single. Sure, I had lived with some men, but it had never turned into 'the thing'. And so, when my friend of 20 years asked me to be his roommate I said sure. The next thing you know, we're getting married and not too long after that, divorced. Never marry your friends (or do 'the nasty' with them), it rarely works. You were friends that long for a reason, you knew it was best that way.
...a shift that has seen single adults -women mostly -outnumbering married ones in Canadian households for the first time.
...and it's one that is shared with our sisters to the south, where recent U.S. Census figures revealed that 51 per cent of adult women in that country were unmarried.
...Or put another way, single women now outnumber married women.
...If Aniston, who has beauty, wealth and fame but still no love, is riding the crest of this demographic wave, the millions of women who are surfing anonymously in the shallows are oddly comforted in knowing that she is helping redefine the once-pitied profile of the unmarried woman.
I am on par with Jennifer Aniston? Far from it. She's younger and better looking and has a whole lot more money than I do, but you know what? I'm content with where I'm at. I have 'enough'. I'll be happy with what I have.
And if 'the thing' comes along, I'll be happy with that too, but don't be looking for me on eHatrmony any time soon.
Read the rest here.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
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