Dipping a Toe Back in

So even though I’m 40 years old, I’ve never really been on a real, scheduled-in-advance, adult-type date. Dating for me up until this point has really been a series of random teenage hook-ups fueled by cheap schnapps and my desire to french kiss boys in the back of a Buick Skylark. Then I got married at 20 years old and such tongue-action in the back of muscle cars was frowned upon.  

Now that I find myself a single adult for the first time ever, I have started doing relationshipy things in a less, uhh…. organic way, than I used to. And a couple of weeks ago I was asked out on a date. By a man. He wasn’t even drunk and I had no idea what kind of car he drives. Although he did tell me his favourite band was AC/DC so I’m assuming we’re taking some kind of two-door American car with a shitty muffler and personalized plates.  

Not that there is anything wrong with that.

It started innocently enough as a work meeting, but heading into the third hour it was becoming pretty clear it wasn’t a work meeting anymore. We talked about our lives, kids, (failed) marriages, hobbies, likes and dislikes (this is when the AC/DC thing came up. I just tried to move on as quickly as possible), and all the things people talk about when they are genuinely interested in getting to know one another. It was something I hadn’t done in a long time. I liked it.   

I still wasn’t calling it a real ‘date’ because the way it went down was the grown-up version of the schnapps/muscle car make-out sessions of my youth. Only with less tongue and way better liquor. But when we finally had to leave, only because I needed to collect my children, he asked if he could call me. That seemed super grown-up and datey so of course I said yes. And I liked him.

We went out about a week later to Blues Night at a local pub. I met him at this club because I was scared if he picked me up he would just drive me to the outskirts of town and dismember me. That happens a LOT on Dateline, and I really didn’t want to end up as a story narrated by Keith Morrison.  Anyway….

When the band started playing he coaxed me to his side of the table, and I reluctantly complied. He put his arm around me and I immediately stiffened up. I separated from my husband of 19 years just shy of six months ago. I’m still raw, still reeling, and I live in a small city. Any number of people I knew could have seen me sitting there coupled up with this man. I wasn’t ready to answer questions about it.  I didn’t have any answers to give anyway.  I said yes to a date, and for now and into the foreseeable future that is the end of that story.  But no one I knew saw us, and I did my best to stay relaxed and enjoy myself. I had a good time. He smelled nice and laughed a lot.

When the night was over he walked me to my car. He’s tall..about 6 or 7 inches taller than I am. And it was cold outside. He was standing very close to me, looking down at me, and when I looked up he kissed me. His jacket was open so I put my arms inside it and around him and just went with it. It was grade 10 ALL over again and it was awesome.

We made-out on the side of the road for about five minutes and I let him grab my ass. Then I listened to AC/DC songs all the way home.

…….

Just kidding.  I don’t like him THAT much.

The one where I resurface and start talking again

Dear Internet:

First of all, I would like to apologize for abruptly leaving for three years without so much as a ‘Dear John’ note or a forwarding address. Some shit went down and I was relocated into the witness protection program.  Since 2011 I’ve been living as Maxine Fisher in Idaho.  I have a potato farm and raise pheasants.  Kind of like the “Rabbits for sale – pets or meat” lady from Roger and Me.

Just kidding. I got bored and lazy and just stopped dealing with it.  But a few notable updates have occurred since I last checked in:

1. I am still at my bowling alley job, I still really like it, and couldn’t be happier I made the move when I did.
2. I'm getting divorced. I didn’t really want to get divorced, but in the immortal words of Mick Jagger, “you can’t always get what you want”.
3. But you know what?  Turns out Mick knows his shit, because “sometimes you just might find, you get what you need.”  I didn’t really know it six months ago, but I needed to get divorced. And that’s all I have to say about that.
4.  Fat Chick …..I’m still dealing with that, but after getting SUPER fat again, I’ve managed to lose 35 pounds since September.  It started off as the misery diet, but somewhere around mid-October it became the fuck-you diet.    Spite = Best. Motivator. Ever
5. I am a single adult now for the first time in my whole entire life.  And I'm going to do some stuff. Fun Stuff. Grown-up stuff. And I want to write about it.

For example, the other day I went on a date.  My first official date. Like, ever. (Taylor Swift voice)

I’m 40.  

See how much ground I have to make up here people?

I’ll tell you about that later. Baby steps and all.  

Healing the scars

It’s been almost a year since I got out.

Interestingly enough, I haven’t thought much of that job in the last eleven months. In passing, here and there maybe. Usually accompanied by cold shutter and a scorching pain while my mind works overtime to push out the memories. I haven’t even been able to write about it until now.

It was this time last year that I accepted my current job and knew that I would eventually be free. Free!

I totally relate to those two journalists that were held captive in a North Korean work camp until Bill Clinton saved them. I was probably happier to escape than they were. I should email them to see if they would be into starting a support group or something.

I only have six more months to figure out how to get on Oprah after all.

Looking back now I realize my behavior during that last month when I had given my notice, but still technically worked there, was maybe a wee bit inappropriate.

I regularly left at 3:00 in the afternoon to go drinking. And told them I was leaving to go drinking.

For the obligatory $10 staff mystery gift exchange I wrapped up a photo of myself in a $10 picture frame and signed it “Merry Fucking Christmas”

Seriously – I’m not even making that up.

My coworkers were cool though. I consider them more ‘war buddies’ than ex-coworkers. No one who hasn’t experienced what we went through it could ever really get it.

The admin assistant was a scrappy chain smoker who is a dead ringer for Flo from the old TV show Alice. I totally regret not getting her to say, “Kiss my grits!” even once while I was there.

The Director was probably the most abused, and I’m pretty sure she has PTSD now. She stopped working there about six months ago and now just stays home, bakes bread and drinks.

The Community Investment Coordinator swore more than anyone I have ever met in my entire life. She could work the word ‘fuck’ into every sentence she uttered. Hearing her speak was a masterful arrangement of vulgarity at its finest.

I’ve been thinking about that brief period in my life a lot lately. I believe it is because I am far enough away from it now to appreciate the lessons I learned from my nine months at the worst job ever.

Only really glamorous skinny people can pull off dressing like they are in an episode of Sex and the City. When I do it, I look like an asshole. And I have to change into regular shoes after about an hour. Tops.

When one person is the world’s most colossal bitch complete with a massive inferiority complex, a drinking problem and a grudge to settle…. it makes it impossible to foster positive working relationships.

Yoga pants are not a good wardrobe choice for a professional meeting. Nobody with camel toe is ever taken seriously.

And I will never, ever, ever, EVER work there again.

EVER.

I hear it's big in the UK

Don't you just hate it when you log-on all excited to read your favorite bloggers most recent post but then it turns out to be some bullshit 'guest' blogger? Yeah, me too.

Maybe I could just wall paper it with giant Post-its?

Post-it notes are pretty much the best invention ever. Romy and Michelle were totally right to try and rip those off, because they rule. Do you know they have super big flip chart size ones now? That you can write on and they just stick to the wall? So you don’t have to fuck around with all that tape or sticky blue shit that ruins the wall you are trying to stick it on? They are awesome. And really helpful because I’m getting too old to throw down with hotel managers when my tape damages the ugly wallpaper in rented boardrooms.

Politica and her little ones come for a visit on Thursday and will be here for the whole weekend! Her hubby is taking a pass though. Something about me having an uncomfortable pull-out and him not wanting to be drunk all weekend. I blame the poor PR he has obviously experienced about my fair province's hospitality on the Saskatchewan pavilion at the Olympics. The entire pavilion consisted of a mural of a wheat field you could pose in front of for a picture……. and a huge bar. You’d think “have some toast and get your drink on” was our provincial slogan.

I am really concerned about how invested I am in Lindsay Lohan. I really want her to go to jail and stay there. It ruins my whole day when they let her out, and I honestly can’t figure out why I give a shit.

I think I have finally made the decision to redo my bedroom. The current décor is so heinous the word heinous doesn’t even come close to describing it. It's a cross between a six year-old girl's playroom and the tent that whack job kept Jaycee Dugard in for 18 years. The bed frame was so old and broken I finally just threw it out and now my bed just sits directly on the floor. We are still using the same dressers goodwill donated to us when we first got married and were so broke we made our kids take turns eating cereal using the same milk.

And the walls….oh god. I am having a hard time admitting this to the internet.

Okay…the walls are sponge painted baby blue and baby pink. As in, take a sponge, dunk it in pink paint and blop blop blop over EVERY wall. Take blue paint, repeat.

This room is SO bad that most people when they first see it offer to come over to help me paint it. Like, that weekend. And no, I have no idea why I haven’t addressed this earlier. It was like this when we bought the house FIVE years ago. But, a new day is dawning and I am going to redecorate the SHIT out of that room. Please forward any design inspirations. I need them. I’m actually not that creative.

But I can link up to a website like nobody’s business, so go on and visit Keely.

Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it, Blossom.

I have stumbled across quite a few birth stories around these parts of late. Not to mention hearing about totally and completely insane things like this:

"There are those among us who believe that if the baby can't survive a home labor, it is OK for it to pass peacefully," she writes. "I do not subscribe to this, but I know that some feel that … if a baby cannot make it through birth, it is not favored evolutionarily."

That quote is from the woman who played Blossom on that sitcom......Blossom. Myiam Blachic. Okay, I'm pretty sure that is not how you say or spell her name, but I already looked up the quote and I'm too lazy to go back and look up her name. You know who I'm talking about - that chick who wore all the hats and had that brother who would randomly appear in scenes to say, "Whoa!"

She fancies herself a 'holistic mom' now. And clearly needs a new group of friends.

Are you shitting me with that quote? Those people shouldn’t be allowed to be parents. Period.

“Hi baby! I’m your mom. Nice to finally meet you. I hope you’re feeling okay, because if it looks like you might need some medical intervention I’m not going to give you any. I’m just going to stand by and watch you die.

Yeah, I know it’s a drag, but my massive inferiority complex has made me wrap my entire identity up in this insane doctrine that states in order to be a real woman I need to have a successful home birth. And unfortunately for you, logic and reason haven’t knocked on my door in an extremely long time.”

I think those people are from the radical fundamentalist sect that sprung from all the moms who gave me those looks of utter contempt when they would see me bottle feeding one of my babies.

But here is the thing. I desperately wanted to have a midwife instead of a doctor, but that option wasn’t available to me. I live in a province that only has one option for birthing children, and that’s the hospital and a doctor.

I desperately wanted to breastfeed, but try as I might, no matter how many tips I tried, classes I went to, lactation consultants I hired or herbs I took, I just simply did not produce enough breast milk to feed my babies. Even though I had three healthy pregnancies that produced three healthy children, I felt like a complete failure as a mother because I was physiologically unable to feed them.

My feeling of utter failure was fueled by people who would say ridiculous things to me like, “All women produce enough milk to breastfeed twins or triplets” (read: you are not trying very hard) or “You aren’t eating enough healthy food or drinking enough water and milk” (read: you don’t care about yourself or your baby).

My feeling of utter failure got so bad that each time I had to reach for that bottle I launched into why I am bottle-feeding, including my entire family history (I later discovered that my grandmother couldn’t breastfeed either), all the different diets I have tried, the herbs I’ve taken, the lactation consultants I have hired…..the whole nine yards.

In reality, I was just SO worried about people judging me for not breastfeeding because I didn’t want them to think I was uneducated or unconcerned about the health of my baby.

I have been accused of being….uh…outspoken from time to time, so I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who think I’m a crazy bitch. And mostly, I’m okay with that. In fact, I don’t really mind having a crazy bitch alter ego I can trot out whenever I cross paths with someone who is just begging for a verbal smack-down.

But when a certain tribe of people, the ones who believe in home births, and midwives and breastfeeding and parenting their kids without all the trappings of technology and intervention, look at me with scorn when they see me walking by with that bottle sticking out of my diaper bag, it really hurts my feelings. And it hurts my feelings because in reality, I just wanted to be one of them.

Which brings me back to my original point. Those dipshits who sit back and watch their babies die because they couldn’t bring themselves to cross the imaginary picket line full of women who don’t want to have a doctor intervene when it’s NOT necessary, are really just scared of feeling like they won’t belong to the real-moms club so they refuse their babies medical intervention when it IS necessary.

Which is really just making it harder on the rest of us women. THOSE are the people doctors point to and say,

See? Women can’t possibly be trusted to have their babies without us! They are deluded, irrational creatures that serve no purpose during the birth process other than to shut-up and spread ‘em. WE know better. Not women, and certainly not midwives.

And now we don’t have the best of any world. Women have been told repeatedly that home births are dangerous, midwives are unqualified, and trust me, Dear, you really want a doctor and access to emergency equipment at the hospital. You shouldn't listen to your own insticts. They are wrong.

And as a result many women (including myself) are left with horrific birth stories about doctors jamming unwanted IV’s into our arms, pumping us full of drugs we didn’t ask for, slicing up our lady parts when it’s just taking way too long for the baby to come out, or using machines to pull or suction our babies out of our bodies. And when all that doesn’t work? They slice our abdomens open and drag our babies out while we lay with gapping intestines on an operating table.

But guess what? There is a LOT of room between all that and letting your baby die on your living room floor because you are too proud to go to the hospital. Which, by the way, makes you a total fucking idiot who should be in prison.

The best thing anyone said to me when I was having so much trouble breastfeeding came from Politica, who happens to be a championship level breastfeeder. After talking to her endlessly about all the different ways I’ve tried to get my milk to produce she said, “Huh. Well, I guess it’s just not part of your biology”.

It was the ‘He’s just not that into you’ equivalent revelation to breastfeeding. Freeing, in fact. I wasn’t a total failure as a woman; my body just doesn’t produce breast milk!

So, to all of you expectant mothers….here is my gift to you.

Have your baby in whatever way feels right to you. Use a doctor, use a midwife, go to the hospital, stay at home.
Use drugs, stay unmediated, lie down or squat. Totally your call.

If some fuckhead doctor is doing something you don’t want or like, you are allowed to tell him to FUCK OFF.

If some patchouli smelling hippy chick in desperate need of an eyebrow wax starts giving you shit about giving birth in a hospital or using a doctor, you are allowed to tell her to FUCK OFF.

If you choose to bottlefeed, either by desire or necessity, you feel free to go right ahead and make that choice. It is yours alone to make.

I am officially leading the charge to stop judging one another. It’s not a contest, no one is right or wrong. Each individual woman knows best about what is right for her and her baby. Period.

Other than Blossom’s friends. They are still total fucking retards.

I think Naomi Campbell and Mia Farrow have something to do with that whole thing now too, right?

I have a nine year old son named Jake. A few of you may know that already, but...hey. I'm not exactly Dooce so I figured a bit of a backgrounder might be in order.

Jake loves science, long bike rides around the block and hasn't hugged or kissed anyone voluntarily in almost seven years. I have to bribe him, usually with candy, if I want some affection out of this kid.

100% of the time.

Me: Hey Jake – you know my birthday is coming up next month, right?

No, I didn’t know that.

Me: Well, it is. Have you thought about what you’re going to get me?

No.

Me: It’s a good thing I told you it’s coming up then, right?

Yeah. I guess.

Me: I have some ideas about what you could get me!

Okay. What?

Me: I’d like some love please. Say….three kisses and five hugs.

NO WAY!

Me: Okay, fine. Then I want a puppy. Or diamonds. Yeah, I think that’s it. Love, puppy or diamonds. Your call.

Dad won’t let me get you a puppy in a million years.

Me: So, diamonds then?

Okay. I’ll go to Dollarama.

Me: I don’t think they sell diamonds at Dollarama. And even if they did, they probably wouldn’t be conflict free diamonds, and that is really important to me.

What is conflict free diamonds?

Me: I’m not sure, exactly, but I know they have something to do with war and bad people. And Leonardo Dicaprio.

Who is Leonardo Dicaprio?

Me: That guy from the Titanic movie who dates super models.

If he is in movies he can buy all the diamonds and it doesn’t even matter.

Me: That’s true. He is in a position to be picky about his diamond purchases. You, not so much.

I think you are too old for birthdays now anyway.

Me: I know! That’s why I asked for love. Only old ladies ask for hugs and kisses for their birthday.

I’m still going to Dollarama.