Something To Talk About

- Bonnie Raitt

Everywhere we go, it seems like everyone is asking Pacino and I The Universal question...So, when are you having kids? Excuse me, but when exactly did my reproductive history become public fodder to mull over at every encounter...and I mean literally everybody. Enquiring minds really Do want to know!

It’s quite understandable if family and friends bother us about the baby issue considering we’ve been married almost 2 ½ years. They’re not in panic-mode just yet, but the urgency is building up as they try to figure out if we’ll drag it out (After all, we only went out 9 years before tying the knot, haha!). But the thing is, it’s not just family anymore...literally everyone is shooting the question at us.

For one thing, all of my customers that I deal with on a close basis are practically keeping track of my ovulation cycle and are not shy at all about giving me pointers on the methods, timing and other details and rituals of conception (keep in mind that all of my customers are middle-aged men!). A couple of months ago, I missed a day off work to have the carpet guy come and wash our carpets. Curly told me that when she told my customers that I wasn’t in that day, the first thing they all asked was, Why is she not in, is she pregnant? Since when did my fertility become breaking news, an issue of such importance that it took precedence over everything else on their agenda. Personally, I think they’re apprehensive that the minute I get pregnant, I’ll be off and neglecting their projects...Which, I probably am, considering I can’t be playing around with chemicals during my pregnancy...BUT, Geez, there’s a freakin’ limit on expressing interest on the goings’on in my boudoir....Nuff’said!

Last month, Pacino and I had gone to get my car serviced, and the next thing you know, even the Parts & Service guy is asking us when we’re planning on having the Bambino. This is absolutely ludicrous. I see this guy like 4-5 times a year and even he has taken an interest in our parenting plans. I think I’m going to take an add out in the paper when the time comes, or maybe make an announcement on the radio to advise all of Montreal. Whos’ next? I keep expecting the garbage guy to knock on my door and say " Hey, I haven’t seen any diapers in your garbage, what’s the deal?

Living on a Prayer

- Bon Jovi

Unlike most women, a visit to the hair salon usually gets me excited for all the wrong reasons. I start to panic, I feel distressed. I have to use coping mechanisms such as biting my fingernails to the bone while I’m waiting to be seated. And then, once I’m in the chair, I’m not one to chit-chat with the stylist. I’ll be WAY too busy concentrating on what she’s snipping to relax and chat. Which would explain why I only make that trip max 3 times a year (Nope I do not have split ends, the secret is in the conditioning).

I don’t know what I did to deserve the hair that I got, but it couldn’t have been good, that’s for sure...I used to have really thick, curly hair...curly as in practically telephone cord curly till my mid-teens, when something happened...I guess hormones kicked in or something...and I ended up looking like a Jon Bon Jovi groupie straight out of one of their late-80's videos minus the teased bangs (I haven’t done the hairspray thing since 88). I ended up with thin, flyaway, frizzy hair. Unfortunately for me, this look has stuck with me for like 15 years now....I know, it’s very passé. The strange things about all this is that although I try my best to rectify this situation, it’s as if my hair automatically veers itself to that look. Here is the general scenario:

Me: Hi, I’d like to get a haircut please, something different. Something that will tame my frizzies and flyaways...please do something...

Hairdresser: Sure. *Snip, snip, snip*

Then I get home, looking not bad until I wash my hair and dry it myself. Then, lo and behold, it’s groupie-time again. Within a few weeks, once my hair starts to grow back I look like a perm gone-bad, except that I’ve never had a perm in my life.

The sad thing is, is that I’ve changed haidressers maybe 5 times in the last 10 years, and although I give them carte-blanche pretty much everytime, I always end up with the same doo. The problem might be the fact that I refuse to let them cut past the shoulder. I just can’t do it. Although over the years I’ve threatened (during really bad hairdays) to shave my head many times, I just can’t go short. It all stems back to the year I was 8 years old. I’d always had long flowing locks as a child. My mom would style it so that I had the coolest pigtail braids, or the most swingy ponytail which I loved. That summer, we were gonna be going on a group vacation with my cousins, parents’ friends and their children. So Mamina thought it was a bright idea to have us go to the hairdresser for a little "trim" as she called it, before going away. The next thing you know, my sister Curly and I were in the chair, getting short boy-cuts! How shocking, that first snip made me lose my breath, and before you knew it, my nape was exposed for the first time since birth....AAAAGH! What a disaster. Curly, who is 4 years younger than I. started bawling in the chair, and I was gulping in air, trying to control my hysteria while tears streamed down my cheeks. The hairdresser kept saying, don’t feel bad, it’s only hair, it’ll grow back.....How do you comfort 4 year old and 8 year old girls who just lost their fabulous locks and ended up looking like an elf (me) and a lamb (Curly). Curly and I looked bereavingly (can you say that?) at the mass of hair being swept up by a broom, and declared that our Mom was evil incarnate. The whole ride back home, Mamina kept trying to reassure us that this was for our good, that it would be really hot on the Carolina beaches and that this way, we would always feel refreshed....hah! What kind of consolation is that!

It was only in my adulthood that I realized that Mamina might have had an ulterior motive for getting us sheared like sheep. Yup, we figured it all out....you see, we both had extremely curly, thick, and tangle-crazy hair. And since we’d be swimming everyday and showering everyday, we’re pretty sure that she didn’t want to waste half her vacation combing our hair and listening to us cry during the untangling process. A little selfish on her part for being too lazy to deal with our hair, a little selfish on my part for wanting her to waste hours being my stylist. Of course, as a mother, she was probably also thinking to save us from the tangle-pain, but we still can’t understand why we she had to go that short, she could have had them cut short, but not THAT short.. That way, she could have saved herself the hassle without having us look like day-old chiapets. Geez, this whole thing has traumatized me for life, so that I can never again seriously consider a short haircut for fear of looking like the Caucasian Afro-Queen.

N-e-way, all this just to say that I am due for a haircut cause I’m starting to look as if I'm trying to compete for the Crystal Gayle title....AND... I’m thinking of going short-er. Please people, say a prayer for me....

Take a Bow

-Madonna

I don’t have much to chat about today...just a little update on the only show I follow.
After a climactic episode of Amazing Race, with Victoria’s dramatic injury scene involving more screaming and crying than usual, it seems that the curtain came down for those hyper psychos. Actually, it was all very disappointing in the end. John seemed very civil and subdued instead of the going postal reaction I was expecting. I actually felt some sympathy for him, go figure? It’s as if I was expecting the explosive pop you get when you put a needle to an overinflated balloon, and instead it just kind of deflated as it slalomed left and right in the air. Oh well, now I’ll have to focus my attention on those steroid-pumped southern-drawling wrestlers. I have to admit though, I think that the long-distance daters, John and Kris will take it. They don’t attract any attention to themselves, and like to keep a low-profile. We haven’t seen them pull a sweat, or show any emotion, or look tired, or curse or yell at eachother...or nothing! Which makes me kind of suspiscious...What are they, like NAVY seals undercover as mere mortal civilians? What kind of sneaky trick are they gonna pull?

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

-Mary Poppins

I don’t know what’s going on, it must be something in the drinking water, but everyone I know seems to be getting pregnant. Most recently, one of our couple friends asked Al and I to be godparents to their soon-to-be-arriving bundle of joy...kind of funny that Pacino will be a Godfather, very fitting...He’s already polishing his ring.

Traditionally, Godfather tasks seem to include giving good "career" advice, dishing out fun money and trying to get the Kid involved with the "family business". I’m still trying to figure out what my role as Godmother will be? My only reference seems to be that of the Fairy Godmothers (FG) Association of Disney, (Cinderella had one FG, Sleeping Beauty had 3 of them). I guess I’ll have to get myself a poofy, sparkly gown, a tall pointy conical hat with silk streaming out of the tip, and I’ll also have to equip myself with some kind of magic wand I assume. But what’s concerning me the most is that I will have to come up with some kind of Bippity-Boppity-Boo official Fairy Godmother song to sing while I’ll be whipping around transforming rags into luxury threads, pumpkins into pimped-up rides, and rats into hotties...hmm, maybe that’s why so many men ARE rats... someone’s been wand-happy.

Personally, I’d prefer the role of the practically perfect (in every way) nanny Mary Poppins. She was so IT. Then I could float with the wind with the help of my trusty umbrella and travel around with a big-ass bavool (Turkish for suitcase-trunk) from which I’d extract a plethora of items to the delight of my godchild. Now all I have to do is master the words of the song and I’ll be ready for my godmotherly duties......Zippity-doo-da, zippity day...wait a sec, those are the wrong words, oops.......

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
Even though the sound of it is something quite atrocious
If you say it loud enough you'll always sound precocious
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

YOU'RE (F*****G) CRAZY

-Guns ‘N’Roses

I’m not one to be hooked on reality shows but I must admit I have a penchant for the Amazing Race. I watched most of the first season and fifth season, but this time around I watched every single episode and I have to say that one of the reasons that I’ve been glued to the tube are those crazy, psychotic, married entrepreneurs... John and Victoria.

Where did they find these wack-jobs anyway? Week after week we observe John being a loud, hyperactive, overbearing, obnoxious and volatile asshole whining and screaming like a banshee about the shortcomings of his wife Victoria. We’ve actually seen him almost smack her in front of the cameras. She, on the other hand, makes sarcastic remarks about him being a petulant child while hanging onto the last vestiges of her sanity. She looks like a woman about to go over the edge, and frankly I cannot fathom how she’s been married to him for 3 years and not scalped him yet. Every week, we see that John is totally useless as he cannot seem to do any of the challenges, then Victoria assumes the task insinuating his lack of manliness. She starts the challenge and realizes 30 seconds into it that she’s gonna regret doing this. John starts to hyperventilate as he realizes that other teams are beating them and then he starts to berate her, screeching at her relentlessly (he calls it motivation of course). Her only self-defense against his onslaught seems to be a fast-forward into panic mode. She starts bawling and screaming and puking and whatnot, all while yelling at him to shut the hell up.

Early in the season, I hated them and wanted them to be last in each leg of the race so they could be eliminated, but I must say, all these dramatic antics have grown on me and I look forward to it for pure entertainment value. I think she deserves to win just for putting up with Satan’s evil twin, although I secretly hope that they’ll come in second overall in the race just to see John lose his marbles and have a heart attack. Can’t wait to see what the Loonytoons couple has in store for us this week.

Paperback writer

But I need a break and I want to be a paperback writer

Paperback writer.
- The Beatles

Don’t get me wrong, most of the time I love my job, I very rarely abhor it, and I usually like it a lot and am fulfilled careerwise.

BUT...(there’s always a but), I’ve always wanted to have a career doing something creative artistically. Ok, so my job is pretty creative in a scientific way, and thinking up new formulas requires a lot of originality, innovation and creativity but it just doesn’t feed my soul the same way painting or writing does. I’ve always envisioned myself in one of my daydreams, becoming an anonymously famous writer, (yes, to the extent of J.K. Rowlings fame). Making the big bucks while entertaining the masses. Unfortunately, I’ve also daydreamt (can you say that?) about becoming a famous painter and having my paintings sold in the 6 digits. But who are we kidding. Up to this date, I took 3 community painting courses. In the last 3 years, I started 9 paintings and only finished one.

Yup, just one. Blame it on painter’s block or something. The main reason being that I am a slow painter. I painstakingly ponder over each and every stroke of my brush, sometimes delighting in the effect it creates, other times cringing that I F*****d everything up. Being such a slowpoke resulted in me never finishing a painting in the 3 classes allotted to each subject. So then I was forced to start a new painting without finishing the prior one. Part of the reason is also because some of the subjects we were required to paint in class were boring and I didn’t have much interest in completing it once at home. Also, I just haven’t had time to get around to finishing them. Ultimately though, I think that it is a fear of commitment that stops me from finishing my paintings. Can I commit to that final stroke, to saying it’s finished, to putting my name on the corner and claiming it as my work? I guess I’m scared that it won’t turn out like I want it to. So, because of this, I have a nice gallery of paintings in different stages of completion strewn around the house. Maybe I’ll make it my signature and decide consciously to never finish a painting. Talk about a cover-up.

Well, same thing goes for the writing. I’ve had a few ideas bouncing around in my head the last few years. I’ve done some outlines, written some scenarios but never gotten around to actually doing any writing. I guess I’m scared to committing to black ink on paper. Scared that the stories jotted down are just not read-worthy. That it won’t live up to the scene unfolding in my head....sigh....of course, it also doesn’t help that I’m like the world’s worst procrastinator. Why do anything today when it can be done tomorrow? Man, I never realized what a commitment-phobe I am...Well, one of the reasons why I started writing this blog was just to get used to writing more often, flexing the proverbial writing muscles. In defense of routine exercise, I must admit that the more often I write, the more I find to write about, so...stay tuned, I’m thinking of starting a new blog where the chapters of my future bestselling paperback novel will be posted for review and criticism from my peers and audience...No pressure...Gulp!

Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da

In a couple of years they have built

A home sweet home

With a couple of kids running in the yard

Of Desmond and Molly Jones

Happy ever after in the market place

Desmond lets the children lend a hand

Molly stays at home and does her pretty face

And in the evening she still sings it with the band

Ob-la-di ob-la-da life goes on bra

La-la how the life goes on

-Beatles

Their names may not be Desmond and Molly, but my friends Scarbie and The Dog, who at last count were 2, are probably 3 now....I’m hoping that all was smooth, easy and well! I want to congratulate them on the birth of their son. Scarbie’s the one that introduced me to blogs, and hers is THE best and funniest, especially if your preggers. (Check out my link to Martinis for Milk). She documented her entire pregnancy on her blog, truthfully (sometimes painfully so!), comically and heartfelt-ly. Since there have been no new entries in the last 3 days, and she was in the early stages of labour when last she wrote, I can only assume that the little pecker made his grand entrance. Enjoy the new family you’ve created my friends...Congratulations! Felicitations! Mazeltov! Mabrook!......Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da!

FRESH

She's fresh
Fresh
Exciting
-Kool and the Gang

I once mentioned the phenomena which Al calls Freshness. Well, a new year has dawned, and there is no better time than to speak of Freshness.

I remember when we were in University, we’d be sitting around the table in the library. Me, Pacino, and Pfeiff. I’d be writing my lab report and Al would open up his new leather agenda. He’s peel off the plastic wrap and open it up cracking the spine of the book as he’d turn the page to the right date and flatten out the spine to make sure it would stay open on that page. Then he would glance at me with a sneaky look on his face and drawl out the word FRESH, extending the vowel for a second or two. Then he would start filling in due dates and such, intending to stay true to his lists and notes and dates...However, 2 weeks later, nothing would have been updated, and he’d start the whole process all over again, languishing in the his glory as he said the word FRESH each time he went through his ritual.

The word Freshness came to describe many situations, all of which consist of a new beginning. However, sometimes we use it in a comic way to qualify people that we see are experiencing things for the first time....Let me explain...

Picture this: You’re at the gym, sweating your armpits off on the treadmill, chugging on your bottle like a soul deserted in the Sahara. Your soaking hair hangs limply around your face and you’re wearing an ancient university team T-shirt with track pants that you shrank in the dryer. Suddenly, you notice a perky girl walk into the training area. She is wearing what is obviously a brand new Just Do It T-shirt, track pants that haven’t worn out at the crotch or thighs yet. She has makeup on, her hair is clean and bouncy. She has on spanking new Nike’s with nary a scratch on them. She delicately sips on her bottle like a teenager trying champagne for the first time. She looks around timidly, trying to locate equipment that she can identify. She walks onto the treadmill, stares at all the buttons, glances over at the hardcores as she tries to figure out how to get the thing going. She fidgets with some buttons, gets the thing to move a little, walks for about 5 minutes. Then she stops, walks over to the water fountain for a little sip even though her bottle is still full. She stops along the way to look at the cardio chart..........I think you get the point. Basically, the minute you saw her step into the gym, you knew instantly that this is her first foray into a gym in at least 5 years. She has come here with hopes, aspirations, goals. She thinks she is ready to whip her body into shape in the New Year. She has no idea that 30 minutes on the elliptical machine will make her doubt whether the 400$ she plunked down on membership will be worthwhile. She has no inkling that all her muscles will scream in agony the following morning, prompting her to curse like a sailor and swear to never enter a gym again. This is the state of mind that is called Freshness...the fresh, new, shiny feeling that you get as you embark onto a new endeavor. Full of best intentions. Devoid of any cynicism. Gullible to the belief that all is possible and the world is yours for the taking. Naive to all the pitfalls.

Well, a few times a year, I fall victim to the Freshness phenomena. Usually, around the New Year, as I file away all of last years bills and letters, we prepare for the coming year like a new government settling into its mandate. We make a list of all of our goals for the coming year(have I ever mentioned Al’s love of lists?), we prepare the Annual Balanced Budget. We promise to stay true to our diets and exercise routines....and come spring, when impending bathing suit season looms ahead, I go into a state of panic and start the whole Freshness process again, and then once more when Back to School time rolls around.....

Last week, the day before New Year’s Eve, as I was contemplating things, I realized that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d waxed my legs. I know this sounds gross, but it’s not that bad considering I’m not that hairy. But since I don’t believe in shaving, and I hadn’t waxed since like October, I was thinking, Geez, I can’t start the New Year looking like a sasquatch! I don’t even know how come I let so much time pass in the first place....Yes, yes, I know. I haven’t worn shorts in public since the late 90's. And being as I’ve been so busy with work, renovation, gift buying, out of town guests and a Xmas sitdown supper for 17 people, it’s understandable (at least to me) that I never got around to it. Thankfully, my husband is either blind, really horny, or just to sweet to say anything about it to me...I think he was probably panicking, thinking that now that we’d been married for 2 years, and that I’d turned 30, maybe the hippy self-love thing had really taken me over the edge...Will she ever wax her legs again!!!!! Thank God she lasered her armpits a few years ago or else I’d be married to the missing link (ape that is)....

Oh well, Now that I’m smooth and hairless, I’m ready to start my diet again. I promise I’ll be strict and exercise, and in just a few short months, I’ll be able to wear shorts again....

Can you smell the Freshness in the air?