Thursday, 31 March 2011
With still 6 days left on the sunny side of 35, I realized last night, suddenly, horribly, that...
Oh! It's too terrible to type!
Before going there, let me just say that I taught my first Attack class on the schedule* tonight. That's right - I'm back to being paid to work out (really, the only civilized way to do it)! So, despite not very much woo-ing (I measure my awesomeness is with woos) (doesn't everyone?), I left the gym with a spring in my step. I also thought back to last night, when my floor hockey team held their own against a team of twice-as-many/half-as-old competitors, and how much fun it is to get out of the house -- sans kids -- and be Active Fun Me again. So all in all, I go into this post with the joie de vivre that I've been missing lately.
Back to the horror, the horror:
We all know that I think of myself as 17, on the inside, at least. Well, last night, I suddenly (and horribly, of course) realized that not only am I twice as old as I think I am, but I'll only be twice as old for a few more days...after that, I'll be even older.
*For those in the GVA (Greater Vanier Area), Thursday @ 5:30, every week... come out and suffer with me!
Friday, 18 March 2011
What is it with our generation that makes us uncomfortable being Mistered? You know, when someone with children introduces you to them as Mr. or Mrs. X? *
I always pause when my kids meet a friend of mine/ours, and ask what I should introduce them as, and the response is the same every time. There's an awkward laugh, followed by "Mr. X is my father! They can call me Stan!"
Growing up, I can recall only one friend that was cavalier enough to ask what my mom's name was. "Mrs. Power," I said. "No," she said. "Her first name." Boy, was I shocked. And awed, when she actually called out, "Mary." And relieved when Mom pretended not to hear her.** That was in Grade 3, but I still remember it. All of my parents' friends and friends' parents were Mr. and Mrs., all the way through high school, and that was just how it was. I was even intimidated by people that called their aunts and uncles by their first names, without even adding in the "aunt" bit. How daring...how cool.
So what has changed? Is it partly because we don't want to confuse the kids? Everyone has different last names, due to unmarriage, remarriage, divorce, or feminism -- this confuses even me (how the heck am I supposed to address Christmas cards to Mr.-and-Mrs.-you-have-different-last-names-and-family? You know who you are.), and don't tell me I'm antifeminist or misogynist. I prefer the term simplistic. That being said, kids have an amazing ability to absorb information without questioning, so that can't be it.
Is it just that our generation is full of Peter Pans, not yet ready to grow up, hanging tenaciously onto youth, if only in name?
If I may speak for every North American in the 30 - 40 age range, based solely on my own feelings and experiences, YES! THAT'S IT! I didn't ask to age out of my twenties far too soon! And don't tell me that 40 is the new 25. We both know that's crap.
(what? you think this is the just-about-to-turn-35-crisis post? Now I'm offended.***)
How did our parents do it? They adopted being grown up so much more naturally, it seems, and with it, all the trappings (cars, mortgages, children, and mistering) that my generation accumulates so much later, and with so much less pride.
I'm sure there's a lot more to delve into on this, but I've no idea why we all seem to be so resistant to being mistered. Any thoughts or ideas from any and all generations are welcome...
*Possible follow-up post: Hell hath no fury like a woman Ma'am-ed.
** Or maybe she didn't hear her, but it was a HUGE deal to me.
*** That should be much, much, MUCH worse. Stay tuned.
Monday, 7 March 2011
Here, she supports the team. Maybe, by the time her jersey fits, the
She feeds herself and drinks from her sippy cup by herself! Chris and I actually had a dinner the other night in which we both ate dinner...at the same time! She had her first steak (now that she has two teeth, we thought it was about time), we had wine... it was magical.
Below, lunchtime hijinks:
And finally, and most importantly, SHE MOVES! For a few weeks, we'd put her down and then find her somewhere else. She started by scooching (sp?) on her bum, pulling and pushing with her arms, and she has now progressed to full-on army crawling!
Here's the video of her first day of crawling:
And yes, the gates are up.
Awwww, our baby is turning into a little girl!
Thursday, 3 March 2011
I call it the Pretentious Canadian.
You know the kind; they embrace winter!TM. They enjoy Canadian television* and revel in Canadian in-jokes on American television**. And they listen to CBC, for God's sake.
Well, hello, me!
I turned on CBC Radio Two about 2 months ago, since I just couldn't find a station with a mix that I was enjoying. This, of course, might be due to the fact that the good*** stations that I'd normally listen to were programmed into my parents' radio, and I therefore needed to change my taste in music, and quick.
Let's back up. I grew up with the CBC. It was a Sunday morning staple. It was a constant and friendly background presence in my mom's kitchen, from the silly (Air Farce and Double Exposure) to the symphonic, and it became natural, when I lived on my own, to leave the radio on all the time, even when I went out, just so I had its sound to come home to. Over the years, through roommates and husbands (kaff), I got exposed to more modern music that wasn't too bad, and since I wasn't exactly given a choice in stations, I started to like the various morning shows and evening shows, and always turned off the radio when I left a room.
But I digress. I tuned into CBC Radio One first. Yes, I got caught up on world events in the span of one day... all day... just the news... all day... All together now: boooooring. And depressing.
But then I found its companion, Radio Two. I believe I had the misfortune to start with Tempo, the workday classical show. It's hosted by Julie Nesrallah, and I hated her from the very first five minutes of Pretentious Canadiana. She's smug and uppity and apparently finds joy in telling quaint little stories about composers, with turns of phrase, just so, to impress and delight her listeners. She amuses herself to bits, you can tell.
On day two, I had fallen in love. She's amazing! You can hear the passion in her gorgeous voice - she loves, loves, loves classical music, and obviously researches her subjects with interest. And yes, I'm impressed and delighted and amused. And I hang on her every word. It's so bad, that if I ever got to meet her, I wouldn't even be able to talk to her, since I'd say something like, "Gawrsh, you talk purty," bark a nervous laugh and follow it with, "I'm a fan!"****
I'm starting to learn (or maybe to rediscover -- it's been so long) the different composers again. I crank up the opera, despite thinking that every one I hear was written by Puccini. I try to guess which is Bach and which is Brahms...unsuccessfully almost every time...but I find it so peaceful and wonderful, amid the chaos of my home or the monotony of a long drive.
The other shows, where they mix up the music, don't impress me as much - I find that their playlist is still rather repetitive, though I am getting exposed to a wider range than anything I heard in the Hat, whose stations, I used to joke, had six CDs each.
In fact, the first time I tuned into classical music again was on the flight from there to here for the househunting trip. Chris was wrestling with a didn't-want-to-sit-still Vaughn in the seat in front of me, and I had a quietly sleeping -- and fairly new -- Ailsa cuddled up to me. I put on my headphones, chose the classical playlist, and felt instantly refined and refreshed.
Oh, and pretentious too, of course.
* ...like InSecurity. Highly recommended, but not by Fis.
** All things Robin Scherbatsky, yo!
*** "Good", in this iteration, means "totally crappy, and I'm aware of it, but I like what I like, dammit, and who are you to judge me?" See also, Majic 100, The Lounge.
**** You know, the same way I used to do with fitness stars, like Stephanie Worsfold and Jen Hendershott. (Who called me a fireball, don'tcha know. ) (And, yes, that will be on my tombstone.)