Me & Mom

My mother and I have never had an easy relationship. As far back as I can remember, she was doing or saying things that annoyed me, I was doing or saying things that annoyed her ... it was the classic "oil and water" thing, tomato/tomahto. Now that I'm 41, I'm surprised to see that she can still evoke the same feelings in me that she did when I was a child.

I'm separating from my husband, am due to move out this weekend, actually, and from the first moment I told her this was the decision I had made, she has made it clear she does not agree with me, that I'm making a huge mistake, that I will regret it, that I will end up alone and broke, and that my daughter will suffer terribly. Fair enough. This is her opinion, and I know that no matter what I say to her, nothing will change her opinion. So I can live with that. But it's the little things that get to me ... that got to me this morning. I'll give you an example.

Since I'm due to move this weekend, I've asked for a couple of days off from work. I told her this and she says to me, "For God's sake, be nice about it. Don't jeopardize your job. Explain the situation to them and make sure they understand. The last thing you need right now is to be out of work." Now, ordinarily this is the kind of comment that I am so used to that it would just roll right off my back and disappear. But this morning, with my separation pending, and most everyone's sympathy and concern focused on my husband, I guess I just had no room left for tolerance or levity. This is the way she has talked to me my entire life. Like I am a complete and utter moron who would not be able to breathe if she did not tell me to inhale and exhale. God knows I can be blunt at times, and this morning after she said this to me, I said, "You know, mom, I don't mean to be nasty, but it surprises me sometimes that you don't tell me to wipe my own ass when I go to the bathroom." She gave me that look, the one that says, you ungrateful thing, why do I even bother talking to you, and then she started shaking her head and saying, "Okay, I'm fed up, all I'm trying to do is help and all you do is insult me," blah blah blah. Then I realized I probably shouldn't have said anything, just swallowed her condescension like I have done a billion times before, but I just finished my coffee, got up and got ready to leave.

I know there is a lot of complexity involved in mother-daughter relationships. From the womb to the grave, it is probably the most intimate relationship we will ever have. I know that in her own way, she was just trying to help. What constantly flummoxes me, baffles me, is how she can think that such a comment is helpful. All I know is, if my daughter were separating from her husband (she's only six and I'm just speculating of course), even if I disagreed with her decision, I would realize that she must be very unhappy to be making this decision, and that emotional support would be crucial to her at that time. I would say, "You know, I think you might be making a mistake, but obviously you're very unhappy or you wouldn't be doing this." It doesn't mean I would be taking sides with her husband against her. If I liked her husband I would support him too. But I would know that my daughter's well-being is the most important thing, and the last thing I needed to be doing was talking to her like she was an idiot.

There is something about me being assertive, about defending myself, about being independent and strong that just rubs my mother (and a lot of other people too) the wrong way, and she does everything she can to reverse it and undermine my strength and intelligence, make me feel like that helpless little child again. Thank God I am an adult now and know that I am not at anyone's mercy anymore, unless I choose to be.

Magic

One of the reasons relationships fail is because there is no real foundation for them. I am no architect, but I know that when a house is built, a solid foundation is crucial. The same is true with all relationships, but especially marriages, because marriages are voluntary unions. You are not born into them like you are born into a family (unless you are born into a culture that arranges marriages, I suppose). You cannot pick your relatives. You do pick your spouse. And one thing I have learned, is that when you do pick one, you had better pick well. Your reasons had better be good ones.

The one crucial thing any love relationship needs to survive and flourish is "magic". It is that intangible "something" that no one can quite explain, but you know it when it's there. I experienced it yesterday, and it's what has inspired me to write this blog today. I was in a crowded room with a man I have known, respected, admired, and yes, lusted after, for a couple of years. There was a lot going on. He was speaking, as a matter of fact, to a group of people, teaching a course. I was sitting toward the back, and he had assigned us all to partner up and start discussing something he was talking about. I had left the room and missed getting a partner, so I was sitting there by myself quietly while everyone else was commiserating. He was standing up at the front at the podium, just kind of scanning the room periodically, and then our eyes met. His eyebrows raised, mine raised in return, he smiled at me, and I smiled back. And when I did that, I literally felt something pass between us from across the room. It was as if something from his body had travelled across the room and landed in mine. It lasted about a second, but it made me tingle from head to toe. It was knowing, without a doubt, that I was in some way special to him and that we had shared something so intimate in the midst of all these people, effortlessly, without detection by anyone else.

That's what I'm talking about.

If you don't have that, you don't have anything. And when you settle for less, it'll come back to get you, sooner or later.

Food's Allure

A very wise, gentle man asked me a question recently that provoked a lot of thought. He's a weight loss coach and I have been working with him, on and off, for about two years now. The question he asked was: What is the most important question about weight loss and/or self discovery that you would like to have answered?

So, I thought about this, and this is what I came up with: Why is it that food is so important to me? More specifically, why is it that other people -- "healthy" people, for want of a better word -- see food as simply food, eat, and don't give it a second thought, but I, on the other hand, attach such importance to it, such meaning, such ... depth. For the answer to this question is the resolution of my weight loss issues. If I could figure out a way to get the same kind of satisfaction from other things than food, then I wouldn't eat when I'm not hungry, or stressed, or bored, or lonely, or horny, or ... whatever.

I know that while I was growing up, food was always a source of both frustration and bliss for me. My parents were both of European descent, and often the food my mom or dad cooked did not appeal to me. I longed for the typical Canadian/American fare of hamburgers and fries, that sort of thing. But instead I would smell sauerkraut or something else cooking and my parents' attitude was always: If you're hungry, you'll eat it, you're not getting anything else! So more often than not my stomach would grumble in protest as I sat in front of my plate, refusing to eat what was put there. Then food became something surreptitious. My brothers and I would go out for walks on Sunday afternoons, and my oldest brother, who was working and had money, would buy us what we all craved: chocolate, potato chips ... junk food. We would pig out and go home. This food was very rarely available in the house, so it always felt like we were being really bad by indulging in it.

So why did I choose to turn to food instead of a pair of arms around me for comfort? Because they weren't available. My parents were tired people and had little energy for us kids after working, cleaning and cooking. The affection just wasn't there. Occasionally my dad would cuddle me or spend time with me, telling me stories, but it was never enough. I was always voracious, for love as much as food. One particular thing that has always stood out in my mind is my dad's potato pancakes. It was one of the few items of European cuisine that my juvenile palate absolutely adored. They were so incredibly good. I can remember coming home from school and smelling them frying and being in heaven, realizing that they were going to be for dinner. I would sit down and he would slide them from the spatula right onto my plate, still spattering from the hot oil. There would be cold sour cream to dollop on top of them, and hot tomato soup to start. The combination of the hot pancakes and the cold sour cream, the saltiness and slightly gummy texture of the potatoes epitomizes my childhood. I've tried making them since, tried to duplicate them, but there is just no way.

Food is so much more than food to me. Butter pecan ice cream is not simply cream, pecans, sugar, monosodium glutamate and whatever else it consists of. It's love, it's comfort, it's carresses, it's happiness, it's joy, it's total bliss. Until I can find it somewhere else, I know that it'll be waiting for me in the freezer, ready for me to spoon up whatever it has to offer me.

Gimme Gimme

I often think my life would be a lot better with more money. No, not mo' money ... a LOT of money. I often find myself wondering how the other half lives. There are all kinds of shows on t.v. about how celebrities spend their money. The other night, because there was nothing else on, I found myself flipping past "The Fabulous Life of ..." Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony (or is it Antony ... I never even heard of the guy until he married her, but who cares.) Anyway ... in one segment they started going through all the stuff in her medicine cabinet. Her eye cream costs like $700 an ounce or something. She ordered custom made hangers for her dressing room. She has about 80 furs. I mean, truly materialistic, hedonistic, ridiculous things. Yeah. I could get into that.

If money were no object, I would definitely have a few different residences around the world. I would have to have a European abode, because I was born there and I have always loved everything European. I would have to have a residence in a warm or tropical climate ... well, that's a given, isn't it? Fuck L.A. though. You couldn't get me to live there if you paid me. Truly. Well, okay ... how much are we talking about? I would have a few cars, a Corvette being one of them. A Mini. I love those things! :-) I wouldn't need a chauffeur. No need to get that stuffy. I would definitely have "help", though. Fuck if I'd do the dishwashing and cleaning anymore.

Anyway, I know they say money doesn't solve all ills, but you know what? I think that's bullshit. At the very least, it would definitely make life a lot more enjoyable. Okay, so you'd have to hire a team of accountants, install security and hire a few bodyguards ... so what? I'll take those hassles over worrying about how to pay the bills and working for an idiot any day.

Love in the Dark

Over the course of many years of being a large woman (I hate the word "fat", always have, always will), I have encountered many men who have been attracted to me but have been ashamed of their attraction to me. These men, otherwise known as "FAs" (fat admirers) are, in my opinion, not men. They are boys.

A man, in my opinion, is not just defined by the fact that he has a penis and is a fully grown adult male. No -- in my opinion, a man is defined by a lot more than that. A man is someone who is honest, who lives his life honestly, who deeply loves and staunchly defends the honour of the woman he loves. Anything less does not meet the criteria.

I remember many years ago, being at a party with a guy I liked. He was a handsome guy and I was all warm and wet over him. At first, I thought he met the definition of a man because he was open about the fact that he was attracted to me in front of my friends, and I thought, Wow ... this guy is really great. When we left the party that night and started walking home along a main street, we ran into an acquaintance and I sensed a difference in him when this guy saw us together, a subtle sort of tension. I brushed it off and we continued walking home, talking. It was only after we left the main street and turned onto a deserted side street that he finally took my hand and held it. I felt a moment of gratitude and happiness, and then that was quickly replaced by annoyance and fear, at the realization that, yes ... he was ashamed of me, otherwise why would he not have held my hand all the way home?

I have had moments like this, in one form or another, with many men in my life. There is always hope and headiness in the beginning, that he won't be like all the others, but then, more often than not, he turns out to be just like them after all. Whose fault is it, that these men are like this? I know the crux of the matter is that men these days are conditioned to believe that they are not real men unless they have a woman on their arm who can make their friends jealous. If she doesn't meet the criteria of being a hottie, she is vulnerable to ridicule, and, by extension, the ridicule of the man who is with her. He is told he can't get any better, and he must be desperate, and that's why he's with the fat chick. So, in order to prove themselves to be real men, they renounce the women they are probably genuinely attracted to and could probably have a very fulfilling relationship with.

It's very sad. I feel sad that men are under this kind of pressure, but what makes me even sadder is that they don't stand up to it. If they did, they would be such heroes and even more desirable to the large women they love. It also makes me angry. We fat women (ick, I said it!) have so much going against us. We need, more than anyone, to be loved and supported. Yet it's constantly denied us, even by the men who purport to love us.

Let's Talk About Sex, Baby

Moving right along ... since my last couple of posts have been sexually oriented, I figured I might as well delve into something I've been wanting to talk about. I should say before I start that those of you who might be squeamish or offended by frank sexual discussion, please do not read any further and please do not send me any hate mail. If you can't handle it, don't read on. You have been warned.

I have always loved pleasing a man orally (notice I didn't use the cruder description, for a very specific reason -- I don't believe there's anything crude about it). Ever since I was a teenager and started developing those raging hormones, I was always preoccupied with the thought of oral sex. Like kissing (although I didn't get to view it on t.v. or in the movies back then, before I had access to porn), I just always thought it was something I would be naturally gifted at. I believe that my mouth is just as important a sexual part as my pussy, if not more so. The thing about oral sex that is so exquisite is that's it's visible. I'm not knocking sexual intercourse, by any means, although I have to admit on the whole it doesn't turn me on as much. When a man is inside you, you can't see what he's doing, and neither can he. On the other hand, when you're sucking him, he can see everything and you can see everything. I think that's what makes it more exciting.

A man's penis is a beautiful thing. The more men you are with, you begin to see how every single one is different, just like a snowflake. No two penises are alike. :-) Each one has its own special characteristics, but of course there are some that are universal. Some are longer than others, some are thicker than others, some are circumcised, some aren't (I prefer the circumcised ones, myself, I just think they look better). My favourite part, of course, is the head. I just love the shape of it ... it's kind of tapered, a little bit round. You can see that it has been miraculously designed to both look visually appealing, and for practical purposes, for easier insertion into a woman's vagina. I just love playing with the head of a man's penis with my lips and my tongue, and watching it ooze and drip when he gets excited. But anyway, each penis has its own landscape, and each man has his own particular preferences in how you pleasure him. Another thing that turns me on so much about oral sex is the sounds of it ... the slurping, chirping, sounds of the actual sucking, and the sighing, moaning, groaning, whispering of the man you are with, asking you to suck harder, or slower, or lick him, or whatever.

I've been told many times that I am really good at giving head (okay, there I used the cruder description because it seemed to fit). And I believe I am, because I actually enjoy doing it. A lot of women I've talked to told me they can't stand it and can't understand why I like it. I should actually qualify this by saying that I talked to my teenage and 20-something girlfriends about this a long time ago, unfortunately I haven't had the chance to have much frank sexual discussion with other women these days. But anyway, they always told me they thought it was gross. "Ewww, they pee from that thing!" they would say. Uh, yeah. So do we, girls, and they go down on us too. I have to admit, though, that the one thing I do not like about giving head is the swallowing. Uh uh. Won't do it, sorry. Not unless I'm REALLY turned on. Despite my love of oral sex, I have to admit I have never acquired a taste for semen and don't see myself acquiring one in the future. The actual eruption turns me on, but not the taste. I've heard that a man's diet affects the taste of his semen but I can't imagine what he would eat that would actually make it taste good. Maybe chocolate? :-)

Anyway, there's nothing I like better than lying a naked man down on the bed and just giving him a little bit of heaven on earth. And when I make love to him like that, I also like to make sure I'm always carressing other parts of him too, his nipples, his stomach, his thighs ... I don't neglect anything. And afterwards, I love to be rewarded with a good hard pounding. :-) So far in my life, I've only met one man whose talents at oral sex were as prolific as my own (sorry to sound egotistical, but it's true). And just my luck, he dumped me. So ... I'll keep searching for my oral equal.

I've often wondered what it feels like for a man to have a blowjob. I don't want to be a man, but just once, I would like to know what it feels like to be on the receiving end of a blowjob. Just so I would know how I'm making him feel, I guess. I'm sure there are more aspects of oral sex than just the feel of the woman's mouth or tongue on him that turns him on. Seeing a pretty face next to his erect penis, licking him up and down, sucking him. It must be mind-blowing (pardon the pun).

Lingerie

I guess I have kind of a love-hate relationship with lingerie. I'm like most women in the sense that I enjoy pretty things, frilly, lacy, satiny, beautifully-coloured things. But I also have a few pet peeves about them.

My husband, like most men, had a real thing for me in lingerie. It became something of an issue between us, because he would always want me to wear "something" when we went to bed. This would piss me off, as when I'm going to bed anticipating some love action, the last thing I want to do is put the brakes on and start pulling on fishnets, garter belts, teddies, what-have-you, then stepping into a pair of stilettos. It really started to annoy me because it seemed every time we were about to have sex, he would ask me to put this on or that on. Now, I have no problem with catering to a man's desire to see me all decked out, to be eye candy for him. I would just like it to be my own decision to treat him, to pamper him, if you will. But when it starts being a prerequisite, that's when I have a problem with it. My husband always took the position that, what's the big deal, it takes you a couple of minutes to put it on, what are you complaining for? My response to that is, Well honey, if it's not that big a deal, then why don't we just forego it and get in the fucking bed?

The other pet peeve I have with lingerie is from a larger woman's perspective. I'm not so big that I can't find lingerie in the stores. I do have to go to certain stores to get a good selection though. I definitely just can't walk into a department store and pick up whatever little something that catches my eye. That's what ticks me off. I walk into a store where they have "normal" sizes and see all these incredibly cute, sexy, foxy little items I would love to wear but just can't, because they come in like, a size 2. Bigger women do have a better selection now, but there is just no comparison to what is available to smaller women. It's as if the companies who design lingerie think that bigger women don't have sex, therefore they don't require sexy lingerie. Granted, there are also a lot of mail order companies who make lingerie in "super sizes" for those really larger women who just can't get it anywhere else, or for those of us who want more of a selection.

Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against "treating" my man (when I eventually get one) :-) to a little bedroom fashion show now and then. But when I do it, I like it to be at my own volition, and not in an obligatory way. What's the fun in that? Truthfully, I would really like to find a guy who thinks my "birthday suit" is far sexier than any lingerie on the market.

Kiss Me

I think the power of the kiss is woefully underestimated. In the realm of the birds and the bees, there are few things that compare, for me, to a really good make-out session. I actually consider myself something of an expert in the art of french kissing. I can remember when I was a young girl, seeing men and women kiss on t.v. and in the movies, and I would think, hmmmm ... that looks nice. I spent hours speculating on how to do it, if I would be able to do it "right", and how it would feel. I practiced with a pillow to make sure I had all the techniques down. Well, I am happy to tell you that my initiation into the world of kissing went just fine.

In order for a man to truly pass muster with me, he HAS to be a great kisser. No ifs, ands or buts. If he is too impatient and races for the finish line before we've even run a few laps, then that tells me a lot about his potential as a lover. No -- he must be a sensualist, like me. I love to just sit on a couch, or close by at a romantic little table, if we are out somewhere, and appetize and tease each other with little butterfly pecks, the gentle flicking of our tongues together playfully, or out and out wide-open mouthed face-sucking. And to take it out of the stratosphere, by no means should his (or her, for you guys out there) lips be the only part of the equation. Slipping in a few little kisses on his cheek, his ear, his neck ... playing with the hair on his wrist ... that all adds to the deliciousness of it. It's all about finesse. Truly good kissing is really an art. It requires a great deal of skill, intuition, tenderness, passion, coyness, mischief ... the nuances to great kissing are endless. But, in the end, they should leave you both throbbing, aching, and wet. Imagine how great it will be in the bedroom if you're both almost coming before you get there.

An ex-boyfriend of mine was a fantastic kisser. That's one of the reasons I miss him so much. On our first date, we sat across from each other at a little cafe and held hands. He started stroking my arm, he told me my skin was soft and beautiful, his hand started going up a little higher each time until his fingertips snuck past my Chardonnay and ended up playing with my cleavage, then asked if he could come over and sit beside me. Like I was going to say no. And when he got there, we just went for it and kissed soft, fast, slow, hard, soft. When he started pulling the V-neck of my top down further to get a better look at my girls, a waiter came over, grinning, and waved his hands at us, going, "Guys, guys ..." and we both stopped, ashamed. I blushed, I was so embarrassed. But that's a testament to how great a kisser he was, that we almost got kicked out of this place.

(sigh)

Therapy

One of the things I like best about "The Sopranos" (the new season is starting in March, woo-hoo!) is the continuing saga of Tony's visits to his therapist, Dr. Melfi. When I sit there watching it, and see him fiddling with his shoe, or looking up at the ceiling and sighing, and her sitting there just staring at him, waiting for him to speak, I'm struck by how similar it's been to my own interactions with therapists/counsellors. One of the most disconcerting things about therapy is that you are responsible for about 85% of it. The therapist is there simply to guide you along, and offer insights.

In the past few years, I've taken therapy very seriously ... meaning I've switched from my previous mode of therapy, which was self-directed through self-help books ... to actual, sitting-there-awkwardly, "therapy". How therapeutic it's actually been is still unknown. It's definitely clarified a lot of things for me, made them undeniable. The most beneficial aspect of it, I found, was just the ability to speak openly to someone without fearing any consequences. So often, what I have to say to the people closest to me, is either not welcomed or heavily contested. So you can imagine the relief I feel when I just get to spew whatever it is that's on my mind ... that is, whenever I get over the first few awkward moments of, "Uh, what do I say now? I don't really feel like talking, let him/her start."

In my dream life, I would be a psychologist. I would be the one sitting across from someone waiting to hear them rip themselves open and expose their inner pain, and then hopefully, soothe them or comfort them. Maybe one of these days, I'll be in a position where I feel emotionally healthy enough to be able to advise other people on how to live their lives the way they are meant to be lived. It's what I'm aiming for, anyway.

T.G.I.M.?

You know there's got to be something wrong when you look forward to Monday rather than Friday. That's the way my life has been going lately. Things are so shitty at home I dread the weekends and look forward to getting back to work on Monday.

When I got married almost six years ago, I knew it wouldn't last. I knew I was doing it for the wrong reasons. But I went ahead and did it anyway, which is what kills me the most. I'm an intelligent woman. I have a lot of psychological insight, due to my love of psychology and extensive reading on the subject. It's not like I went into it with no knowledge, or foresight, or even intuition that I would regret it later.

But, like a lot of intelligent people, I did a stupid thing. And I'm paying for it now. Not only that ... a person I genuinely love, my husband, is suffering now too. He's not a bad guy. In fact, he's a wonderful, sweet person. How screwed up is that? He's a great guy but the feelings are just not there. I tried to explain to him that you can love someone without being in love with them but he doesn't get it. I'm not sure I get it either. All I know is, for the past six years (and a lot longer than that, in truth), I have felt no excitement, no passion, no fun ... none of the things I need, and any woman needs, to feel truly alive.

What makes it worse is that all the people I'm closest to -- my husband, members of my family -- all think I'm making a big mistake by leaving and that I will regret it. Yet, whenever I explain my situation to total strangers -- people I've met on the internet, therapists, acquaintances -- their opinion of it is totally different and they encourage me and tell me I'm doing the right thing. They tell me it takes a lot of guts to bring the truth out in the open, to want to start a new life, with no dishonesties, no compromises, nothing but what is best for me. It's so confusing. Who's right, the people who know me or the people who don't? And why do I even need anyone's seal of approval, anyway? I know in my heart what is right for me.

There are two primary emotions I'm facing right now: guilt and frustration. Guilt for wanting to leave, for hurting someone unnecessarily, and frustration for feeling that guilt because it's getting in the way of what I really want to do.

I've been the good girl all my life, doing what other people want me to do for them. I'm 41 years old. I figure it's time I started doing what I want to do for myself.

Is that really so wrong?

Ah-Choo!

I have a cold. I've had worse, but every time I have a cold, I feel something less than human. I hate looking at myself in the mirror. My nose is always bright red from constant wiping, my eyes look like they've just been pried open, and my skin looks all pasty white. Yeah, really attractive.

There is one good thing about having a cold, though. It gives you a really great excuse to just do nothing. Yesterday, when I got home from work, I made myself a quick dinner -- Lipton chicken noodle soup, a Jamaican beef pattie, and a small bowl of egg nog ice cream, a cure if I've ever heard one -- then popped a couple of bright blue Tylenol Nighttime cold capsules and headed right up to bed, at like, 5:35. I didn't think I'd be able to fall asleep right away, but before I knew it, I was gone. I didn't toss and turn all night, like I do with some colds. I pretty much slept right through, don't remember having any dreams at all. I guess it was just what I needed. The term "recuperative sleep" came into my mind when I got up this morning to go to work. That's exactly what I had: recuperative sleep.

My all-time favourite comfort food for a cold is definitely the cliche chicken noodle soup -- not mom's homemade, because I hated my mother's chicken noodle soup -- but the highly processed Lipton or Campbell's variety. Mmm mmm good indeed. I can go through a ton of that stuff when I have a cold. When it's nice and hot, and you have it in a bowl in front of you, the vapour from it just comes right up and steams your nostrils. Then it warms your throat when it goes down, right down to your tummy. And you're ready for another LOOOOONNNNNG nap.

They say that what doesn't kill us makes us stronger. You know when you have a cold and then you finally get over it, that great, alive feeling you have? I guess that's a small example of that.