The Prodigal Daughter

It's amazing how we come full circle sometimes. I grew up in the Bloor West Village area of Toronto, and now I find myself back there. When I got married, I moved up the street to another district, not far away in terms of distance but worlds away in terms of atmosphere. I moved to the Junction, which is very blue-collar and industrial, although it has come a long way and cleaned up quite a bit. I hated it when I first moved there, but after living there for six years, I came to have some affection for it. But I never felt at home there, the way I do in my beloved Bloor West.

Last week, I decided to start a ritual with my daughter and told her that unless the weather was absolutely terrible, we were going for a walk every Sunday. I love walking, and have been severely deprived of it since we moved. My daughter hates walking and always protests about it, which I find very funny because when she's in the house I can never keep her still. She's always running around, jumping off the walls, furniture, whatever. But once I get her out there and start pointing stuff out to her, like, "Emily, look at those snowmen across the street!" or, "Emily, look, there's a kitty over there!", she starts enjoying it. And I always make sure to stop off at the park, which she loves.

Anyway, this past weekend it was like deja vu, because as usual she was complaining that she was tired and "How much further is it?" etc. etc., and it brought me back to my own childhood. I remember walking down to Bloor Street with my mother as a child, dragging every step of the way, complaining and whining that my feet hurt, that it was too far, that I was tired. I remember her going into the butcher shops and green grocers and buying her meat and vegetables and that's what I do now. I was standing in line this weekend at one of the green grocers, waiting to pay for my sweet potatoes and grapes, and I realized I'd forgotten to get mushrooms. I asked Emily if she could go outside and get some for me while I held my place in line. It was so nice ... She went out there, filled me a bag and brought them to the counter just in time to pay for them. The Chinese lady behind the counter said, "Good girl!" and I beamed with pride. She's gotten to be quite the little helper these days.

When I was a kid, the Bloor West Village area was nothing special, pretty non-descript and modest. There were always the butcher shops with huge salamis hanging in the windows, bakeries with trays of cakes and pastries, and the delicious smells accompanying both. But now it has bloomed into an ultra-stylish, ultra-chic yuppie-ish area with tons of cafes, bookshops, boutiques, high-end gourmet grocery shops, and of course the requisite Starbucks, Timothy's and Chapters franchises. The sidewalk bustles and you will always see a good supply of young and middle-aged couples with their cell phones pushing baby carriages, walking their dogs, wearing shades and sipping lattes. Sadly, the two movie theatres that used to landmark the area, the Humber and the Runnymede, are now long gone, but that's the case with all theatres in the city now. Everything has gone multiplex, which I find truly sad (possibly the subject of a future post, coming soon to a blog near you).

I knew, somehow, I'd end up returning to my old neighbourhood. My whole being just seems fully entrenched there. There's the restaurant where my friends and I used to go for fries and coffee every day at lunch; the laneway where I smoked my first joint; the park where I used to hang out with my girlfriend smoking endless cigarettes and discussing various tortured romances.

I know they say that places, houses in particular, retain the spirits or personalities of the people who lived there. They're called "trace memories". Bloor West Village epitomizes that idea for me. No matter how many changes have taken place there in the past twenty or thirty years, no matter how many outrageously priced condos loom, I'll see the outline of a building or look up an endless-looking sidewalk populated with big old houses and big old trees, and feel that nothing has changed at all.

Repeat After Me: Anger is Healthy

You've got to have something to entertain you when you're driving to work, especially if it takes you about 45 minutes to get there. There is a radio station I listen to every workday because I like the music the play. Unfortunately, this means that I'm subjected to the morning show hosts, a trio of guys, the type who definitely swatted each other on the ass with wet towels in high school gym class.

Awhile ago, I did a post about one of their recent contests, to find the ugliest whatever. (A guy with green toenails won.) Their latest contest is for the best ass. The winner gets $10,000.

Now, I have a pretty liberal sense of humour. I'm definitely not a prude. I've listened to Howard Stern and, although he is a sexist, misogynistic pig, occasionally have found him to be funny. (His radio show was aired on Q107 for a short while and I tuned in once in awhile.) But he's the type whose personality is so abrasive I don't even consider him an actual person, and it's easy to just tune him out.

The guys whose morning show I'm talking about (102.1 The Edge, the Dean Blundell show) are more offensive because they occasionally show glimpses of humanity. But, for the most part, two of them, and one in particular, are some of the most sickening examples of brain-dead testosterone I have ever heard. They're always talking about how "hot" this chick is, what a drop-dead body she has, and of course, one of the idiots has said he prefers thin women. One of the things that pissed me off the most was that when they announced this new contest, they made a point of saying it was open to people of all shapes and sizes. One morning I listened as they snickered about a girl who had come in. "Was that the hugest ass you've ever seen?" the head moron chortled. "I didn't want to hurt her feelings so I told her she had a wicked belt," the other one said. I felt so sorry for this girl, who must've thought she had a pretty nice ass to go in and get her picture taken and enter the competition. Then, on the other hand, I thought, how could she have been so stupid to subject herself to that? If she listens to the program, she ought to know how one-dimensional these guys are in their approach to women. Or maybe she was doing it to prove a point? I dunno. Then some brain-dead stripper comes in and they're drooling all over her, going, "Oh man, I wouldn't leave the house if I lived with an ass like that."

Imagine how this makes me feel, a larger woman behind the wheel. I have often wished they would materialize on the road in front of me so I could run them over. Unfortunately, these guys are the norm, I have found. In order for a woman to be worthy of admiration, she must be a certain size, dimension, shape, whatever. Thank God I have a tape deck in my car so that when I really can't stand their bullshit I just hit the play button and mutter obscenities under my breath until my anger subsides.

I have no doubt that if I walked into the studio to get a picture of my ass taken, it would inspire hours of delightful mirth for these guys. But then again ... maybe I could just drop my pants and fart in their faces. :-)

Mr. Right

Okay, so I've been married, had a child, been around the block, so to speak. I'm 41, so I have a considerable amount of life experience and "wisdom" under my belt. I figure that these things qualify me to make a good decision about the future man in my life. I have definitely learned enough to know that it is just not worth it to make compromises with what you really need. I have made a vow to myself that from now on, I will not settle for second-best or something that is just "okay". It just doesn't work, in the long run, and worse than that, it wastes a lot of time. And life is short. So here are the things I am looking for, in my next main squeeze.

1. He has to have a good, steady job, not necessarily high income, but something that involves a skill and that he enjoys.

This one's pretty much a no-brainer. A guy who isn't mature enough or stable enough to have a job is nobody I want to share my life with. And it would be nice to be with someone who is talented and very good at and proud of what he does.

2. He has to have manners and treat people with respect.

If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a guy with no manners. I remember once a guy took me out and as we were going in to this establishment, he went ahead of me, opened the door, and let it fall right back in my face. Needless to say, that didn't go anywhere. And my ex had this habit that drove me crazy of not being able to say thank you. At Christmas, if we were at my mother's house and exchanging gifts, he would open something from someone and just say "wow". I would always have to jab him with my elbow and hiss in his ear, "Say thank you!" That drove me absolutely nuts.

3. He has to be affectionate and demonstrative of that affection.

One of the major reasons my marriage broke up is that my ex was the type of guy who never showed his emotions or affection. He would hardly ever kiss me, or put his arm around me, or tell me he loved me. He admitted he had a problem with it and told me he thought he showed his affection by just being there, cleaning up occasionally, paying the bills ... Uh, no. I'm not saying those things aren't important, but it does nothing for me in the love department. And lack of displayed affection affects the whole relationship. I became resentful, angry, never wanted to have sex with him (to get even). It's poisonous. I want the kind of man who is very open about his feelings for me, who touches me often, who tells me he cares for me, and lets me know he thinks I'm beautiful. He doesn't necessarily have to say it, although that would be nice. But actions speak louder than words. A guy who doesn't touch you doesn't love you.

4. He has to be smart.

Not a genius, but smart. The kind of guy who can hold a decent conversation and is not close-minded about anything.

5. He has to be sexy. :-)

Mmmm, I like this one. I want the kind of guy who is confident about himself, who looks good, who takes care of himself and is well groomed. It doesn't matter what size he is, as long as he takes pride in his appearance. I like guys in suits and I like guys in jeans. They're both yummy, in their own way. And a guy who can pull off both of those looks is really something special.

6. He has to be romantic.

It would be so nice to have a boyfriend who actually takes the time to think of something that would be really intimate and special for the two of you to share, to get closer, to enjoy. Whether it's taking you to a nice restaurant or on a sunset walk holding hands, or inviting you over to his place for a candlelit dinner and a movie ... something where he sets the atmosphere and things can develop. You know what I mean? :-)

6. He has to love sex.

I guess this is probably the one any guy would qualify for. :-) But if you read my earlier blogs, you'll see I get more specific about what I really like. One of my favourite things is kissing, and a guy who doesn't like to kiss would not be any good for me. There is a huge difference between sex and making love. I should have said "He has to love making love", because you can have sex with anyone. I want someone who is going to be my lover, who will take the time and effort to please me as much as I please him. Someone who thinks my orgasm is as important as his.

7. He has to get angry when he sees or learns of other people mistreating me.

Another big reason my marriage ended was because my ex was never empathetic towards me. We had totally different personalities, and he always saw things differently than I did. Very often I would tell him about situations that had happened or that had really hurt me, and he would start taking the other person's side. That really hurt, and really made me angry. Even if he disagreed with it, I figured he could have at least tried to make me feel better. I want someone who cares about my feelings, who gets pissed off if he sees someone has hurt me or mistreated me in some way.

8. He has to like kids.

As you know, I have an adorable little girl and she is my sunshine. The man I am with would have to love her too.

I guess those are the major things. How hard can it be to find a guy with all these qualifications? :-)

I'll let you know.

The Meet Market

Now that I am available on the dating scene again, I have posted a profile and a few pictures of myself on a couple of different dating sites. Even though these dating sites are geared to BBWs and their "admirers" and I have gotten more responses from them than the "traditional" big-name dating sites, I'm still disappointed by the kinds of responses I'm getting.

First of all, I find myself getting a lot of "smiles" but next to no emails. If any of you are familiar with these dating sites, you'll know that the smiles are free, but you have to be a paid member if you want to email someone. The fact that I'm getting a lot of smiles but hardly any emails suggests to me that a hell of a lot of guys out there are real cheapskates. They want the benefit of having the kind of women they want responding to them, but they're not willing to pay for it. This, to me, says a lot about the guy. He might look great at first when you read his profile; say, for example, he says he's really romantic, likes to take things slow and worship you, etc. etc. I find it hard to take this seriously if he's too cheap to buy a membership so he can respond to you.

I guess in a way I'm a hypocrite because I'm not paying to be a member either. But I have to admit I'm kind of a traditionalist when it comes to dating, and I believe the guy should make the first move or overture. To me, it's the cyber equivalent of a guy asking to buy you a drink or asking you to dance.

You can glean a surprising amount of information about these guys if you really pay attention to their profiles and description of themselves. The most obvious indicators are the nicknames they give themselves. For example, if I see a guy called "BBWPussyLvr" or "OralGuy", I figure that's a pretty good tip-off that they're not exactly looking for long-term, meaningful commitment. Then there are more subtle tip-offs, like if I see a guy has posted no profile at all or simply one or two lines, that says to me he's basically lazy and cavalier and not too serious either. I figure someone who is genuinely, sincerely looking for someone to be with would be sure and post a pretty detailed description of themselves.

Anyway, all this can be pretty disheartening. I know it takes time and effort to find someone, but sometimes I just feel like I'm in the bar scene all over again (God help me, never again). Everything is so fake and superficial and phony and everyone wants as much as they can get for nothing. But I'd still rather try and meet someone this way, rather than head out to the bars again, like I did when I was twenty. The only thing I'm likely to find there is a big bar tab and a walking, talking assemblage of STD's.

What Mine Would Say

A couple or more years ago, a woman named Eve Ensler wrote a book called "The Vagina Monologues". It was enormously popular and sold like hotcakes. I believe it was inspired by a one-woman show she did where she sat on stage and read "monologues" that either she or other women had written about their vaginas. I bought the book and read it, and found it quite fascinating. We women simply have not been encouraged to either think or say much about our vaginas. That doesn't seem right, does it, considering what an intrinsic part of all of our vagina is. It is our core, our centre, our essence. It was what makes us women. Surely it has a lot to say, but all too often it goes unexpressed.

For some reason I've been thinking about that book sitting there on my bookshelf for the last few days, and yesterday I took it down and browsed through it again. It inspired me to do this post today. So, without further ado, here is what I think my vagina would say, if she had the chance. Which she now does:

Thanks, babe. It took you long enough, but you finally did it. Now all you have to do is find the right guy to appreciate me. That shouldn't be too hard, should it? (pardon the pun)

Easy for you to say. You just get to sit there and wait to lubricate. I have to go out and get the actual guy.

You know, you've always been way too tough on yourself. Why don't you just relax for once? This isn't a race. This is about finding the guy who can rock our world. Rome wasn't built in a day, remember?

Yeah, yeah, I remember. Don't remind me. I've never been good with patience. You know that.

Do I ever. If the female equivalent of blue balls was blue ovaries, you've given it to me. But I love you for it. You let me express myself. You let me tell you what I need. And that one guy ... holy crap, what happened to him?

You know what happened. He was an asshole.

Yeah, but mama mia ... all you have to do is find someone who is as good as he was but has the personality and character qualities to match and we're all set. I'm telling you sweetie, once you've done that, you'll be one happy camper.

Right. IF I find him.

Stop comparing yourself to other women. That's your big failing. You really have the knack of minimizing your own beauty. You really buy into all the brainwashing that's out there. Tap into my energy and say fuck it. Don't let it influence you. Just let yourself be yourself. Don't be afraid to show who you really are.

Whenever I do that, though, it seems I alienate people. Either I'm too sexy, too intelligent, too sarcastic, too brash, whatever ...

You've just been hanging out with the wrong crowd, honey. Find your niche. I guarantee, you'll find him there. Then we can spend hours in bed with him, doing all the things we've dreamed of doing, and feeling all the things we've dreamed of feeling. Won't that be wonderful?

Sure. If it actually happens.

Don't "if" yourself. There ARE no ifs where I'm concerned. I won't take no for an answer.

Okay. I'll keep that in mind.

Close your eyes whenever you want to tap into my energy. Feel me there, urging you on. I believe in you, baby. I AM you. I'm pissed off that I haven't gotten what I wanted and I'm not going to wait anymore. You're going to have to go out and get it for me, since you have the legs and I don't. But once you do, just let me take over. I can handle it from there.

I like your style.

I like yours too, dollface. Now go out and get him. Hurry. I'm sick of these goddam blue ovaries. They're killing me.

Ugly

A radio station I listen to every day is having an "ugly" contest. They have asked their listeners to bring in items of great ugliness or, if the listeners themselves or certain of their body parts are truly hideous, they are encouraged to bring those down to the station so they can get their pictures snapped. A gallery of pictures has already accumulated on their website. I checked it out this morning. There are pictures of green, fungoid, toenails; rotting and/or rotted teeth; a placenta (I'm not kidding); really kitzschy and gross-looking statues and paintings; items of clothing; kids with chicken pox ... I could go on and on. We listeners are encouraged to vote for the ugliest whatever and the winner gets $8,888 dollars (or something like that).

There are some pretty gross pictures on there. But it started me thinking of what are the ugliest things to me. So here's a partial list, anyway, of my ugliest things:

* bulging, ready-to-pop zits (the really painful ones)
* underarm hair (especially the really abundant variety) NOTE: Although I've gone on record as being a fan of body hair, the underam locale is not one of my favourites
* sauerkraut (its appearance AND odour)
* tabloid covers plastered with pictures of celebrities I have no interest in hearing about
* ignorant people (I know this is very general, but I can narrow it down to people who judge or insult people they have no specific knowledge of)
* anything macrame (especially toilet paper roll cosies)
* those psycho socks with individual, different coloured toes
* socks encased by sandals
* any sock colour other than white (I guess I have a sock thing)
* pus
* bruised and/or old fruit
* used band-aids
* split ends and/or frizzy hair
* grown men who wear their hair in a pony tail, especially if it's capped off by a bald head (this is a biggie, I don't know why I didn't think of it till I was this far down the list)
* insects, but especially flying big ones

That's all I can think of for now. Here's a question: is there more beauty or ugliness in the world? I know what my answer is.

V Day

Today is the day a lot of women anticipate and a lot of men dread. I know that for me, Valentine's Day never quite met the mark. Nobody ever went all out and "wowed" me with a beautiful bouquet of roses. My husband always remembered it, and gave me a card, usually chocolates, and once he gave me an absolutely beautiful amethyst bracelet. Yeah, that was good. But with us, Valentine's Day never felt quite "Valentiney". My husband and I were never really a love match. We were more friends than anything else.

I think with all the hoopla the card, chocolate and jewellery companies push on us in their greed at this time of year, we are all just set up for failure. Women, for expecting some kind of an emotional connection to come out of a material item, whether it be a bouquet of flowers, piece of jewellery, or item of lingerie; and men, for trying to get their wives or girlfriends something that will make their women feel their love for them and make them happy. A lot of men feel that they are held hostage by Valentine's Day. They are expected to go out and spend a lot of money on something they feel is unnecessary, which it is, if love is truly there; and then, when they do go out and make the effort, their significant others are usually disappointed.

I'm not sure how Valentine's Day got turned into a big lovefest, but the real St. Valentine (among one theory) was a priest in Rome around the year 239 who was beheaded for aiding martyrs in prison. I guess aiding martyrs in prison could be considered an act of love, but not exactly the act of love Hallmark or Godiva or Victoria's Secret advocates. Love, according to them, is more along the lines of swiping your credit card and affixing your little signature to it.

A lot of people say the spirit of Christmas has long been bastardized and overridden by the frenzy to just buy, buy, buy. A friend of mine called it a "giant fuck farce". The real meaning in life is getting harder and harder to find, under all the brightly coloured, loudly screaming brainwashing we hear on a daily basis.

Where is the love?, as the old song says. For me, the love is on my futon at night in front of the t.v. with my darling little girl.

Alone

Well, it's been my first official week of being "single" again. The weekend got off to a truly abysmal start as my daughter and I stopped off at a neighbourhood grocery store to get a few things, and who was walking out of the store towards us but my "ex". My daughter yelled "Daddy!" and rushed up to say hello to him. To me, he said that I had ruined his life. Not the first time I've heard that, so it was relatively easy for me to ignore and just tell him that I needed him to watch my daughter for me next Saturday afternoon, as there is an event I'm planning to attend with a friend of mine. To this, he promptly refused, saying I was the one who wanted custody and he had "things to do". And people wonder why I left him? I told him, "This is your daughter, she is your responsibility too." He just basically said, "Hey, you wanted this, so live with it." This is the man I married, who doesn't even want to spend time with his own daughter. Thank God she's too young to fully understand yet. I called him an asshole, started walking away and he yelled back at me not to call him an asshole and that was that. I took my daughter's hand and started toward the store. She was sucking her thumb and I said, "Are you okay, sweetie?" She just nodded and I said, "It's okay, honey. Don't worry, everything's okay." "I'm not sad," she told me. Sometimes she just breaks my heart. I know it's only been a week, but she doesn't seem to miss her dad at all. Is it any wonder? I know she's only six but I'm sure she can pick up on his indifference just as much as I can.

The next wonderful morale booster on my list this weekend was my mother. She has had an attitude with me ever since I told her off about 2-3 weeks ago for nagging at me. Since then, I am Public Enemy #1 around her house, and the permanent expression of distaste on her face whenever she sees me, whenever I'm around, no matter how nice and cordial I am, is really starting to piss me off. She watches my daughter for me in the mornings before she takes her to school, which amounts to roughly 2 hours per day, 5 days a week. She told me before I left my husband that under no circumstances would she watch her for me in the evenings or on the weekends. (Translation: Since you left your husband, I will make it my personal mission to ensure that you have no social life whatsoever.) Well, she reiterated this to me when I left my daughter in her care for about an hour on Saturday afternoon. My brother and I went on a stroll together and my daughter didn't want to come with us, so I left her with my mother. When I got back, she comes in and says to me, still with that scowl on her face, "I told you I wasn't going to watch her on the weekends, I told you right from the start." "I know, I said, telling myself to calm down, don't rise to her bait, don't get into a fight, don't freak out. So, that was that.

This weekend was very quiet. I spent some of it unpacking the rest of our stuff and disassembling boxes. Did some laundry. Took my computer somewhere to get a modem put in. If I don't have internet at home, I truly will have no life other than mothering to speak of, and much as I love my daughter, I know that would drive me absolutely crazy. I try and keep myself busy so I don't have to think. I know if I think too much, I'll climb the walls. I just have to keep thinking of things to do. Because if I don't, the loneliness and trepidation I'm trying my best to ignore will just consume me and make my life a living hell.

Under the Planets at Chelsea

I am a Tudor history buff. It all began with an album called "The Six Wives of Henry VIII" by Rick Wakeman. My brother had it and I remember being fascinated by the cover. Rick was strolling through a museum, Maddam Tussaud's in London, perhaps, and the wax figures of Henry and his six wives were standing there. Rick, the former keyboard player for Yes, had composed individual pieces for each of Henry's queens.

I have a ton of books in my library at home about Henry and his assorted wives and children. He is considered, for the most part, to be a brute -- a self-centred, cruel man. He did have that side to him, but most monarchs had those qualities. They were people accustomed to getting their way. And of course, because of the girth he is so famous for, he is considered to be a glutton, in his matrimonial habits as well as his eating habits. The fact is, though, that Henry did not become very fat until his later years. In his youth he was an amazing athlete, very handsome and accomplished at jousting and other sports.

His marriages, of course, are what fascinate me the most about him. Why did he marry so many times? One of the reasons is that he was desperately seeking a male heir. His first wife, Katherine of Aragon, bore him many children, although the only surviving child was his daughter Mary. All of the sons she bore him died at birth or she miscarried. It was extremely important that kings had sons to succeed them (like the modern "heir and the spare" of Prince Charles, William and Henry). Daughters were considered nuisances and bargaining pieces only, to marry off to a rich ally.

Henry's need for a son and growing displeasure with his wife Katherine are what predisposed him to fall madly in love with a young lady at his court, Anne Boleyn, who became his second wife after much wrangling with the Church and his own advisors. It was here that his reputation for cruelty and selfishness became legendary, for he simply discarded Katherine after decades of marriage and married Anne anyway. When she failed to bear him a son (they had a daughter who became Elizabeth I, another great monarch), he had her tried for adultery on contrived charges and then beheaded.

His third wife Jane finally gave him the son he so longed for, Edward. But happiness for Henry had never come easily and Jane died shortly after giving birth. One of Henry's wishes when he died was to be buried next to her. Since she had borne him his only successor (ironically enough, one of his mistresses had borne him a son as well, but since he was "illegitimate", he could never inherit Henry's throne) he considered her his only "true" wife.

Henry married three more times: Anne of Cleves, an "arranged" marriage that was a disaster. Henry thought she was hideous and had the marriage annulled as quickly as possible. Then he fell in love again, with a flighty young girl named Katherine Howard, who promptly cheated on him, for real this time. Hardly a surprise as she was a mere teenager and by this time Henry was very large and much older than her, more a father than a husband. She was beheaded for her dalliances, which were, of course, discovered. Another one of her great crimes was that she was not a virgin when they were married. (Can you imagine how many heads would be rolling in the streets if the same standard were applied these days?) His final wife was more of his nurse, Catherine Parr. She took care of him in his old age and was a very educated, noble woman.

Henry was an amazing man, extremely intelligent and artistic. One of his hobbies was astronomy. One of his most admired friends and colleagues was Thomas More, whom he later appointed his Lord Chancellor, his right-hand man. More was a lawyer with a reputation for honesty, extreme intelligence, and his ethics. He was extremely opposed to Henry divorcing his first wife and marrying Anne, but did his best to stay alive and avoid saying so out loud. Henry knew that if he could get More to side with him, a lot of the opposition facing him by the Pope and other people would lessen. He did his best to convince More, and one evening he visited More at his home in Chelsea to try and talk him into it. They went up to the roof when the stars came out and Henry showed More his new astrolabe. Sometimes I think I can actually see them there, two esteemed men, peering up at the sky together.

Cancel That S.O.S.

I was thinking ... how could we BBWs ever enjoy the birthright of any woman who is universally considered "attractive"? The only way I could see any of us larger women enjoying the hordes of men pursuing, wooing, and vying for us is if we got them all on a desert island with no hope of escape or rescue.

Imagine it: You are a BBW, the sole woman on a plane full of men. The plane goes down somewhere over a tropical island. Some of the men (BBW haters who will never be converted) are horribly mangled in the crash, but, let's say about 100 men survive. For a few days, we all might be preoccupied with finding food, drinkable water, and erecting shelter, but after that, when those basic needs have been accounted for and everyone realizes there is no hope in hell of leaving that island unless another plane flies over, which isn't likely, thoughts would start to wander. And where do minds wander, most of the time?

Sooner or later those guys would start fighting. They would start competing over who gets you. Or, who knows, there might even be some kind of amicable arrangement (if you're amenable to it), where there's kind of a polygamous thing going on. Live with Husband A for a week or so, Husband B takes his place, and so on.

Oops ... I forgot the likely hazards, also, of the men simply taking control and tying you up in a shack somewhere and raping you, each guy getting his turn, but let's discount realism for the moment. I'm talking about how a BBW could ever get to enjoy the pleasure and ego boost of many men chasing her, vying for her, on a daily basis. The things most thin women take for granted. I guess cannibalism might be a possibility too, if you're really marooned out on some tropical island somewhere. (If cannibalism really creeps you out, like it does me, don't ever read "John Dollar" by Marianne Wiggins. One of the scenes in that book gave me nightmares for days.)

Anyway, I'm just playing around here. Feeling a little impish. I'm sure many BBWs out there would say, "I've never had to worry about not having a boyfriend, I've always had plenty of guys after me", etc. etc. Well, if that's the case, then I have to question just how "B" the first "B" in BBW you really are, because it certainly hasn't been the case with me. About the only way I'd have a bunch of guys wanting me is if they were marooned on a desert island with me.

God, that sounds cynical. But it's true.

My "Me" Decade

The '70s were my "Me" decade, the cultural pot in which I stewed, brewed, and eventually blossomed. I remember my life being ruled by TV back then, whether it was the incredible selection of TV shows (the comparison to the sitcoms that are on TV right now make me want to heave), those fantastic "Movies of the Week" in which I saw Dennis Weaver outwit a psychotic truck driver and unknowingly witness Stephen Spielberg make his directiorial debut. And where I first saw Nick Nolte in the incredible adaptation of "Rich Man Poor Man", one of the first mini-series (if not the first) ever aired.

Archie Bunker, Mary Tyler Moore, Rhoda Morgenstern, Karl Kolchak, Richie Cunningham, the Partridges, the Bradfords and, my ultimate favourites, the Bradys, were some of my closest friends. Of course I wanted to be Marcia. Of course I thought Greg was cute. Keith Partridge was the hottest though. No doubt about that.

Plus, the music. Alice Cooper, Styx, Supertramp, Pink Floyd, Yes, Genesis ... I listened to it all as I tried in vain to feather my hair the way the other girls did, tried to squeeze myself in vain into tight Sergio Valente jeans. I proudly proclaimed "Disco sucks!" along with all the other rock rebels, while secretly thinking the Bee Gees and John Travolta were pretty damn good.

The books that reared me through those years were a combination of sword and sorcery epics like Lord of the Rings and tearstained teen paperbacks by Judy Blume and Paul Zindel. Yes, Margaret, God is there. The Pigman, I adore you. And I don't care if you step on my eyeball, I love you anyway.

The movies: those great 70s crime movies like The French Connection, The Godfather and Serpico (oh, Al, you God you) ... Jack Nicholson at his absolute pinnacle in The Last Detail (so hilarious!), Five Easy Pieces and, of course, Cuckoo's Nest.

What a fantastic library of memories I have to draw from, what a wonderful roster of inspiration. God, the world was different back then. Am I deluded to think that it was a lot simpler, nicer, innocent? Or is that just me remembering all those childhood feelings of awe and excitement soaking everything in like a sponge?

Granted, when my daughter watches the Powerpuff Girls now, I think they're pretty cool. I love those chicks. But it's so different than the cartoons I grew up watching: the Flintstones and Bugs Bunny. I must be getting old. I actually hear those words my parents used to say to me on the tip of my own tongue now: "You just wait until you get a little older, then you'll find out", or "You kids don't appreciate anything" or "When I was your age ..."

Year of the Cat

2006 is the Year of the Dog, in Chinese astrology. Although one of the conditions forecasted is the possibility of more natural disasters, 2006 is supposed to be a very spiritual year, and a generally auspicious one. Except for Dragons, like me. :-) I am one of the signs who is supposed to find it a little challenging.

This does not surprise me, as this year has already begun quite monumentally for me. Those of you who read this blog regularly know what I'm talking about. For those of you who don't, you might want to scroll down and fill yourselves in. Suffice it to say that I have embarked on a whole new life, and am starting to adjust to my new surroundings.

My move, thank God, is over. The majority of the unpacking and lifting and tossing has been done. There is an unbelievable amount of miscellaneous stuff that keeps coming up that makes me suspect I will never be finished and be allowed to just relax, but I just breathe when I feel like screaming. It's so much more tranquil. :-)

I am a music lover. Rock music, mostly, although I pretty much enjoy all types, give or take a few songs I will always loathe. But over the years, I have made many cassettes, from way back when I still had and amassed a record collection, and borrowed from my brothers' much more extensive one. I was listening to one of these tapes on the way home in my car yesterday and one of my all-time favourite songs came on, "Year of the Cat" by Al Stewart. I remember first hearing that song when it first came out in the '70s, when I was a very young girl ... developing, forming, brewing. It haunted me then and it still haunts me now, and yesterday it brought me to tears. I suppose it could partly be due to all the turmoil I've been going through lately, but the song has always stirred up deep feelings inside me whenever I've heard it. It's a sad song, melancholy, mellow, mysterious, about a man and a woman who encounter each other in an exotic locale and have a vivid, memorable affair, but the passion and excitement can't prolong it. It's doomed to end even as it's occurring.

I have so many things I want to write about now. I have a feeling this blog is going to take a whole new direction, just like me. Where it, and I, will end up, I don't know. But maybe you'd like to spectate and share a little of the mystery with me.

The Leaver vs. The Leavee

When a relationship ends, someone is always blamed for it. Usually it's the person who does the leaving. Whether it's the woman or the man -- the stereotypical leaver is usually the man, who has been having an affair -- they are usually branded as a no-good, dirty, lousy, jerk. That's the situation I'm in now.

I understand that the person who gets left is hurt, scared, angry, upset. I understand that people rally around them and try to make them feel better, and one of the ways they try to make the "leavee" feel better is by verbally assaulting and ripping apart the "leaver". The focus is rightly on the person who is being left, because they need emotional support and comfort. But the "leavee" goes through their own emotional pain. Granted, it's a different sort of pain, but it's pain all the same. A lot of people have the misconception that the person who is leaving is on cloud nine, is ecstatic and happy. While there might be some element of excitement and anticipation at what lies ahead, I certainly wouldn't call what I'm feeling right now happiness or elation.

Perhaps my situation is harder because it's not your typical, "I met someone else and had an affair" deal. I did end up having an affair during my marriage, which I'm not exactly proud of, but that's not why I'm leaving. My marriage was over years before I had the affair. I'm leaving because my husband and I don't have what it takes to last 40, or 50, or 60 years. We've already known each other for almost 20, and it's amazing to me that we lasted this long.

No, I'm taking a real chance here. There's a lot of fear, a lot of uneasiness, a lot of sadness on my part. My husband is a great guy but he is not the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. I believe we both stayed together this long strictly out of a fear of being alone, and I have finally come to the realization that that is a lousy reason to be married. It may turn out, and I know this in my soul, that I never meet the man who I believe is right for me, who makes me happy, who gives me what I need (no, I don't mean materially). That's where the fear and uncertainty comes in to plague me. I have asked myself this question a billion times and will probably ask it a billion more: Should I leave a situation that is not-bad for a situation that may never occur? My answer, obviously, is yes. I realize that the "sin" of staying in a marriage where the only glue holding it together is fear of being alone is a worse sin than breaking the vow I made seven years ago. I may end up alone. I know that. But I guess I can live with myself if that happens. At least I'll know I had the guts to try to get the life I want.

I'm leaving behind a lot. My husband and I had a lot of great times together. I will miss him terribly. When I'm in my apartment at night, in bed alone, I'm sure I'll think about him and ache for him the way an amputee aches for a phantom limb. I have felt enormous guilt and shame for the decision I have made, but I know that those are the results of other people's judgments on me. I know there was no malice or evil intent involved in my decision. I am doing it purely because I know it is best, and healthiest, for me, and by extension, my daughter.

The leavees are not the only ones who hurt. It might be a different pain, but I can assure you unequivocally, I hurt too.