clevergirrrl-blog

[clevergirrrl-blog]

Trying.

“I’m not pregnant.”

It’s a phrase I’ve gotten used to saying lately, especially in texts to my husband. Tonight, I texted the same phrase to a few girlfriends, the ones who are in the know, who wait with me each month, eagerly awaiting day 28 when I’ll wake up in the morning and get to finally tear open the pregnancy test box that’s been gathering dust in my linen closet, or not.

Or not.  

It’s been seven months. I know that in the “grand scheme of things,” that’s not long. That’s what everyone who tries to comfort me tells me every month. That’s what I tell myself. In the grand scheme of things, it’s been the longest seven months of my life.

At least you already have one child, they tell me. I tell myself. He’s beautiful and perfect and my greatest love and I want him to have a sibling. I want another baby. I don’t want to lose another baby. I have one child. I want one more.

I’m 36. My friends and my doctors and my husband tell me that it’s fine. That I’m not too old. That 36 is still young. They tell me that there is still hope. I don’t know where the hope is hiding, I tell them. I am trying, but I can’t find it.

The cycle is always the same and it is always painful. You get your period and you cry. You see the hint of pink or brown or even light beige and you tell yourself that maybe it’s just spotting. Maybe it’s implantation. You know it’s not because it’s day 25 or 26 or 28 and because you know it’s not. But you hope for another few hours, for one more night. In the morning the blood comes. It drains from your body and from your face when you look at yourself in the mirror and see that you’re still the same as you were yesterday but completely different. Blood is my enemy. It is pain and it is loss and it is the end of life. Life goes on and it doesn’t, inside of you. You bleed and you live. Something else dies and it is a part of you. It’s apart from you.

I am resilient. Every month I allow myself 20 minutes of crying at my desk or in bed or in the shower or while rocking my child to sleep or while sitting alone in the dark and then I stop crying and I choose to live. I am bleeding; I am not dead. I have one child and I can’t abandon him by retreating into the darkness of my mind, into my miserable thoughts, my loneliness. I have one child and I have to live for him and not spend time mourning the one who isn’t here yet. He is alive and I am alive and I am dead inside but I get up and I go to work and I come home and I make I dinner and I play with him and I go out and I keep moving and I don’t let myself fall, not ever, because I have one child and he needs me. I need him and I need another child and I feel selfish for wanting more so I try not to want it but I do and I lay awake at night while the cramps wash over me and I do the math for another month.

Day 11 is Thursday so we need to have sex Friday and Sunday or maybe Saturday? Or maybe Thursday. All of them? Or just once, on the right day? What day is that? What time of day? Is 11 pm still day 12, or is that now day 13? What about days 15 and 16 and 9 and 10, do we try? We are trying.

I am trying to stay awake and stay woke and to check my privilege and to be grateful and happy and kind to myself and patient and I am trying not to panic or give in to the crushing anxiety that is waving at me from the edge of the cliff waiting to jump on me as soon as I turn my back. I try not to turn my back.

Every month I “celebrate” not being pregnant with a glass of wine. You deserve it, I tell myself. If you’re not pregnant, why not enjoy all the things you won’t be able to enjoy when you are finally pregnant? I eat oysters and sushi and I stay up late and go out every night and I have five glasses of wine and I laugh and I think hey, this is freedom. I can do whatever I want. But the sushi is bad and the wine sours on my tongue and I yawn at the bar and the oysters aren’t that good and I hold my stomach and get excited when I feel a flutter and then I realize it’s nothing because nothing is there.

I have phantom pregnancy symptoms. Every month I smell someone’s cologne and my face crinkles and my breasts ache and I feel irritable and exhausted and I think this is it. This is it. Then I realize the cologne just smells bad and my breasts ache because my period is coming and I’m irritable and exhausted because living in constant anticipation and walking on eggshells and praying and hoping and pretending I don’t care is making me sick. Trying is making me sick.

I want to feel sick. I want to be nauseous and tired. I want to have no energy and I want to be starving and have no appetite and I want to sweat and ache and I want to know that it’s all because of the child inside of me. Where are you? What are you waiting for?

I am always waiting. I wait for my period to be over and then I wait for the right days to come and then I wait for the right time of day and I wait for my husband to get home and I wait to exercise for another month and I wait to work on the project I want to do and I wait to write anything and I wait to quit my job and I wait to buy a house and I wait to move and I wait to end things or start things because maybe in a week I’ll be pregnant and that will change everything and then I won’t be waiting and everything can begin.

Seven months later I am still waiting and nothing has changed.

I am the same and my life is the same but it feels emptier every month because of the thing I am waiting for. When you decide you want something, someone, how do you go back to feeling complete without them? When you understand indescribable loss and you understand indescribable joy, how can you be the same person again?

I got my period today and I am the same and I will never be the same. I thought by now I would be seven months pregnant, or at least three or four. I expected it. I am still not expectant. Every month I expect to be different, and every month I am not different but I am different in a bad way. In an ugly way that makes me feel scared and ashamed and angry in a way I wasn’t expecting.

I have a drink or a joint and I feel guilty. I ride my bike on bumpy Toronto streets and I walk for too long and I don’t get enough rest and I feel guilty. I don’t have sex on the right day and I feel guilty. I yell at my husband for going out too late or not being home early enough or ruining the moment by looking at his phone or anything he does ever because it has to be somebody’s fault other than mine and I feel guilty. I check work emails all night and watch old episodes of Gossip Girl to soothe myself instead of spending time with my child and I feel guilty. I spend day and night planning and plotting and checking my fertility app and counting and worrying and trying not to worry and I feel guilty. Everything is bad for fertility if you ask the right people. I do ask them and they tell me and I feel guilty.  

I stop drinking and I don’t run and I try not to do anything stressful and I don’t push myself physically or mentally and I lay perfectly still and I become a vessel that can’t be broken and I try to disappear and stop living so I can build another life. The people that matter and that I don’t ask tell me that these are the wrong things to do and I feel guilty.

I have been to the fertility clinic. I took the tests. I have been too scared to ask for the results.

They poked and prodded and they lectured and drew diagrams and did ultrasounds inside and outside of my body. They took 18 vials of blood at once and I fainted and woke up to four nurses shaking me and yelling my name and another nurse trying to calm my husband down and a fan pointed at my face and a cold cloth on my forehead and my back and hair soaking wet from adrenaline and everyone saying thank god, thank god, you were out for two minutes don’t scare us like that. I said I won’t but inside I felt a thrill that someone else felt as scared as I feel.  

I have been to the fertility clinic and I haven’t been back. I don’t know yet whether we will need to try I.U.I. or I.V.F. or other acronyms that I have heard of but am not ready to know about. Instead we’re leaving it to chance, for now. To fate. God? The Universe? My body? I don’t know who is in control. I feel out of control but I also feel that I have done something wrong. Or not done something right. Or waited too long or angered someone. Or maybe I’m being punished for not being a good enough mother and I don’t deserve another baby or maybe I’m meant to struggle and write about it for others or maybe I’m meant to struggle just to know pain because my life has been so painless for the most part or maybe nothing. Maybe, in the grand scheme of things, I am nothing and this isn’t a big deal and nobody cares.

Or not.

Maybe I care and maybe fuck the grand scheme of things and maybe the way I feel matters and people should care. Maybe we should encourage women to talk about their bodies. Maybe we should listen to women when they talk about their bodies. Maybe we should allow women to talk about their fear and their guilt and their anxiety and their pain so that they can feel less alone and less afraid and less guilty and less anxious and less pain.

I want to get pregnant and I want to talk about it and I want to feel less alone. I’m trying.

[clevergirrrl-blog]

A Letter to My Son on International Women’s Day

My precious boy,

I want to tell you about how you came into the world.

But first, before you, there was another.

He is gone now. He grew inside of me and I loved him. Then something happened and he was taken away. He changed the way I saw myself, the way I saw the world. He filled me with excitement and love and longing, and then he left.

In the weeks that we lived together, he and I, my body changed. My breasts grew and they were heavy and they ached so much I couldn’t ride a bike or run or sleep on my stomach or wear certain clothes. My hormones raged and I cried and felt angry and elated and like I was never in control.

I was constantly hungry. I gave up all of my favourite foods, my glass of wine. I took three different pills a day, setting a reminder alarm on my phone, which would sometimes go off in the middle of an important meeting or a presentation.

I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned and I felt sick and my stomach hurt. I was bloated. I was constipated. I was so hot, sometimes I felt like I was literally on fire.

But I was happy. I knew all of the discomfort, all of the pain was worth it for him, your brother.

I was also anxious. I looked for blood every time I went to the bathroom, thinking that this must be too good to be true. Days and weeks went by and nothing bad happened.

And then it did.

He was gone, but I felt like the one who was dying, dead. Cold sweats, cramping, vomiting, diarrhea, fever, headache, blood. Loneliness, blood. Emptiness, blood. Heartache, blood. Days and weeks went by and everything bad happened.

People tried to help. Your father, your aunts and uncles, your grandparents. My friends, colleagues. They said all the things, did all the other things. For a while. And then they stopped.

I was alone.

Trapped in a body that no longer felt like mine. Something forever missing, forever gone. Unrecognizable, damaged, destroyed.

The days after that felt like years. I tried to stay positive. I asked for help. I ran again. I ate my favourite foods, had my glass of wine. Cried myself to sleep every night.

Then, one day, out of the darkness: light.

I held the stick in my hand and I could hardly see the plus sign through my tears.

I let go of the invisible weight I had been carrying on my shoulders for the past 6 months and I finally lay down and I jumped up high and I knelt and prayed and I laughed and screamed and I wept tears of joy, for you, and tears of guilt for feeling joy, for you, and tears of loss for your brother, officially replaced inside of me.

Round two: The aching breasts, the hormones, the emotions, the sleepless nights, the nausea, the bloating, the fatigue, the restless mind, the swollen belly.

Round two, more: Fear. Anxiety. Waiting. Ten long months during which I never fully believed that you were real, that you would be ok, that we would be together. Ten long months of worry, of aching everywhere. You took up all of my body and all of my mind and all of my soul and all of my life and all of me.

Ten long months. Twelve hours of mind numbing contractions. Two car rides in active labour. Three hours of pushing. One and a half hours of pushing with your head half in this world and half in my body.

Searing pain. Excruciating pain. Mauled, beaten, battered. In and out of consciousness. My mind, betrayal. My body, below me, gone. Fire. Screaming.

I prayed that death would wash over me, take me away, claim us both. I knew we were going to die, so let it be faster. Searing pain. Excruciating pain.

Ripped open, by you. Torn in half, by you. Finally: cut, sliced, where your head wouldn’t fit, by them.

They placed you on my chest and you yelled my name and looked into my eyes and wriggled between my breasts and smacked your lips while I bled all over my legs and the blankets and the table and the floor and they stabbed a needle into my leg to stop the bleeding and they stitched me raw with no drugs for almost two hours while I clenched my jaw and wailed louder than you did with your first breath.

After that, more.

The place where you were created and brought into this world, where you tore me and they cut me, broken. Unrecognizable, damaged, destroyed. For months, pain that made me dig my nails into the palms of my hands to keep from screaming when you were at my breast and I had to sit to feed you.

Months of laying in bed, on the couch, on the bathroom floor. Not moving, not walking, not leaving the house. Cracked nipples, cracked mind. Swollen limbs and breasts. Sagging, falling. Bruised flesh, open flesh, stretched flesh.

Mundane tasks rendered impossible: going to the bathroom, sitting up, standing, breathing, sleeping.

After that, more.

Doubt, shame. Hating a body that should be worshiped. Loathing the same stomach that housed you, the same breasts that feed you, the same hips that birthed you. No longer able to feel beautiful while the baby weight clings to my face, my waist; while my hair falls out in great clumps every day. No longer able to run - my passion, my mental health, my freedom - because parts of me no longer work. No longer able to drink whatever I want, eat whatever I want, sleep whenever I want, rest whenever I want.

Instead: Feeding you, changing you, carrying you, bathing you, holding you, consoling you. My body is yours now.

I gave myself completely to you.

Why?

Because I am a mother. Because I am a woman.

Son, remember this when you become a man.

Remember this when you are with a woman and she says no. Remember this when you are thinking about not respecting a woman’s body. Remember this when you see someone else not respecting a woman’s body. Remember this when you’re deciding how to speak about women’s bodies. Remember this when you hear other men speaking about women’s bodies. Remember this when you see women being hurt, mistreated, abused, assaulted. Remember this when you are writing policies and laws about women’s bodies.

Remember this: without a woman’s body, my body, there would be no you.  

I love you.

[clevergirrrl-blog]

First Birthday

Dear Fox,

Tomorrow you will be one year old.

Holy shit.

*

I’m sitting here writing this alone in our living room, which is something that doesn’t happen too often since you were born. Not the sitting in the living room part; the alone part. You’re almost always with me, other than the hours you sleep in your crib at night. I miss you during those hours. I often sneak in to look at you, to touch your face, and sometimes - much to your dad’s annoyance - I actually pick you up while you’re sleeping and rock you in my arms for as long as I can get away with it.

I’m feeling pretty emotional thinking about you turning one. It’s probably not helping that it’s pouring rain outside and I’m listening to Hallelujah on repeat while I try to write this. The Jeff Buckley cover; the one your dad will always argue is the best. He’s right.

Since you were born, it’s my favourite song.

It’s the first song I sang to you when you were born. I sang it to you for weeks and months on end. I sang it when I myself was in a dark place after your birth, for so long. When I thought I would never heal, never be the same again, never feel the same again, never be me again.

I sang it when I was scared that I wasn’t doing this motherhood thing right. Scared that I would somehow hurt you or damage you. Scared that you would be taken away. Scared that this happiness couldn’t possibly be real.

I sang it when I was the most in love I’ve ever been, staring at your sweet face day after day, night after night. I sang it while holding you on my breast, feeding you for hours, smelling your head and listening to you breathe.

I sang it when I needed the courage to face another day, to tell myself that we would both be ok. I sang it when I didn’t know how to put into words how much I loved you.

To this day, I can’t sing it or even hear it without crying. Without thinking of you.

Hallelujah.

*

I remember the day I found out we were having you. We’d been trying for what felt like an eternity, though in the grand scheme of things it was nothing: six months. It felt especially long and agonizing, I think, because we lost our first baby while I was pregnant - just before you. We wanted you so badly, or we wanted him so badly, or we wanted to stop the pain so badly and just fast forward to joy.

Life doesn’t work that way. Healing takes time. Heartache lingers until you’re finally ready to let it go, and then it stays a while longer.

After several months of feeling sorry for myself, I was doing my best to live again. To be ok without him, without you, with just me. With your dad. We went out all the time and we stayed in together and we cooked and laughed and travelled and spent time with our friends and we worked hard and bought flowers and new sheets and we talked and cried and started over every day. I started running again, started really smiling again. That’s when you decided to show up.

I didn’t allow myself to really believe it when I saw the plus sign that morning, on January 28 - the day before your dad’s birthday. I started shaking so I sat down on the bathroom floor and let my head fall back against the wall and clenched the stick in my hand and squeezed it so hard my fingers went numb. I took a cab to the doctor’s office without an appointment and made them see me and test me and tell me that it was true, that you were real. They did and you were and I cried all day at work.

I waited until the next morning to tell your dad. I wanted to hold the news in my own heart for just a minute, to feel you glowing inside of me, just the two of us. On the morning of your dad’s birthday, I gave him a silly gift, wrapped half-heartedly in a brown paper bag with some tissue paper stuffed on top for good measure. It was a bright red “onesie” set of pyjamas. The kind you only wear at Christmas in front of your family, much to everyone’s delight and disgust. I bought a matching set in newborn size, and slid it under his adult-sized one in the bag. He picked it up and he looked at me and I had tears in my eyes and I started laughing and he knew right away.

The first time I felt you kick, we were on a beach in Sicily. I was 4.5 months pregnant and we figured it was our last chance to travel just the two of us for a while. I wasn’t sure what it was at first. It felt like a weird little flutter; quick, easy to miss. But a few seconds later you pounded on the roof of your little home so hard that we could both see and feel it, and we screamed and died laughing and spent way too much time touching my belly and waiting for it to happen again. Your dad proudly declared that you obviously loved the beach. It felt like our first clue about who you would be.

Labour started out peacefully and excitedly, around 11:30 pm on October 6, 2016. It quickly escalated into terror and panic and intense suffering. I can’t imagine ever doing it again. I still cry when I think about it, and I feel afraid. Afraid of feeling that kind of pain ever again, afraid of dying, afraid in my own body.

You came out at 11:37 am on October 7 with the help of some big scissors and without the help of any drugs. When you finally came rushing out, I have never felt more powerful, more aware, more alive. The joy I felt when they first placed you on my chest and the air was filled with your voice, crying out for me, is indescribable.

A full year later, I haven’t recovered. I can still feel it all. My body is forever marked and broken. I am changed, physically, for worse. In every other way, I am changed for the better.

*

I’d love to tell you what happens next, but it’s all a blur after that. It feels like I was carrying you home from the hospital in my arms just yesterday. I want to remember every month, every milestone, every minute, but I can’t. All I can tell you is how I felt during the past year, and how I feel right now.

I feel exhausted. Like I’ll never actually sleep again and like I’m constantly on the verge of either death or a nervous breakdown. I’m so tired that I can barely think most days, let alone string two sentences together on a piece of paper. I’m so tired that sometimes I forget what I’m saying as soon as I open my mouth. I forget my keys everywhere and I forget why I went to the store and I usually forget what day it is.

There are moments where I feel like the most vulnerable person in the world. I feel like someone is going to burst in through my front door and tell me I’m doing it all wrong and take you away and everyone will know that I’m a terrible mother.

I feel guilty for not spending enough quality time with you. And for yelling at you sometimes and for not breastfeeding you long enough and for letting you fall off the change table that one time and for being on my phone so often and for everything, really.

I feel sad that I’ve lost so many parts of myself. Sad that I don’t write anymore, that I can’t run anymore. Sad that you’re growing so quickly and I’m not paying close enough attention or cherishing every moment. Sad that you don’t cuddle me like you used to, that you’re not my tiny baby anymore. Sad that you don’t need me like you used to.

I also feel proud as hell. Proud that I made you with my body and pushed you out like a warrior and lived to tell the tale. Proud that I can do everything I used to do faster and better and more efficiently, even with a baby on my hip. Proud of my strong mom arms. Proud that I know what your different cries mean and that I know what to do to comfort you and that I how to make you smile and laugh. Proud that I breastfed you for almost 10 months. Proud that I support you financially and am going back to work to keep doing that. Proud that you’ll have a strong feminist role model to look up to your entire life. Proud of the amazing person I can already see you becoming, proud of all you’ve learned this year, proud that we both made it this far.

After surviving this first year of motherhood, I feel stronger than ever. I feel like there’s nothing I can’t do or face or overcome. I really believe that I can do anything I set my mind to, because I can finally see that I’m a hero and a boss. I’m not afraid of much anymore. I’m pretty sure I could kick anyone’s ass.

Above all else, I feel so, so happy. You make me so, so happy. The way you look at me. The way you suck your thumb and curl into me when you’re upset. The way you peak around a corner and giggle when you catch my eye. The way you make an exaggerated O-face every time something surprises or scares you. The way you laugh when I tickle you or make a silly face or pretend to get hurt. The way you look genuinely concerned when you think I might actually be hurt. The way you say my name. The way you clap and crawl and shuffle and try to climb the stairs. The way you smell and the sound of your baby voice. Everything about you.

*

I took a break in the middle of writing this to mother again. To take you for a walk, feed you dinner, watch your dad give you a bath, watch you drink your bottle, and finally, to put you to bed. Your dad was going to be the one to put you to bed tonight, and usually you’re more than happy to let him, but tonight you cried out for me.

You reached out and called my name and I dropped what I was doing and I came to you. We sat in the rocking chair. The last couple of months, you haven’t wanted to be held or rocked, which breaks my heart. I long for the days when you fell asleep on me.

Tonight, however, something was different. I sat down with you in the rocking chair and instead of pushing me away, or arching your back, you nestled in. I took a chance and cradled you like a real baby, like a tiny newborn. You don’t normally like being held that way anymore, but you were silent and unmoving. I could feel your weight in my arms. It was very dark, but I could sense you looking up at me.

I started to sing the only song that seems to really calm you. The only song that has ever put you to sleep.

Well I heard there was a secret chord

That David played and it pleased the Lord

But you don’t really care for music, do you?

Well it goes like this: the fourth, the fifth

The minor fall, and the major lift

The baffled king composing “Hallelujah”

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

I started to cry as quietly as I could.

You could tell that I was crying, the way you always can. Whenever it happens, you stay perfectly calm. You know exactly how to soothe me. You wait until I’m done before you start softly cooing or singing, to remind me to keep singing. Sometimes you touch my face or my hair, like you did tonight. You pulled a few loose strands between your tiny fingers and you held on gently, letting me know that you’re listening, that you understand, that you’re here.

I held you close and whispered that I love you over and over. I kissed your head and your nose and your eyes and your lips. Your little hands, your baby feet. I kissed your neck and your ears and I kept singing while I rocked you and I said happy birthday, my love.

I finished the song and I put you in your crib. You sucked your thumb while I rubbed your back for a few minutes. I stood in the dark listening to the sound of both of our hearts beating.

I hope that I did an OK job this first year, Fox. I hope that when you look at me and hear my voice and feel my arms around you, you feel the same love for me as I feel for you. I hope that you can sense that I am your protector, that I would do anything for you, that I will always be here for you. I hope that you can see in my eyes that I am so proud of you and that I will never stop loving you.

Hallelujah.

[clevergirrrl-blog]

Mom’s Night Out

When my little guy was a few months old, I decided it was high time for a night out. I was on house arrest for almost 8 weeks after he was born, and I was getting restless. I wanted to dance. To Beyonce. On a table. I summoned a few of my girlfriends and we set a date.  

The night in question got off to a rocky start when I tried to find something to wear. Getting dressed to go out used to be easy, in that I used to have a body that fit into things. Post baby, however, was a different story: none of my shirts fit over my enormous milk jugs, the thing that used to be my waist is now a loose skin sack full of jello and despair, and the only jeans that fit me are sweatpants.

After trying on everything in my closet while whimpering, I finally settled on stretchy black leather leggings and a long black t-shirt. Yes, the t-shirt was baggy, but it had shoulder cut-outs. Flaunt what you still got, right?

The rest of the night went like so:

8:30 pm: Glass of wine at home to celebrate the fitting of my body into something other than pyjamas.

9:00 pm: Breastfeed baby forever so that I can be away from him for as long as possible.

9:25 pm: Baby pukes all over the only shirt that still fits me.

9:30 pm: Chug a campari soda while frantically doing my makeup with one hand and holding baby in the other.

9:45 pm: Find another black t-shirt. It may or may not be my husband’s. I may or may not care.

10:05 pm: Wonder how I’m already so tipsy. Remember that I haven’t had more than one drink in a night since before I got pregnant.

10:10 pm: Start dancing to The Weeknd in my living room. Husband reminds me to leave the house.

10:15 pm: Attempt to put heels on. Discover that newly acquired cankles cannot be contained by Alexander Wang’s skinny straps. Also, I forget how to walk.

10:30 pm: En route to a bar on Dundas with three of my best girlfriends. I am alive with pleasure and freedom! I am out of the house without my baby! I am buzzed! My hair smells good! Nothing can stop me!

10:31 pm: I laugh at something one of my friends says and to my shock and horror, pee a little bit in my underwear. A chilling vision of things to come.

10:40 pm: Tequila shot at the bar.

10:45 pm: Sneeze, immediately pee myself for the second time. Ask my friend who also has a newborn why this is happening to me. She explains that alcohol aggravates even the mildest case of incontinence caused by a weak pelvic floor, which in turn is caused by pushing an entire football-sized human out of your vagina. WHY GOD NO.

11:00 pm: Silent tears as I run downstairs to the washroom to investigate. Underwear ruined. No back up pair. Only solution is to take them off. Never not wearing a diaper in public again.

11:15 pm: Decide that the only way to pretend I’m not soaking wet from the waist down is to keep drinking. Buy a bottle of Proseco. Hear tiny voice inside my head say “this should end well.”   

11:30 pm: Boobs are rock hard and bigger than my head. I poke gently at one of them and my bra fills with milk. Why happening.

11:45 pm: While walking to our second and final destination, a club on Queen West, I blow my nose and pee myself for the third time. Remember that I’m not wearing underwear. Discover that leather leggings + pee = hot rubber pants of shame.

12:00 am: Waiting in line. Begin to wonder if everyone can tell that I smell like urine and failure. Panic sets in.

12:15 am: Still not inside. I feel like there are giant fluorescent arrows pointing at my head that say “OLD” and “MOM.”

12:20 am: So hot. I am on fire. My whole body is burning.

12:25 am: Still not inside. Never should have left the house. Zip up coat, ready to throw in the towel and go home.

12:30 am: In defiance of God and nature, we somehow get in. Shot of Jameson to celebrate.

1:00 am - 2:00 am: A blur of dancing and “flirting,” aka yelling at strangers “I JUST HAD A BABY AND NOW I’M HERE!” For some reason do not receive multiple high fives in response.

2:00 am: Corner a group of 20-something women and tell them never to have children.

2:05 am: Force the bartender to look at pictures of my baby on my iPhone. “I MADE ANOTHER HUMAN WITH MY BODY!”

2:10 am: While aggressively “dancing,” fall over onto a couch. Someone asks if I’m ok and I yell “IT’S MOM’S NIGHT OUT!!” Again, less high fives than expected.

2:30 am: Lights come on. My first thought is that there’s a fire drill happening. I warn the DJ. He tells me to go home.

2:45 am: Start walking home. Text literally everyone in my phone on the way.

3:00 am: Home. Discover that soaking wet leather leggings are impossible to remove. Manage to get them down to my knees and give up. Waddle to the kitchen like a sad penguin.

3:30 am: Have been eating everything I can find in the house for the past 30 minutes with my eyes closed. Spill water everywhere on the slow journey from the kitchen to my bedroom.

3:35 am: Turn lights on in bedroom where husband and baby are soundly asleep together. Start taking pictures of them on my iPhone while loudly yelling how much I love them.

6:00 am: Wake up in a cold sweat. Head throbbing. Heart racing. My mouth tastes like an old sandwich. Realize I am hungover for the first time in 18 months.

Still got it.

[clevergirrrl-blog]

Sleep Deprivation For Beginners

“We’re gonna die soon, right?”

I ask my husband this question about once a week, usually around 6:00 am after yet another night of zero sleep. He mutters something I can’t understand in response, and we both stare at the ceiling while the baby flaps around in bed between us, oblivious to the fact that we are barely alive. Sometimes I think I would welcome death, which is basically just a forever nap. It sounds perfect.  

I’ve never been someone who needs a lot of sleep. I’m a high functioning, OCD, multitasking lawyer who has consistently managed to feel good and get shit done every day on less than five hours a night. I figured I was a shoe-in for motherhood, since everyone talked about sleep deprivation as the number one hurdle new parents face. “Amateurs,” I thought. “I’ll be fine.”

HAHA!

No.

Turns out there’s a slight difference between five solid hours of uninterrupted sleep in a clean bed with no one touching you, and two non-cumulative hours of “sleep” in a sweat-soaked bed with someone biting your nipple and puking on your face.

I blame myself for the shitty sleepless reality I’ve been living in for the past 9 weeks, mostly because I’m a mom and that’s what we do, but also because I did exactly nothing to prepare for it. I figured there was so much information out there that I would have a panic attack if I tried to figure out which of it was “right” or “true,” so I didn’t try. Now that baby is here and has declared that in this (his) house, Night and Day are Hereby Reversed and None Shall Sleep in His Presence, I’m kind of second guessing this approach.

Is there something I could have done to avoid or at least deal with these sleepless nights? According to all the unsolicited-advice givers out there: Yes. I decided to compile the hottest tips I’ve been given over the past two months below, in an effort to help my fellow fatigued mamas out there. Get ready to “sleep like a baby,” ladies. (I hope whoever coined that phrase died a slow and painful death.)

1. Avoid booze: According to people who hate fun, even a single glass of wine can disrupt a good night’s sleep, so if you’re serious about getting some quality shut-eye, do not drink alcohol. While you’re at it, do not breathe air either.

2. Go to bed earlier: Go to bed when your baby goes to bed. It’s that simple. For some of you, maybe that’s around 8:00 pm. For others, maybe that’s around 1:00 am. Maybe it’s never! Doesn’t matter!     

3. Go for a drive: Babies always fall asleep in cars. You may need to drive around the block more than once to make sure your little one is in a deep enough sleep to not wake up when you get home. Drive for as long as you need to. Get on the highway. Drive all the way to the airport. Get on the first flight to Mexico. Never look back.

4. Nap when they nap: Shit when they shit. Barf when they barf. Cry when they cry.

5. Turn off all electronic devices at bedtime: One time I forgot my iPhone charger downstairs and my phone died while my son was sleeping on me and I cried and then he cried and we both kept crying until eventually we both fell asleep, so maybe?

6. Sleep in shifts: The idea here is that your partner takes the baby into a separate room for part of the night and quietly deals with its needs for a few hours without interrupting you. Note: this only works if your partner is another mom. If you’re planning on trying this out with a man, you might as well just leave your baby on a pile of laundry in the basement.

7. Let baby sleep in bed with you: You can practice this method before baby is born by trying to go to sleep after placing a boiling hot, ten pound roast beef on your chest while you lay in absolute silence with one arm pinned awkwardly under your body for the entire night.

8. Don’t let baby sleep in bed with you: In fact, don’t let baby sleep in the same house as you. What? I HATE EVERYTHING.  

Needless to say, none of this sage wisdom has worked for me. Has it? I don’t know. Where am I?  

My new philosophy going forward is this: if you know you’re not going to get any kind of consistent sleep for months (years) no matter what you try, why not just embrace your new zombie life and go with the flow? Trust me, this method works just as well as the others, but with the added bonus of not having to do anything. Let’s be honest, you’re never going to “do” “anything” ever again.

Sweet dreams!

[clevergirrrl-blog]

Miscarriage

I knew it was gone the moment I saw the blood.

It. It? I don’t know. The pregnancy? The fetus? Am I allowed to call it “the baby”?

Him. I thought it was a boy. I’ll never know for sure.

*

The morning after it happened, I got an alert on my phone from my pregnancy app, just like I did every Saturday. It was a short but cheerful message that said “Congratulations! Today you are 10 weeks pregnant, and your embryo has graduated to a fetus! Your baby is now swallowing and kicking, and all the major organs are fully developed. More minute details are appearing too, like fingernails and peach-fuzz hair. If you could take a look at your baby this week, you'd be able to see the clear outline of his spine.”

Later that evening I did see the spine. I held it in my hands after it fell out of me like a soft egg in a rush of blood and I saw the spine.

*

Missed Miscarriage. Or “silent” miscarriage. That’s what they’re calling it. I hate both of these terms. It was loud and clear.

*

The night before the bleeding started, I was eating dinner on our patio with my husband and two of our friends when I suddenly felt a rush of liquid come out of me. I winced and excused myself, hurrying to the bathroom, not entirely worried but definitely weirded out. When I sat down on the toilet, I was relieved to see it was just water. Or at least, a colourless, odorless liquid that looked like water. My underwear were drenched, but nothing else happened, and I didn’t think anything of it. Must just be a pregnancy thing, I thought. I changed and went back outside and had vanilla ice cream with peaches for dessert. I didn’t realize at the time it was my water breaking.  

*

“What about a miscarriage? What do I look for?” I asked my doctor as I was leaving her office the morning I discovered I was pregnant. She never once brought it up. I almost forgot to.

“Oh, right. Yes, that could happen. It does happen.” She seemed uncomfortable. “There’s about a 20-30% chance it will happen. Call me if you have intense cramping with bleeding at the same time. Some spotting is normal, as is some cramping. But they shouldn’t happen together.”

Later when I told my girlfriend how much that stat had terrified me - 20-30% - she laughed it off. “No, that means there’s a 70-80% chance it WON’T happen! You have to think of it that way.” So I did. I knew friends of friends who’d had miscarriages, but it wouldn’t happen to me.

*

I didn’t sleep at all that night because of the pain. It was a pain I thought I recognized; I figured it was some combination of bloating, gas, or constipation, all of which are very common during pregnancy. I have a bad stomach on the best of days, so it must just be that. But there was never any relief all through the night, and the pain intensified as the hours went by. Still, I didn’t worry. I didn’t know that was what “cramping” felt like. Nobody told me that’s what it felt like.

*

We got pregnant on our honeymoon. Not exactly the plan, but a very welcome surprise. I had a few hints in the weeks that followed: sore breasts, tired, moody, bloated. Most of these early pregnancy symptoms are no different than regular PMS symptoms, so I didn’t think much of them. Then one night I smelled something vile in our kitchen and went on a rampage trying to locate the source. My husband finally discovered that it was a bottle of “goo gone” hidden deep in one of the cupboards. “How can you even smell that?” he laughed. “Get it out of here!!” I shrieked. I caught my breath while he took the offending bottle outside, and in that moment I thought, “holy shit. I’m pregnant.” The next morning I took an at-home test and the plus sign appeared almost instantly. Bright blue.

*

“Missed” miscarriage, I guess, because nothing “happened” when he died several days earlier, alone in my uterus. There were no symptoms for a week or two after his heart stopped beating and he stopped growing. The pregnancy app doesn’t send you a text that says “PS, your baby is dead.”

*

Once we got over the initial shock of the unplanned pregnancy, we were both so excited. We told our parents, his sisters, my brother, a few close friends. As the weeks sailed by problem-free, we told more people. We joked about whose reaction was the sweetest, the funniest. We started thinking of names. We had expectations. We made plans. We built an entire future in our minds.

*

Cramping.

Even though it’s a term I use every month, for some reason I thought it meant something different in the context of a miscarriage. I didn’t think to look for the dull, relentless aches that come before menstruation. “Cramping” somehow took on a new meaning in pregnancy; I redefined it as something sharp, sudden, stabby. Something really different than anything you’d ever felt before. Something that, when it happened, you would know right away: “This is happening. This is the thing.”

*

In the cab on the way to the doctor’s office I felt numb. I rubbed my belly and said “hang in there. hang in there. hang in there.” My husband kept telling me not to worry until we talked to the doctor. I wasn’t worried. I knew it was already gone.

*

“These things happen.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“Think of how easily you got pregnant; that’s what matters.”

“Next time will be better.”

“It’s just the universe protecting you.”

“So many women have gone through this.”

“Better it happened now than even later.”

*

I was texting two of my girlfriends the morning the blood came, as we do every morning as soon as we wake up. “I had the craziest pain all night,” I wrote. “Seriously didn’t sleep at all. I’m sure it’s nothing alarming but God, it was awful.” They texted about what they ate for dinner last night; what their toddler did this morning; what patients they would see at work this afternoon.

I sat down on the toilet and I wiped and I saw the blood. It was brown.

“I’m bleeding.”

Silence.

Then, from my friend who is a mother: “It’s nothing. I’m sure of it. But call your doctor. I had spotting too. It’s definitely nothing.” Then, from my friend who is a doctor: “I wish there was something I could say to reassure you.” But I couldn’t read their messages through the tears. I already knew. This is happening. This is the thing.

*

I took a shower before waking up my husband. I figured I would be a mess and that I might actually die so I should have one more shower. I figured I should do my hair before my life ended. I sobbed and sobbed while the hot water scalded my back.

*

We’ll turn the guest room into the baby’s room, and the office into the new guest room!

We’ll got to New Zealand during my mat leave!

The middle name will by Joy or Rose if it’s a girl!

I’ll speak only in French to the baby, starting today!

I’ll take prenatal yoga classes!

We’ll tell everyone in just 2 short weeks!!!

*

“It doesn’t sound good.” My doctor, after I described the cramps, the blood. “But go and take an ultrasound next door, and we’ll know for sure.” I watched the blood drain from my husband’s face while I nodded.

*

You get pregnant and then you have a baby. That’s what’s supposed to happen. That’s the only story we’re allowed to share. “I got pregnant and it was funny / messy / great / uncomfortable / long / whatever, and then I had the baby.” You get pregnant and then you have a baby. The end.

*

In the ultrasound office I had a different technician than the last time. She inserted the wand inside me. She didn’t move it around as much as the last time I was here - just 2.5 weeks ago - when I saw the heartbeat for the first time. That time the wand moved side to side and up and down and back and forth - taking measurements, taking pictures. There was no reason to move it this time; I could tell she didn’t see a heartbeat as soon as she put it in. She left to get the doctor. We waited. I concentrated on breathing. “Whatever happens, it’s going to be ok.” said my husband. We both knew he was lying.

*

We had to call everyone who knew. I felt terrible for everyone. I felt like I had disappointed them all. I caused this. I took away their baby. The baby they were all waiting for, desperately in some cases. We teased them with hope and then we took it all away.

*

“We’ll give you a moment.” The ultrasound doctor and the technician left and I got off the table and fell into my husband’s arms. I cried and I said “no, no, no” over and over into his chest. He cried. We couldn’t breathe. He rubbed my hair. I looked back and saw blood all over the table where I had been laying moments before. It was bright red against the white sheet.

*

My doctor said I had to make a decision on how to get it out of me. Get it out? “Your cervix is still closed. The baby is still inside you. Since it has been dead for a week or so, and you’re already so far along, it likely won’t come out on it’s own. You’ll need to decide how to remove it.” I told her I needed the weekend to think about it. 

Just before we left, she added “there is a chance it might come out on its own. If it does, it might be painful and there might be a lot of blood. And tissue. You might see… everything. You should buy some pads to be safe.” 

*

We left the doctor’s office and decided to go to the cottage, as planned. We didn’t know what else to do. We were supposed to head up there with three of my best girlfriends for the weekend, so we did. We didn’t know what else to do.

*

I googled “DNC” and nothing came up. I also couldn’t remember the name of the drug my doctor had mentioned. Miso...something. I texted my doctor friend. “It’s D AND C. D&C. It stands for Dilation and Curettage. And the drug is called Misoprostol. Which are you going to do?” I don’t know. I don’t know.

*

Everyone did their best to make me feel better that night. It worked until it didn’t. I excused myself to the bathroom at one point and temporarily lost my mind, as quietly as possible. I was so overcome with grief that I actually fell to my knees on the bathroom floor, like people do in the movies. I felt like I was in a movie. How was this real life? Why did this happen?

*

“Let’s have a chat. You can sit up.” The doctor at the ultrasound office. I was covered in goo and there was blood between my legs and I was wearing a robe that wasn’t tied tightly enough at the back.

“You’re 33? And this is your first pregnancy? I’m sorry, dear. It didn’t work out. See here?” She swung the monitor to face me so that I could see what she was looking at. “It should be measuring longer than this at 10 weeks, so we think it stopped growing around 8 weeks. As you can see, there is no heartbeat.” All I saw was a slumped figure lying motionless in a heap at the bottom of the screen. My uterus. The corpse. Two weeks ago I looked at this exact same screen, with this exact same image, but the baby was floating in the middle. The heart was beating furiously. We could see little arm and leg buds. A giant brain. Now it was just lying at the bottom, like a dead fish. I hated that she showed me.

*

Everyone says there’s nothing you could have done. You will never believe them. What if I drank too much? What if it’s from working out too much, or too hard? What if I had too much caffeine? What if it’s because I didn’t start the pre-natal vitamins until after I found out I was pregnant? What if it’s my thyroid? I’m too old. I waited too long. It’s because of me. 

*

My stomach hurt a lot that night. I drank wine and I took advil and more advil and more wine and used a heating pad. I wasn’t expecting the physical pain. No one told me it would be this bad.

*

When I later recounted the story to friends and family, I sounded like a news reporter. Here is what happened here are the facts first this then this and finally this and now I’m fine. I still worry they think I am a robot, and wonder why I didn’t cry. I haven’t been able to cry in front of anyone.

*

The contractions started around 6:00 pm. At first I didn’t know what they were. It was mostly the same type of pain I’d been having all day, but I started noticing that it was coming in waves. I would get a break for a few minutes and then it would come back, really strong, and really sharp. I couldn’t stand up or walk anymore. I called for my husband and I sat in the recliner in the sun room and I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes and said “something’s happening.” He got my friend, the doctor. She touched my belly and said “you’re having contractions” and “are you ok?” and I said “I think so” and I gritted my teeth and clenched my husband’s hand as the next one came. I didn’t know I would have contractions. Or have to eventually give birth. I had no idea.

*

The next day, after the worst of it was over, my friends “iced” me. I told them they were cruel and they told me to get on my knees and chug and it was the most I’d laughed in days. It was the best thing.

*

“I think I can stand, and I want to see the sunset,” I announced a few hours into the contractions. This cottage is known for its sunsets, and I only get to witness them once a year. It is one of my favourite things to do and see in one of my favourite places in the world, and I felt it would bring me peace and comfort. We all went down to the dock. We took pictures. We laughed. I screamed through one really bad contraction. “The sky looks so beautiful,” I said. Then I felt a huge surge of blood come gushing out of me. “I’ll be right back,” I called as I hurried back towards the empty cottage.” “You ok? Need me to come with you?” my husband asked, concerned. “No, I got this. Be right back.”

*

Upstairs in the bathroom on the second floor, I could still see the sun setting through the adjacent bedroom window. I left the bathroom door open since no one else was in the cottage. I could hear their voices laughing down at the dock, but otherwise it was completely silent. I had soaked completely through the heavy duty pad, and as soon as I sat down on the toilet blood poured out of me. It felt like someone was emptying a huge bottle of blood from inside of my body. Gushing. Bright red. Death and birth at the same time.

Suddenly I felt something big and squishy fall out. It made a very distinct sound as it hit the water. I said out loud “That was it.” I didn’t even know it was my own voice at first. It felt like someone else talking through me, telling me that it was the baby. This is happening. This is the thing.

*

I looked down and all I could see was blood. The blood was bright and thick and filled the toilet and it was slimy and opaque and I couldn’t see through it. I reached down to the bottom of the toilet and I felt it and I picked it up and held it in my hands. Him. I looked as carefully as I could but I also tried not to see anything. I said “I’m sorry I’m sorry” and I let it slip out of my hands back into the toilet and I didn’t know what to do next so I flushed the toilet and I sat on the ground and I cried with blood all over my hands.

*

You wonder if you’re too sad. Or not sad enough. What’s normal? Should you just move on? Should you take more time to grieve? Take care of yourself, everyone says. How?

*

After it came out, I felt an immediate sense of physical relief and emotional despair. The pain was cut in half. I could stand, walk, wash my hands, do up my jeans. But I couldn’t think of anything except “that was my baby and I just flushed it down the toilet and I didn’t even save it or show my husband and I killed it, just now. I killed it.”

I yelled through the window, down to the dock, and my husband came running and he found me on the bed and I told him what happened and he held me and we cried and cried and he said “we have each other no matter what. No matter what.” and I cried harder.

*

The rest of that night, the blood came and it came and it didn’t stop. It came for two more days after that, with clots and tissue and everything that was once making a human inside of me. I’ve never seen anything so red, so bright. There’s been an accident, I kept thinking. This isn’t normal. It can’t be.

*

A few days later, I had to have another ultrasound to see if everything came out. If there is anything left in your uterus, your body gets tricked into thinking you’re still pregnant and you won’t get your period again so you can’t get pregnant again. There are other potential negative side effects as well, but that’s the only one I heard. Get it out of me. I want it all out now.

*

The ultrasound found traces. “We can’t be sure what it is, but to be on the safe side, we’re prescribing you the Misoprostol. It induces cramping and bleeding, probably similar to what you just went through on the weekend.” I have to do it again. To make sure. To get it all out. 10 weeks.

*

Since then the bleeding has tapered off. It has been almost 2 weeks. I have to have one more blood test to make sure my HcG levels are back to zero, which will mean I’m really not pregnant anymore, for real. If for some reason the test doesn’t show that, I don’t know what happens next. I’ll have to wait and see.

*

*A note from the author: Pregnancy loss is something we should be talking about more openly, honestly, and frequently. I wish I had known more about it, and what to expect, before it happened to me. If you’ve gone through this and want to share your story with someone, please feel free to write to me, even if we are strangers. You can reach me at broadbentmeg@gmail.com. You will get through this, everything you are feeling is normal, and it will get better.

[clevergirrrl-blog]

Bridal Wave

I just got engaged this past October. Technically, “we” got engaged, but I’ve quickly discovered that no one - friends, family, society in general - gives a damn about the groom. Once you’re enfianced, it’s all about the bride bride bride!

This is a new term that has been difficult to get used to - “bride.” Or rather, the even more frequently employed “bride-to-be.” It would be nice to be able to announce your plans to wed and retain the title of “regular human woman.” This apparently is not an option.

Almost every single interaction I’ve had with any person (or internet page) these past 6 months has included some discussion of the fact that I’m now a BTB, as if I had won some illustrious award that bestowed upon me this noble title, and omg isn’t it so exciting?? I mean - sure. Knowing I’m going to marry the love of my life and have a party about it is pretty great, I won’t lie. However, I’m also a 33-year-old woman with many other things going on in my life and in my brain, and I still want to talk about all that stuff as well. But folks straight up cannot help themselves when you’re a BTB. You belong to the people now.

All of my conversations since becoming a BTB go like this:

Me: “How tragic was that German plane crash? Maybe this will at least spark another global conversation about the importance of mental health, particularly in the workplace.”

Friend: “Totally. So have you figured out what flowers you’re going to put in your bouquet, or…?”

*

Me: “I got a raise at work! And a bonus! I’m so happy!”

Family: “Great! Now you have more money to spend on the wedding! Do you think you’ll upgrade to the nicer plateware for dinner????”

*

Me: “Hello, how are you?”

Co-worker: “Soooooooo, have you guys figured out food yet for the midnight snack??”

And so on.

After a few weeks, I realized that attempting to be recognized as a free-thinking, independent, logical human being who is interested in anything beyond choosing a first dance song was not going to happen, so I kind of gave up. I figured, this whole BTB hoopla will only happen once, maybe twice in my life, so it’s probably easiest to just Lean Back, plaster a permanent smile on my face, and nod my head like the good girl / happy bride everyone expects me to be during these: the most important months of my female life.

Instead of fighting the hysterical masses, I eventually decided to jump into the conjugal pool where everyone but me seemed to be having a great time. Once I started owning being a BTB (aka sweeping all of my feminist inclinations under the rug), I actually started to not hate talking about all-things-wedding*.

[*Please note that I am specifically using the word “wedding” throughout, not “marriage”, since one thing that I can tell you with absolute confidence is that no one gives a single fuck about your impending marriage / relationship.]

Before I knew it, I was taking pleasure in discussing what kind of ceremony we wanted, and who should make a speech, and what dessert we should have, and what the flower girls should wear. Each new thing to decide on seemed more adorable and delightful than the last, until I arrived at the issue of my appearance on the wedding day.

Yes: issue. As I’m sure any former or current BTB will inform you, how you’re planning to look on your wedding day is a matter of national interest and extreme importance, and not something you’re even remotely allowed to decide upon by yourself. The weighty and monumental factors that must be considered when planning the details of your outer shell are varied, and they are never-ending.

It started out innocently enough. As someone who likes to mix up her hair colour game, you’re equally as likely to find me as a blonde or a brunette in any given year. When the engagement happened, I was a blonde. When I picked out my dress, I was a blonde. I figured - hey, I’m a blonde right now. What’s for dinner?

But soon the questions started pouring in, and the Great Hair Colour Debate of 2015 was born. The first time someone asked me whether I was going to stay blonde for the wedding my answer came easily: “yep!” The second time, I furrowed my brow and thought about it for a second before responding “I think so?” By the third time, by a third person, I was less sure. And by the tenth time, I was in complete panic mode. Surely, if all these people are asking, it means I shouldn’t stay blonde, right? I started asking others, to be sure that I was accurately picking up what everyone seemed to be putting down. One after another, my friends and family members landed in equal numbers on both sides of the hair-fence, totally succeeding in their mission to freak me out. One friend would say blonde, the next would argue brunette, and each offered a compelling and terrifying reason why theirs was the only rational choice. “Blonde is more glamourous.” “Brunette is more natural.” “You should pick the colour you think you’ll have for most of the rest of your life.” “You should pick a new and exciting look for the wedding - something that’s different from your regular routine.” “Blonde looks more fake.” “Brunette looks more mousy.” “What about ombre??”

Confidence in ability to trust my own gut: decreasing.

When you’re a BTB, there is no part of your physical appearance that’s off limits. You become a trophy, a doll to be painted and dressed up, a real-life Disney Princess for people to live vicariously through. People say the craziest things to you and offer endless amounts of advice so bold and unsolicited it can make your head spin.

In the past few months, I have been asked / told the following:

“You probably want to cut down on squats and weights leading up to the wedding and focus more on running - that will help you stay leaner; you don’t want to look boxy.”

“What’s your teeth whitening plan?”

“What are you going to do about your skin color? Honestly, just get a spray tan. I know a girl.”

“You should cut out alcohol a few months before the wedding. That will be the easiest thing for weight loss and will make your face look less bloated.”

“You’re definitely getting false eyelashes, right?”

“I think you should go back on the doxy for your skin. I mean, you really need clear skin for your wedding. Imagine if you don’t? You’ll regret it forever.”

“Maybe you should go back on the pill so you can control when your period is, so you don’t get stuck with it on your wedding day.”

“You should start doing yoga NOW to improve your posture.”

“Be careful what heel height you pick. You obviously want to look tall and skinny, but you can’t be taller than the groom.”

“This veil makes it look like you think you’re a princess. Unless you do think you’re a princess? Is that what you’re going for?”

As a woman, I’m used to discussing my appearance on a frighteningly regular basis, and I’m equally used to people weighing in when I don’t necessarily need them to. But never have SO many people been so intimately interested in how I look, and never have I received the well-meaning but mostly shocking advice that I’ve had the displeasure of receiving as a BTB.

Observe the input I’ve been given on the same topics as a Regular Human Woman (“RHW”) vs. as a BTB:

Me as a RHW: “Should I get hair extensions?”

Friend: “What are you, a hooker? Don’t be an idiot.”

Me as a BTB: “Should I get hair extensions for the wedding?”

Friend: “Um, YES! You NEED them. Are you kidding? It’s your WEDDING. Do it!”

*

Me as a RHW: “I’m thinking of doing a juice cleanse.”

Brother: “LOL, as if.”

Me as a BTB: “I’m thinking of doing a juice cleanse before the wedding” (actually joking, trying to be funny)

Brother: “Don’t do a juice cleanse! Just fast. That’s way more efficient.”

*

Me as a RHW: “I feel fat. I need to lose 10 pounds. UGH.”

Anyone: “Are you talking? Shut up, please.”

Me as a BTB: “I feel fat. I need to lose 10 pounds before the wedding.”

Everyone: “OMG, there’s still SO MUCH TIME for you to lose some weight before the wedding! And you only need to lose like, 5 pounds max.”

Me: [bursts into tears, dies a little bit inside.]

Pre-engagement I never thought I needed to lose weight, or tone up, or slim down, or what have you. I thought my body was actually pretty good. I work out when I can, I mostly eat healthy, and Ifelt good. Before the wedding madness started, I assumed the colour of my teeth and my skin and my hair were fine, maybe even nice.

But lately I’ve found myself walking around in a haze of self-criticism, self-doubt, and unhappiness. What the hell? I thought this was supposed to be the “happiest time of my life.” Why do I feel like I need a body double to walk down the aisle? Should I just order an entire new face in the mail? When did everything about me suddenly become unacceptable and in need of drastic repair?

The answer: it didn’t. It’s just hard to remember that when you’re caught in a Bridal Wave.

I’m deciding here and now to swim against the current and ignore 99% of the “advice” I’ve been given. I’m not tanning. I’m not bleaching my teeth. I refuse to stop eating carbs or sugar or...anything. I will not work out more than I already do. I’m still going to stay out late and have a few too many drinks on the weekend, even if I wake up looking like a bloated sea cow.

I’m not changing, because there’s nothing to change. Everyone else’s opinion on what a Bride needs to look like is what needs to change. She just needs to look like herself.

(Except I’m totally getting hair extensions. I literally just ordered them.)

[clevergirrrl-blog]

Pancakes

It’s 10:30 pm and I’m sitting here eating a two-day-old leftover pancake covered in nutella. I can’t decide if I’m a genius, or just disgusting. Either way, I figure it’s a good time to really evaluate my life and the choices I’ve made that have led to this moment.

Let me set the scene a little bit so you can understand how the bleakness of this moment extends beyond my cold breakfast dessert: I have no make up on and my hair is slicked back into its nightly post-face-wash mullet. I’m wearing impossibly unflattering bright blue American Apparel sweatpants and an oversized grey “Yoncé” sweatshirt, and I definitely look like I woke up like this, which is to say like a washed up sea-hag. I’m drinking sparkling water from my soda stream in a wine glass, because Monday. I’m sitting at my glossy white IKEA desk in my new “home office” (otherwise empty room containing only this desk and an old animal rug, also from IKEA). Boyfriend is pacing around the house from room to room, loudly discussing some shit on the phone. I don’t think he knows that you’re allowed to talk in a normal speaking voice. I’m also checking my email and Facebook and texting at the same time. I just told my friend over g-chat about the leftover shame snack I’m inhaling, and instead of mocking me, he just wrote “Jesus god. Give me it. I ate a fresh bowl for dinner. Fucking starving.” I’m literally always fucking starving.

I just had to yell at Boyfriend to close the door. Seriously the most loud always. How do people live with men? Is it all men, or just this one? I put up with it though, thanks to stuff like this: earlier this evening I was watching The Bachelor because I hate myself. Boyfriend was playing Candy Crush on his iPhone on the couch beside me. At one point I got up to go into the kitchen to get second-dinner and made him promise he would shout out whatever I was missing during those critical 30 seconds. The show came on while I was piling more everything onto my plate, and he yelled “They’re in Clare’s home town! She’s wearing wedges!!” You know? Heart.

Ugh, I made the sodastream too spicy and it definitely tastes nothing like wine.  

Well this is off to a boring start. Why am I writing this? And why are you reading this? I can’t speak for you - you need to do you, like Drake said. As for me, I guess it’s because I just turned 32 and realized I’ve done NOTHING for the last EVER that’s even REMOTELY putting me on the path towards achieving ANY KIND of career that I even KIND OF want to be doing, aka writing. More specifically, being able to pay my rent by only writing and not being a lawyer, which shockingly isn’t as fun as everyone no one told me it would be.

It’s been 10 minutes since I wrote that last sentence. I took a break to pop two zits in the bathroom. They were both great. I’d give them an 8 out of 10: minimal effort, hard off-white tubes that I could just flick away afterwards. No blood, no after-ooze. Everyone knows the hit-the-mirror whiteheads are at the top of the zit game in terms of satisfaction, but there’s something sweet about the simplicity of the hard snake variety. It’s like they knew I had shit to do, and were all “There you are, ma’am. We’re glad you came by and we’ll see you again soon!” Top hats off, quick good-bye nods, and out the door.

I’m rambling, as I am very wont to do. If you come back here again, god bless you, you’ll find that out soon enough. I just thought I should warn you up front in case you have better things to do like refreshing your Instagram feed for the fourteenth time in three minutes (me) or keeping a small human alive (all of my friends). Really though, all of my friends suddenly have babies or are in the process of making them. OK, only like...3 of my friends. But that’s SO MANY. A whole handful more are married and doing whatever they do without me. And the unmarrieds are all busy having solo art shows or appearing on German fashion blogs or billing more by the hour than I make in week or being lesbians, all of which is way cooler and I have to assume more fulfilling than anything I’m doing with my sad leftover-pancake-eating existence. God damn it.

So in an effort to have something to show for my life in a year from now other than more infuriating cellulite (does it just come in the night?), I have decided to start writing an online journal. Sometimes it might be only one line, other times it might be several pages. It could be about something that happened or didn’t happen or something I felt or saw or failed at or dominated or liked or someone I hate or love or just something I ate (probably mostly the last one). Basically the common theme is ME AND MY FEELINGS, because that’s the only thing I can honestly write about with any expertise. Also because I’m a definitely probably a narcissist, which makes me think that maybe I am a writer after all! Conclusions.

Speaking of conclusions, here’s today’s: I’m going to stop now even though I really didn’t say anything, since it’s now 12:30 am and this took two hours because I just spent the last hour and a half having a meltdown about which Tumblr theme to use. I hate them all, including this one. If anyone wants to make me a website, holler atcha girl.

I’m going to have one more pancake before bed. It’s after midnight now, which means it’s technically tomorrow, so I get to start a new food day.

[clevergirrrl-blog]

Apres-Ski

Last weekend I went to Collingwood with Boyfriend and two of our favourite friends, Josh and Lauren, another couple we basically lived with for the past 3 years before moving in together recently. The four of us hadn’t had a full sleepover weekend together since the Big Move, so we figured it was high time we woke up in the same house looking like revolting sewer pigs (mission accomplished on that front).

We left right after I was done work on Friday. The weekend got off to a rocky start when I discovered, upon getting home and before getting into Josh’s waiting car, that Boyfriend was completely shit-pickled at 4:30 pm. In his defense, it was the Women’s Olympic Hockey Gold game earlier that day, so he justifiably had about six pints in the name of sportsmanship and true patriot love. Still, there’s nothing more obnoxious than your own girl or boyfriend being day-hosed when you’re sober as a houseplant. Everything they say annoys the shit out of you.

Luckily, when we got into the backseat of the car, our snowboards were crammed in between the two seats, creating a type of homicide-prevention wall between us. I got to read  alone in my car corner for the last treasured hour or so of daylight, which greatly improved my will to live.

The plan was to go to dinner that night at East Side Mario’s, a lifelong guilty pleasure of mine. Not only can you order a side of steaming carbs with your main melty carbs, but that unlimited salad with the pepperoncinis is just ridiculous. I can’t even look at anyone when I’m eating it. I fear if I make eye contact they’ll ask for a bite and then shit will get really awkward, really fast.  About an hour and a half into our journey, we had to stop because Captain Six-Pint had to relieve himself. Of course, we stopped at McDonald’s (road trip rules). For the first time in maybe ever, I didn’t order anything, because I knew a bounty of all-you-can-eat spaghetti was awaiting me. Everyone else ordered at least a Junior Chicken, because everyone else was not an idiot.

Fast-forward to an hour or so later when we pulled into the Bachelorette-infested town of C-wood. As we approached the local E.S.M’s, I was horrified to discover that it was closed. DOWN. For good. How does a popular family chain restaurant manage to go out of business in a popular family chain city? What cock-weasle was running the place so incompetently that it had no choice but to shut its doors forever, crushing the dreams of us poor, hungry souls looking forward to some mediocre pizza with our otherwise privileged weekend?! Hanger-based rage ensued. When I’m craving something, ALL must suffer until it’s securely in my mouth. Boyfriend knows this all too well, and I could see the panic-sweat start to roll down the back of his neck as the reality that I would not  be getting exactly what I wanted sunk in. I somehow managed to summon the few shreds of rational thinking I had tucked away deep inside my brain and not have a complete meltdown. Suppressing this tantrum took so much effort that I actually had a stomach ache for rest of the weekend.  

After I indulged in a few minutes of mild, adult sulking while the others checked their iPhones for alternate restaurant options, we settled on the place next door because it had the word “Beaver” in its name, and because it was next door. After dins, we headed to Lauren’s aunt’s chalet which she generously donated to us for the weekend. It was perfect. Four comfy, fat-guy reclining chairs were lined up in a row just waiting to embrace our bloated bodies with their synthetic warmth. We each chose our own personal inactivity throne and that’s where we spent most of the rest of the weekend, constantly sampling treats from the four cottage food groups: cool ranch doritos, fluorescent white marshmallows, all-dressed ruffles, and cheese plates.  

The next morning after eating all the bacon in the land, we headed out to the hill. I should probably mention that I am not good at winter sports. Or sports in general. Sports?

I have tried skiing exactly twice. The first time was in grade 7 when our class went to Boler “mountain” in London, Ontario for some wholesome Canadian field trip fun. Long story short, I ended up accidentally going down a black diamond run after having barely mastered the bunny variety, and promptly lost control. I started barrel-rolling down the hill, bony limbs flailing in every direction as I tried to abandon my ski poles, since falling while clutching long spears felt wrong. It was - one of them flew back behind me but the other somehow landed in front of me and bounced back to impale me square in the forehead. Now bleeding everywhere and gaining momentum, my lifeless 13-year-old body continued to bounce down the hill like a ragdoll. As I neared the bottom, I noticed a herd of kindergarteners directly in my path. They were all attached to each other by string-mittens, screaming. They had nowhere to run. We all went down.

Fast-forward about thirteen years to a Whistler trip with some friends from law school. Having mostly suppressed the memory of my last attempt to ski, I was ready to give it another shot. I told everyone I was “beginner to intermediate” (nope), and up the actual mountain we went. We all split off into pairs and I ended up with my friend Jen who was a great skier but a crap instructor. “I don’t know, just snowplow!” she said, and I nodded, like “yeah, totally. Snowplow. For sure.”

As the chairlift climbed higher and higher, I knew it was bringing me closer and closer to death. I tried to remain calm. As we prepared to get off, Jen said “remember, if you feel like you’re out of control, just fall!” This made zero sense to me, because isn’t falling what happens when you’re out of control? How do you remedy the out of control situation with more out of controlness? Before I could ask her what the fuck she was talking about, I was suddenly getting off the chair lift, and instead of immediately toppling over onto my side as predicted, I landed squarely on my skis and began to rocket down the mountain at a speed normally reserved for lamborghinis. I literally FLEW past everyone - children and seasoned professionals alike. I vaguely remember hearing Jen screaming and seeing looks of horror in peoples’ faces as I zoomed past them, but there was nothing I could do to stop. I kept going for a solid minute which, to this day, remains one of the scariest and most awful minutes of my entire life. I finally crashed into a bright orange fence and eventually a few people came to see if I was alive and bring me my skis and poles which they had retrieved from the several-kilometer crime scene. Jen finally caught up with me about ten minutes later and we had to walk the rest of the way down the hill, which took about 2 days. Needless to say, I never skied again.

A few years later, Boyfriend decided our relationship was strong enough to withstand him teaching me how to snowboard. Turns out I’m much better at snowboarding than skiing, at least inasmuch as I didn’t terrorize any children or give myself an open head wound. This past weekend was the first time I had been snowboarding in two years, so I was pretty rusty, and snowboarding is not a sport that is meant to be enjoyed by the rusted.

First of all, if you don’t have your own gear, get ready to wait in line with the other plebes. You’ll already be in your full snowsuit since you’ll think “just need to quickly pick up some boots and goggles and I’m good to go!” Not so. You will wait for an hour every time, and you will sweat. You will start sweating so profusely about twenty minutes into your wait that you’ll be forced to remove most of your clothing and dignity and then hold it uncomfortably in a pile as you slowly shuffle forward. Next, you’ll give all of your money to a high 17-year-old for the pleasure of borrowing a used, likely lice-infested helmet and a pair of stink-boots, which you will then spend about 30 minutes trying to adjust onto your body. You’ll put your full snowsuit back on, only to realize moments later that you have to pee.

Eventually you’ll make it onto the hill, where you will then wait in another line to get on a chairlift. This line will be about six hours long if it happens to be a Saturday. If you’re a beginner like me, get ready to go down the hill a total of three times in a day because when you fall every 15 seconds or so, it takes a good 45 minutes to get down the green run, and then about an hour to psych yourself up to do it again.

On this particular Saturday, the hills were icier than my heart. It had rained a lot the day before, so the whole place was one giant doomsday slip and slide. Falling in a soft cloud of powder is one thing, but falling on ice is basically like jumping out of a two storey apartment building and landing knees-first onto the concrete ground below. By the end of the day I was black and blue, which, incidentally, made me the blackest person on the slopes (yikes). Seriously, Collingwood has more white people than the Republican National Convention.

My advice to those of you thinking about snowboarding this season is as follows: are you white, rich, and really really good at snowboarding? If you answered “Yes!” to all three - congratulations! You should totally go to Collingwood THIS weekend. If you answered “no” any one of the above, I suggest you follow my lead and focus your energy on honing your après-ski skills instead: drinking, hot-tubbing, and napping.

[clevergirrrl-blog]

Drunk Harry Potter

Today was the longest day at work. When it finally ended, I went for drinks with coworkers which I haven’t done since my Bay Street days, and now I remember why. By 8:30 pm I was fully wasted. This used to be fine when I was in my twenties. I could do shots until 2:00 am on a Tuesday, sleep for four hours, get up at 7:00 am and go to work looking perfect and feeling terrific. Now when I have two glasses of wine at book club I pre-dial my boss’s number for when I inevitably have to call in dead the next morning.

We went to Bar Volo, which has every beer that’s ever been brewed. I had something called Dieu Du Ciel Hibiscus. Beer and flowers: together at last. Then I had a fewwwww ciders and the next thing I knew I was getting a ride home from Boyfriend’s dad (Boyfriend’s parents are in town and staying at our place for a few nights) which was (a) awesome because it was freezing out and I didn’t have to spend money on a cab, and (b) terrifying. I felt like I was in high school again and my dad was picking me up from a dance, reeking of the poisonous contents of my stolen water bottle of every-booze. We talk about the weather and his drive to Toronto and I’m WAY too excited about both topics. Silence, you fool! my brain hisses at me, but I couldn’t stop blabbering. I used to make the same mistake when I was 16, thinking if I talked a lot instead of passing out, he’d never know. GENIUS.

We made it home and I was greeted not only by Boyfriend’s mom and sister, but also by his niece (age 5) and nephew (age 2.5), both of whom I am desperately in love with and often fantasize about kidnapping to Mexico. You know what IS fun when you’re tipsy on a week night? Being around children. You’re totally on the same level! They were like “let’s run around the coffee table in circles then eat skittles then throw things and just yell sounds!!” and I was like “UM, ARE YOU GUYS READING MY MIND?”

After the skittle marathon we played Light the Match for a solid ten minutes, which entailed me lighting a match after yelling “One, two….THREE! [fire!]” and them squealing with delight and then blowing it out. At some point I realized that if I kept this up, it was only a matter of time before I lit my entire face on fire thanks to the alcohol fumes seeping out of my mouth, so we moved on.

Our next activity involved running up the stairs to the guest room and jumping on the bed. Have you ever jumped on a bed when you’re half way in the bag? It’s like being on a roller coaster in your own house, for free. We kept jumping until my body reminded me that I wasn’t 5-years-old and started shutting down by pretending to have a heart-attack. I convinced them to play Take A Nap next, which only lasted for about one minute because they were totally on to me.

Eventually my nephew was like “I’m out” and headed down the stairs, unsupervised, because drunk babysitters think “if he falls, at least he’ll learn.” Learn…..to die? #AuntFail. My niece stayed upstairs with me because she knows a good live show when she sees one, and to reward her I started to read her Book One of Harry Potter.

This was a huge mistake.

Ten pages in and I’m fully hooked again, even though I’ve read the entire series like five times. Nooooooo! (shakes fist in the air!) I already know I won’t be able to read anything else until I finish all seven books. HP has a hold on me like nothing else. Hermione! Snape! Dumbledore! Horcruxes! Butter Beer!! DRAGONS!!! I have no choice but to surrender myself to Hogwarts for the next several months. I just ruined my own life.

I wish I had someone like George Senior’s friend from Arrested Development to teach me a lesson with a prosthetic arm. Maybe he would put the arm in the toilet, fingers up, and when I got up to pee with my eyes closed in the middle of the night I would get a plastic shocker and piss all over myself. As I screamed and fell to the floor in pain, I would look up to see a note scribbled on the mirror in lipstick: “And that’s why you never start reading Harry Potter while drunk.”

[clevergirrrl-blog]

In da (book) club

For my first installment of “Shit 30-year-olds Do”, I decided to start with a milestone that, along with taking up knitting or getting a subscription to Chatelaine, has long been associated with being old and lame: starting a Book Club!

In my early-to-mid 20s, I cruelly mocked anyone who suggested that we form a reading group. What’s next, I asked, Saturday trips to Home Depot? Exchanging tips on 20-minute-meals your whole family will enjoy? NO THANKS, MOM. But as the years went by and I graduated from University and Law School, I found myself also graduating from beer pong, walks of shame, social smoking, and wearing outfits that often did not include pants (I tend to save these activities for special occasions now, like my birthday or Thursday nights). As a newly minted 30-year-old, the things that get my nipples hard today include buying organic groceries, keeping plants alive, and picking out paint colours for my dining room. Sigh.

The upside to entering my Carlsberg Years is that I’m finally starting to figure out who I am and what the hell I’m supposed to be doing in this heartless world. As a result, I’ve started to care a lot more about everything: animal cruelty, trans rights, a birth controlling robot becoming President of the United States, my double chin - everything. My new obsession with bigger-picture issues has brought with it the desire to read and learn more about these topics, and to talk about them with people who, like me, have replaced their former addiction to gossiping with a bloodlust for self-education. Enter the Book Club.

Book Clubs are not just for Oprah’s minions anymore! When properly executed (as per my handy instructions, below), they are incredibly fun, stimulating, and encouraging. They force you to think about ideas and situations you’ve never analyzed before, plus you can go to sleep at night knowing you’re doing LeVar Burton proud. I’ve been in a Book Club with 15 lady-humans for about a year and a half now, and by some Christmas miracle, it’s still going strong. Here’s how we do:

1. The Guest List: If you assemble a group that consists of only microbiologists / second wave feminists / stay-at-home dads, you’re going to wind up only talking about bird flu / Title IX / this season of Yo Gabba Gabba. In our group, we have a broad spectrum of 30-something players, including lawyers, artists, moms, and PR agents who are liberals, A-types, existentialists, and narcissists. Our miscellaneous congregation ensures that we get to hear and defend many different points of view and have controversial, weird, and heated discussions. Sometimes having to listen to someone else’s opinion can make you want to punch them in the vag, but it still makes you smarter. I read that somewhere.  

2. Size Matters: I recommend trying to gather about 12 -15 peeps into your intellectual wolf pack. Any more than 15, and bitches get sidetracked into mini-discussions with the people sitting beside them about the latest fall nail trends or their newly discovered gluten allergy. Our monthly meeting usually consists of around 10 she-geeks, even though there are 15 of us in total, because every single time, a handful of ladies (binder full of women) back out at the last minute because they’re “stuck at work” or “taking care of their kid”. These are thinly veiled excuses for “it’s cold outside and I’m already inside”, or “I accidentally rewatched the first season of Gossip Girl instead of reading the book.” Which is fine, because no 30-year-old Torontonian can fit more than 10 people into their $1800/month “1 bedroom” anyway.

3. Timing is Everything (or at least something): Every Book Club starts off all ambitious-like. After the first meeting goes well, people make crazy promises to meet every 2 or 3 weeks (we can TOTALLY read The Fountainhead in 14 days!). Don’t do this. 30-year-olds are busy. Most of us have something that loosely resembles a career, which we have to juggle with battling cellulite, Instagramming, and going to another fucking wedding. Usually 4-6 weeks per book is a fair amount of time.  

4. Let Them Eat (Vegan, Non-Dairy) Cake: Every month, a different person takes on the role of welcoming the group into her home and letting us judge her (aka making us dinner). Seems like a lot of work, but if there are more than 10 people in your Library Gang and you meet every 4-6 weeks, you only end up hosting once a year and getting a ton of free dinners in return - huzzah! Everyone besides the host brings some brain-juice (wine), and the end result is delicious. Of course, your Book Club doesn’t need to have a food / drink / hosting option - you could very well just get together in an empty field once a month armed with nothing but your passion for reading, but I just got bored and hungry typing that. Sitting down to a nice family-style meal together is a great bonding experience and makes everyone feel cozy and relaxed. Hemingway and Mac’n’Cheese - can you think of anything more delightful? So can I, but whatever.

5. Picking a Winner: The biggest challenge you’ll face is picking a great book every month. I think the best way to go about discovering a new opus is to read something that someone in the group has already devoured and loved. We’ve found most of our favourite books this way. Sure, it’s kind of shitty for the nerd who already read it, but she can throw herself into her latest homemade pickling project that month while everyone else reads her favourite book.

Happy book clubbing, kids! Spring Breeeaaaak!

[clevergirrrl-blog]

Dear 20-somethings

Dear 20-something-year-old you. Let’s chat.

Despite the fact that you spend the majority of your waking hours filling your body with vodka, taquitos, and other people’s body parts, you are somehow going to live to be 30-years-old. As someone who made it here herself in defiance of God’s will, I feel I owe it to the universe to pass on a couple of personal nuggets of wisdom from the Land of Olds. Ask away, my hatchlings!

20-something: I eat poutine every day.

30-something: OK! Well. Poutine does have calcium, according to science, and potatoes are a great source of fibre. Just look at the Irish - they’ve been a soft-stooled people for centuries! The downside to eating only cheese-filled bread-things is that those delectable monosaccharides are slowly building a giant fat-castle inside your chin.

20-something: But I still look like Sports Illustrated in a bikini. Should I stop eating all the things now?

30-something: Listen, I used to be able to take down 11 bread sodas a day with no consequences. Now I have a shapely gunt just below the spot where I think my waist used to be. I know you’re not going to stop ordering a second dinner every night at 2:00 am, and nor should you. Enjoy these precious years where you can literally eat a box of donuts and nothing happens. But for god’s sake, start going to the gym now.  

20-something: But it’s so haaaardddd! Can’t I just start working out when I’m your age?

30-something: Technically, yes. But it’s going to be 100 times more the WORST THING EVER. All of my friends who started exercising in their 20s can chase down a streetcar without dry-heaving, and they’re always telling me stories about “feeling great” and “having energy.” I, on the other hand, have never frequented a gym before this year (next year), and just the thought of “putting” on running shoes fills my underwear with fear-induced sweat and I end up watching seasons three, food, and five of 30 Rock instead.

20-something: You’re...scaring me.

30-something: Good! I wish someone would have scared me into jogging when I was your age. Instead I have to deal with my thighs burning like the gates of hell after 10 seconds of being on top.

20-something: Oh!  Speaking of sex, is it cool that I just use the pill with my new boyfriend?

30-something: Sure. Except not at all. Do you use a condom every time, too?

20-something: Sometimes, but they don’t feel as good?

30-something: For sure. Thirty seconds of sub-par, condom-free sex is TOTES worth a lifetime of herpes. Even if you have a boyfriend or girlfriend who promises they’ve been tested, you need to wrap it up. This is the one area of your life where you shouldn’t trust anyone, ever. You only have one body, and if you fuck it up by getting some awful STD, there’s literally no going back. Don’t take a giant shit on your future’s chest.

20-something: Anyway.... My parents keep nagging me to save money. Are they insane?

30-something: Do you want to look back on all of those hours you spent wiping down warm mayonnaise bottles at Hooters and realize you have nothing to show for it except sexual harassment and the entire 2012 line from H&M?

20-something: I guess not, but I have so many things I want to spend my money on NOW.

30-something: I get it. Fiscal irresponsibility is what separates us from the animals. But as the Ghost of Christmas Future, I’m here to tell you that there is a ton of shit you’re going to want waaaaay more in your 30s than anything you ever wanted in your 20s. Expensive shit: your own place, an open bar at your wedding, a gun, a 6-month trip to India, a sex change, whatever. Go to the bank, open up a high interest savings account or something equally boring sounding, and toss in a couple cookies every month. If you save $100 a month, in 10 years you’ll have over $12,000. That’s more than enough to hire a hitman or go on a naked cruise with your three best friends.  

20-something: I’m majoring in poly-sci with a minor in bio-gender-chemical-ethics. What does that do?

30-something: School is for meeting people to make out with and going to keg parties. You can literally major in giving-zero-fucks and you’ll be fine.  

20-something: Don’t I need to know what I want to do with my life?

30-something: Definitely not. You’re going to change your mind about what you want to do more often than Kim K. posts selfies on Instagram. Just try to always be doing something that you give a shit about. Do you like hot dogs, naps, and glitter? Find a job/career that combines all three, and don’t let anyone tell you that your dream isn’t possible. Those people are just jealous because they’re lawyers.

20-something: What if what I want to do doesn’t pay well? Will I die?

30-something: Nah. If you can’t live in your parents’ basement forever, use your social media / technology / being hot skills to get a day job that helps you pay the bills. Just make sure that it still affords you lots of free time to do the things you love until you become so good at those things that someone notices and starts paying you to do them. But be warned: DO NOT get stuck in a bill-paying job that gives you no free time, or a job that makes you want to murder everything, but traps you with a pair of golden handcuffs. Either of these scenarios will make you feel completely dead inside. Better to serve overpriced coffee to hipsters while you hone your real powers on the side and hold out for something meaningful. I promise that you’ll feel alive and excited while you’re waiting, even if you have buy your thongs exclusively at Honest Ed’s for a while.

20-something: K, I gotta go do something fun and cool that you’ve never heard of. Any last nugs of wiz for me?

30-something: Soon you’ll always be tired, so sleep as much as you can starting now. It’s not going to change anything, but at least you’ll have the memory of sleep. Don’t drink only vodka sodas when you go out. Sure, they have less calories, but they’ll turn you into a screaming, messy brat every time. Just drink beer; it’s delicious and you’ll learn to love your little paunch in time. People are going to talk shit about you. Go eat a Big Mac about it, and get over it immediately. Get your heart broken. It will make you less naive, more suspicious, relatable, softer, and more compassionate - all great survival skills. Stop drinking diet coke, it’s filling your breasts with lumps (actch). Don’t wear anything strapless, ever. Spend as much time as possible with your friends, until your periods synch up. They will get you through anything. Never eat sushi before a night of binge drinking. Don’t buy the expensive moisturizer yet. Pour a drink in someone’s face, just once. Take a punch, even if it’s from your brother. Don’t be bitch for no reason. Read books, not magazines. ALWAYS TELL THE TRUTH. Makeout with as many people as possible. Cry all the time, it’s fine. Most importantly: don’t be afraid of getting older. I’m not telling you about all the amazing shit because I don’t want to ruin the surprise (hint: you’re not pregnant, it’s just gas). Good luck!

[clevergirrrl-blog]

Turning 30

When I awoke on the first day of my 30th year, I was relieved to discover that nothing felt different. Most importantly, my breasts did not feel different. I was convinced that on February 14, 2012 they would shrivel up and dangle flaccidly from my chest like deflated birthday balloons. But it seems Mother Nature and her BFF Gravity were feeling generous today, so I was able to scratch at least one of my Turning Thirty Fears off of my list.

Yes, I was afraid of this day. On the outside, I wore a brave face and several defiant I’m-still-young outfits in the months leading to my B-day. On the inside, however, my mind was drowning itself in paranoid thoughts (and tequila), and so the Turning Thirty Fears were born. In no particular order, these were:

1. I will instantly become less attractive, and whatever beauty I have left will continue to rapidly fade with each passing second of my now miserably old existence. This in turn will make me a less worthy and significant member of society.

2. I will no longer be cool. Even if I make valiant efforts to be cool, these will only seem sad and pathetic. Being cool is very important.

3. I will be unhappy with where I am in my life, aka the fact that I’m not working my dream job, or married, or having babies, or even living on my GD own.

These Turning Thirty Fears have been weighing on me so heavily for the past several months that my massage therapist gave me an extra 30 minutes for free the last time I saw her, because she was “deeply worried” about what the hard knots in my neck and back said about my mental state. She told me I had to let go of whatever was bothering me, or I risked being crushed by the pain I was carrying around on my already weak shoulders.

With this advice in mind, the first thing I did this morning was crawl out from under my bed, march into my front yard, and yell, in the spirit of beloved child actor Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone: “Hey, I'm not afraid anymore! I said I'm not afraid anymore!” Truthfully, I only yelled it from inside the warmth of my home (hello, it’s February), but still. This small act of childish rebellion made me feel instantly powerful and awesome and ready to face my Turning Thirty Fears today. Here is my best effort at yelling at myself, and at anyone out there who needs to be yelled at.

1.  Re: Diminishing Beauty / Sea Hag Forever

Guess what: your looks WILL fade. But this WON’T happen when the clock strikes midnight on the eve of your 30th birthday (it started happening on your 25th birthday, ha).  There’s no point in stressing out about it, because looks DON’T MATTER. I’m not even going to get into the whole “impossible beauty standards created by the media and the patriarchy” or the “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” stuff. I’m just going to keep it simple: when is the last time one of your friends said “you know, I’m so happy you’re in my life, because you’re so hot”? When did your parents last say “we’re so proud of you for being attractive”? When did your boss state “you’re doing a great job, thanks to your amazing bone structure”? People care about how you treat them. They care about how you make them feel. They care about how much joy and fun and intelligence and adventure you bring to the table and into their lives - not about whether you have clear skin. Think about the people you love most, right now. Go on, gather them all in a room in your mind and take a good look at each and every one of them. Why do you love and cherish and respect them? Is it because of how they look? Nope. This is a two way street, pal. Your friends and family - aka the only people that should matter to you - don’t give a damn about what you look like. They will love the crap out of you no matter how much cellulite or how many wrinkles you have. They just will, and deep down you know this. Start reminding yourself of this every day, or at least every time you’re about to have a meltdown about your love handles or double chin.  

That covers the “what other people think” dilemma, but what about what I think of myself? Here’s a script for when you have to defend yourself against your toughest critic: “You have functioning limbs and organs. You can see, smell, hear, taste, and breathe without difficulty or interruption. You can stand up straight and jump and run and you have the memory of being able to do cartwheels. Your teeth are all there and your hands are strong. You have a smile that makes people feel good.” Basically, remembering that you are alive and (for the most part) in one piece can do a lot to bring you back down to earth. If the above speech doesn’t work, try googling “horribly ugly people.” And if THAT doesn’t make you feel better, try thinking about people in other parts of the world who will spend their entire lives in poverty, getting raped and beaten. Then think about how you were just complaining about your eyebrows. Makes you feel like a pretty big asshole, right? Good.

2. Re: No Longer Cool / Might as well start wearing Mom Jeans.

Again, there’s just nothing you can do about this. You WILL become less cool, but it’s because you have a lot of other shit to do instead. Shit like supporting your friends through tough times, or raising your spawn, or working on your own relationships, or learning new things, or dominating at work, or figuring out how to relax and slow down, or improving yourself in numerous ways. Before you were 30, maybe you could spend 95% of your waking hours wondering whether you should hate Lana Del Rey or like the latest Gaspar Noe flick or wear neon this season. But now that you’re older, no dice. And that’s a good thing. Just keep a few younger people in your entourage; they’ll keep you in the what’s-cool loop, and you can focus on saving the world.

3. Re: Is this who/what/where I should be right now? omg??

When I was younger and an idiot, I thought that by the time I turned 30 I would have everything figured out and be this bad-ass shit-together working wife and mother who was also running for Prime Minister. Instead, I’m not married, I have zero babies, and I don’t really know what I want to do with my life. Shit.

Let’s tackle these puppies one at a time.

(a) Marriage: It’s Walt Disney’s fault, when you really think about it. My favourite movie as a child was The Little Mermaid, which taught me that redheads are hot, having a beautiful singing voice is really important, and marrying a man, even at the cost of giving up everything else in your life, is the only way to achieve real and everlasting happiness. Add to this the pressure from friends, family, and society in general, and a girl can end up feeling pretty shitty about not having something she doesn’t even know if she wants yet, if at all.  

Most people I know who are married don’t report being happier or more in love or more fulfilled once they are married. In fact, out of the 9 couples whose weddings I attended this summer (kill me), I would say none of them feel this way. Are they all super happy and excited to be married? Of course! But did it solve all of their life problems and solidify their place in this cruel world? Negative. Do I feel happy and in love and fulfilled right now, without being married? Yes. So eat it, Ariel, you 16-year-old child bride.

(b) Babies: Babies are gross and annoying. They’re also infuriatingly dependant and stupid. But they’re also really cute! And I think I will probably want to make one some day in the distant future, but not yet. I realize that my parents had me when they were 22, and their parents had them when they were 16, and their parents had them when they were 11, and so on. But I’m pretty sure if they were being honest, my parents would admit that they would have loved to wait 10 more years to have me so that they could have done a lot more travelling and drugs in the 80s. I’m also officially over the biological-clock thing starting now. If my ovaries turn to dust before I decide I’m ready to give up my life, I’ll adopt. Angelina looks pretty fucking happy to me.

(c) Life plan: Again, I thought that by age 30 I would either be a high powered lawyer (tried it, hated it), a successful writer (does this count?), or just generally famous and beloved by the world at large. None of those things have happened yet, and somehow the world didn’t end. In fact, when I really think about it, my world has never been better. Every day I get to spend time with the people I love, eat amazing food, drink delicious beer, laugh a ton, and do other assorted joyful things like organizing stuff by colour and telling people what to do.   

Tonight when I go to bed, I won’t be afraid anymore. My 30th birthday came and went, and I still feel like me. Maybe I’ll buy some fancy eye cream though, just in case.     

[clevergirrrl-blog]

It’s Not Me, It’s You

I think it’s safe to say we’ve all been the Ralph Wiggum in this situation:

Lisa: What do you say to a boy to let him know you're not interested?

Homer: Let me handle this, Marge. I've heard them all: "I like you as a friend," "I think we should see other people," "I no speak English"...

Lisa: I get the idea...

Homer: "I'm married to the sea," "I don't want to kill you, but I will"... And if that doesn't work, six simple words: "I'm not gay, but I'll learn."

However the news (along with your heart, soul, and will to live) was broken, you’ve been dumped. This post is for all the single peeps out there who are trying to get over someone and move on with their lives, or at least stop choke-sobbing on the bathroom floor for a while. To be clear: I’m talking about the big ones here, kids. Not the “we stopped texting after two weeks of hooking up” cases. Rather, the “we dated for a long time and I’m seriously contemplating murder-suicide” kind of breakups.

First, a little background on why I consider myself an expert in this field: Back in 2008, I was dumped** for the first time ever at the not-so-tender age of 26. I’d always been the dumpER my entire life, because, obviously. [**Editor’s note: I was actually the one who had to initiate the breakup after several months of being treated like a neglected house plant, because he was too much of a crotch goblin to do it himself.]

Going through a bad breakup for the first time after 9 years of active dating was horrifying. I was like a sad tribute from one of the shitty Districts in the Hunger Games: I had zero previous experience or coping skills to help me survive. I lost weight (not in a good way). I started smoking (Jesus). I had to take sleeping pills to quiet my over-analyzing-everything brain at night. I tortured myself looking at his Facebook wall for months. I avoided people, places, and things that reminded me of him (so, everything). I thought that I would never meet anyone as perfect as he was, or as perfect for me. My confidence went from a 10 to negative 50. I convinced myself that I was ugly / stupid / dumb, and that no one would ever love me again.  

And then I moved to New York.

Since “Move to New York” is pretty much the most annoying advice anyone could ever give (though I highly, highly recommend it), I came up with a list of slightly less obnoxious options. And so, without further delay, may I present:

The Ultimate Guide to Surviving a Breakup Like a Boss

1. No, but seriously, move to New York: Or at least just get the FUCK out of dodge, STAT. Now is the time for a road trip with your best friends or a weekend trip to Vegas or a month long trip to literally anywhere. Pack a suitcase full of condoms and twinkies and run like the wind, my sad friend. You’ve just been stabbed in the heart. This trip is the equivalent of stopping the bleeding. It’s temporary, but completely necessary. When you’re back from your (hopefully slutty) getaway, you can move on to Step 2.

2. Be depressed for a really long time: Sorry, but you can’t skip over this one. Well, that’s not entirely true. You CAN if you are either (a) a robot, or (b) never planning on being in a successful relationship again. Anyone who says “I’m fine” sometime in the 3-months-to-2-year period after a bad breakup is lying. You are not fine. You are devastated. Every day is excruciatingly painful and miserable. This is probably one of the worst things that you will ever experience in your (privileged, first world) life, and experience it you must. Cry in your sweatpants while watching Oprah reruns. Sob into a towel in the shower a la Tobias Fünke. Listen to Bon Iver on repeat. There is a direct correlation between how much you let yourself feel the pain of a breakup and how soon you stop being sad.  

3. Talk that shit out: You’ll probably go through periods where you don’t want to talk about it, and that’s fine. Sometimes it’s because you don’t even know where to begin. Other times it’s because saying it out loud means that it’s real. Or maybe you’re just not a “let’s share our emotions” kind of  guy/gal in general. That’s ok for a while, but at some point you are going to have to verbalize that you feel like a rotting, reanimated corpse roaming aimlessly in a cloud of despair.

A lot of the same reasons set out in Step 2 apply here as well: bottling stuff up = sad party forever. While crying makes you feel momentarily better, talking it out can help you feel better for longer periods of time - sometimes a full hour! The reason is simple: you are not alone. In other words, you’re not the first person who has gone through this, and your friends / family / local bartender will be able to reassure you that things will get better. Of course, at the time, you won’t believe a word of these vicious lies. But the more you open up, the more your friends’ words (“You are amazing! We love you! He sucked at going down on you anyway!”) will fill your head, leaving less and less room for your own miserable thoughts.

4. Sex, Drugs, and Rock ‘n Roll: Except replace “Rock ‘n Roll” with BOOOOOZE! You’re probably going to make a lot of bad decisions when it comes to what I like to call the “Holy Trinity of Breakups”. Do what you need to do, son. Just remember: nothing that involves needles or spoons; no hard alcohol if you’re going out in public (vodka at home with your roommates is obviously acceptable), and use a condom (or four). Real talk though: The Holy Trinity will feel good for a hot minute, but anything beyond that and you’ll feel ten times worse than when you got your sorry ass dumped in the first place.

5. Delete, delete, delete: Repeat after me: I WILL DELETE HIM FROM FACEBOOK. I WILL REMOVE HER NUMBER FROM MY PHONE. I WILL UNFOLLOW ALL OF THEIR FRIENDS ON INSTAGRAM. You are 100% going to ignore this advice for a long, long time. Because you neeeeed to know what they’re up to, right? Wrong. As long as you have your Ex at your fingertips, you will never get over them. This is just science, guys. It will feel like you are being skinned alive when you send a “friendly text” to your Ex and she doesn’t write back. And girl, Facebook is a million times worse. You think you’re going to log on and go to your Ex’s page and it will be filled with pictures of him looking sad and fat, with posts on his wall that say “Man, I can’t believe how sad you are about your breakup, dude!” No. The only pictures will be of him beaming, which you will interpret as him being ten times happier than he ever was with you, which of course means that he was never into you in the first place and no one else will be either. The only posts on his wall will be from girls named Jessica that say something bland and innocent like “Great seeing you last night!”, but which you will interpret as him having had sex with Jessica, who is way hotter than you and they are probably in love and getting married and she’s probably already pregnant (even though, as it turns out, Jessica is his cousin).

It is incredibly hard to stop stalking someone after a breakup, I get it. But I will bet you a million peanut M&Ms that the SECOND you delete them, you will start to get over them that very day. Do it now.

6. Sweet, sweet revenge: Is revenge productive? Definitely not. Is it deliciously fun? Yes! I say go for it if you think it will make you feel better (it absolutely won’t, but you don’t care right now). I generally recommend avoiding physical violence as well as rumour spreading - you’re better than that. Think more along the lines of destroying her favourite possession that she happened to forget at your house (“no, I haven’t seen your silk dress anywhere?”), or sleeping with his best friend.

Real talk Part II: this step only feels good for a short period of time, like MDMA. When it’s over, you’ll feel more terrible than ever because now you’re an asshole, too. The best revenge, of course, is moving on with your life and not caring about your shit waffle of an Ex anymore, but it will take you a long time to get there. Be patient. And try not to get arrested in the meantime.

7. Make a list, check it twice (and then 237 more times): There will be dark moments, even if you’re going through all of the above Steps like a regular breakup hero. This is why you’ll need an emergency kit in the form of The List: a detailed lexicon of all the reasons he/she is a dirt pig. Keep The List in a place you will see every day (taped to your computer / bathroom mirror / bottle of Gin) or carry it around in your man purse for easy access. If you can’t think of anything at all that was bad about your Ex (please), enlist the help of your friends - they’ve hated him for a while now.

8. Old Friends, New Friends, Red Friends, Blue Friends: You need them all. This is not a time for being alone. You can, nay, MUST make plans every single night and ESPECIALLY every weekend. Eventually you will get to a place where you want to be alone again, but for the next 6 months you are going to be Captain Social. Go to the ballet. Host a clambake. Party with your sibling’s friends. Play indoor soccer. Go to a gallery opening. Visit your drunken aunt, whatever. Every. Night. This will help you to remember that there is a world beyond your former relationship - a world where a bunch of awesome and possibly attractive people are hanging out. You might even consider going on a couple of dates during this phase. Tread lightly though - you don’t want to jump into something else right away (see Step 2 again Re: what happens when you skip over the pain), and if you end up going on a bad date, god forbid, this may result in you convincing yourself that OMG THERE IS ACTUALLY NO ONE ELSE OUT THERE FOR ME EVERYONE’S TAKEN I AM GOING TO DIE ALONE. If this happens, take a deep breath and a stiff drink, and say to yourself: “Well, that was horrible. The Lord is testing me, nothing more.” Then go order an extra-large pizza and watch Season 1 of GIRLS.

9. Do all of that stuff you always said you would do: Start a blog (heyo!). Go for a run. Miley your hair. Take a dog grooming class. Find new music. Perfect your kegels. Read Anna Karenina. All of those things you wanted to do, but haven’t done because you spent the last two years on a couch with your Ex watching Boardwalk Empire every night like a couple of burrito-inhaling piles of failure. Now is the time for self-improvement. This will help you rebuild some of your shattered confidence, keep your mind suitably distracted, and transform you into an even cooler person. Soon you’ll be so talented, awesome, and in demand that you won’t even have time to think about what’s-her-face.  

10. Mirror, Mirror on the Wall: Yay! You’re almost human again! The last stage in this 10 Step program is to take a long, hard look at yourself in the mirror. Feel free to take this in the literal sense and allow yourself to actually see how damn attractive you are. But more importantly, you need to look at yourself in the mirror in the figurative, Justin Timberlake-y sense, and try to figure out what happened. This isn’t about trying to find a REASON why you broke up (hint: he/she wasn’t feeling you anymore. This is the reason. Every time.). Nor is it about blaming yourself. In the words of the lovely Dita Von Tease “You can be the ripest, juiciest peach in the world, and he’s still going to be somebody who hates peaches.” It’s about understanding what was going on in your head and in your heart during those final wretched months as you crawled towards the finish line. What kind of person did you become in this relationship? Did you like the way you acted / behaved? How did you treat your Ex? How were you treated, and why did you put up with it? How did you treat your friends and family while you were in that relationship? Did the relationship / your Ex always bring out the best in you, or was it sometimes the worst? Figure out just what it was that made you feel and act the way you did so that you can own it, learn from it, and try not to let it happen again the next time. It’s called GROWING AS A PERSON, you guys. And it feels fantastic.

After my car-accident-level breakup, I suffered through all 10 of these Steps, and I came out alive on the other side. In fact [cue Full House wholesome-moment music], I came out an even more confident, funny, level-headed, and optimistic person than I was before. Plus I looked super hot from all the Not Eating.

I know it hurts the MOST right now. But you WILL find the light again, I promise. And if all else fails, you can always move to New York.

[clevergirrrl-blog]

MMVAs

I recently attended an event that is every 14-year-old’s dream come true, and this 29-year-old’s hell on earth.

I’ll start from the beginning.

I recently joined Twitter. The reason it took me so long to jump on this particular cyber bandwagon isn’t because I’m a technological mongoloid or old and uncool* (*more on this later). It’s because I really don’t need another way to waste my pathetic life away online. Facebook already allows me to stalk friends and enemies alike. Email allows me to intimately communicate with the 3 people I like in this world. This Blog allows me to...something.

Still, because I am a hypocrite, I eventually succumbed to the extreme power of the FOMO (“Fear Of Missing Out”, in case you’re reading this and you’re over 30). I now have a sassy online persona with an ampersand in front of my name. #sigh.

When I first joined, I had no idea what the terrifying-future-world I was doing. I remember mashing the keypad with my palm, screaming commands at the screen, and swearing like a trucker as I tried to decipher these new and foreign symbols. I finally had to beg my friend @Shosh for assistance. Luckily she took pity on me and advised, in her gentle way: “Just follow everyone I follow, you idiot!!” I now follow the likes of The Globe and Mail, Heidi Montag, Pitchfork, 70 random people I’ve never met, and H&M, to list a few winners.

As any new member will attest, Twitter sucks you in hard and fast. By day two, I was already checking my feed every 11 seconds or so. One morning during this early courtship phase, my good friends over at Hennes & Mauritz were announcing a giveaway: “First 4 people to come to H&M at the Eaton Centre @YongeAndDundas win 2 free wristbands to the Much Music Video Awards this Sunday!!” I work one block away from this particular H&M. Still, I thought “meh, I probably wouldn’t make it there first anyway.”   

About 10 minutes later, there were at least 5 new posts from H&M saying that no one had yet to claim the coveted prize. In that moment, all I could think of was my sweet, innocent 14-year-old cousin, whom I affectionately refer to as Rat-Chicken (RC). She would kill to go to this show. I would forever be the Worst Big Cousin Ever if I missed this opportunity out of sheer laziness.

Before I could ask myself “Who IS Selena Gomez?” I was on my bike, furiously dodging cars and potholes along Yonge Street until I reached my destination, panting and sweating in the 30 degree heat.  

“Please...” I panted, red-faced and gasping for air. The two young PR agents looked at me with mixed feelings of disgust and fear as I held out my hands and begged: “Tickets... please....twitter... give them to me...”

“Oh, um......are YOU here for the tickets to the MMVAs?” one of them cheerily giggled at me, implying that this was awkward, since I clearly wasn’t 15.

“Obviously,” was the least insulting reply I could manage.

“O-M-G! You’re the last one to get them! Excitinnnggg! Do you mind if we take a Twitpic of you?” I had no idea what this meant, but consented with the slightest nod of my head as I snatched the bright orange wristbands from their well-manicured claws.

I’ll skip the part where I broke the news to RC over the phone that I was taking her as my guest, for free, to the MMVAs. Needless to say, I’m the #BestBigCousinEver.

Fast forward to Sunday, the day of the show. I should mention that the day before was my best friend’s wedding in London, Ontario. I was one of the bridesmaids, so I started drinking mimosas at 7:30 am and continued until 2:30 am. I then had to wake up early to attend a father’s day brunch, so when I arrived back in Toronto on Sunday evening, just 30 minutes before I had to be at Queen & John, I was hungover and exhausted.

With no time to spare, I rushed through my front door, threw some gum and cash into a purse and hopped into my aunt’s waiting minivan to be driven into the fire. I noted that RC was sporting jeans, a tank top, a hoodie, sneakers, and about 16 bracelets. “She looks so cute and young,” I thought as I gazed adoringly at her en route to the show. I, on the other hand, was wearing a silk black dress. I felt pretty dressed up compared to little RC, but I was going to be attending the after party with my boyfriend, so I wanted to look the part.

As the minivan neared Queen & Spadina, I started to notice signs that, in retrospect, painted a clear and chilling vision of things to come. Girls with “JUSTIN I LOVE YOU!!!” painted across their faces, necks, arms and bee-stings. Boys with baggy pants, pushing each other and laughing. Pink, green, and blue hair extensions everywhere. Homemade signs featuring “musicians” I have never before seen or heard of.

Suddenly, I felt sick. “Am I too....old? to go to the MMVAs?” I took a deep breath. “No, surely not,” I reassured myself. “These are just the kids who are too young to attend - all the older people are definitely inside.”

Spoiler alert: they weren’t.

During my final moments in the safety of the minivan, I quickly glanced at myself in the rear view mirror. For the first time, I noticed the lines on my forehead and around the corners of my mouth. My skin looked pale and cadaverous in comparison to RC’s cherubic complexion. My thighs, mercilessly exposed by my scant hemline, were a flesh-coloured canvas of cottage cheese. My knees were saggy; my hair thin and brittle, and my once sparkling eyes camouflaged in Steve Buscemi bags. And I was en route to a pop concert with humans half my age.

Oh my God, I’m old.

Just as I was about to jerk the wheel of the Dodge Caravan and order my aunt to drive me straight back to my house, RC was pulling me by the hand onto Queen Street, shrieking with excitement and bounding into the underage crowd.

As we waited in line to get into the area in front of the main stage, police officers barked at us to raise our arms high into the air to show our wristbands. When we were finally herded through the gates, the good people @VitaminWater were waiting inside to shove drinks into our hands. “Well, that’s nice,” I thought.  

Here’s how the next 5 hours went down:

6:30 pm: Inside the gates. RC and I are among the first 100 people here, even though our tickets said we HAD to be inside by 6:30 pm. Terrific.

6:35 pm: I look around and realize that there is not a single person in a 300-teenager-radius that is under the age of 16. Everyone but me is wearing jeans, a tank top, a hoodie, sneakers, and 16 bracelets.

6:45 pm: It dawns on me that I will be here for another 4.5 hours, and there’s nowhere to pee, so I better not drink this Vitamin Water. Every other kid has the same thought, and drops their full, open, neon-coloured drink to the ground. Within 10 minutes, at least 11 tweens have spilled on me and my silk dress without remorse. I want to say something, but I am outnumbered and I fear them. Have you ever been in an enclosed space with 750 teenagers? It’s like being the only sheep at a wolf convention, except all the wolves are also drunk, and stupid.

7:15 pm: I’m sweating. So is every other child in this wretched stench pit. It smells like unwashed bodies, used jock straps, #CoolWater, Doritos breath, McDonald’s, Old Spice, and teen spirit.  

7:30 pm: Teens start loudly comparing stories about their weekends. They speak almost exclusively in acronyms, with the words “gay” and “like” thrown in for good measure.

7:45 pm (show still starts at 9): The children are becoming restless. The initial high has worn off, and suddenly all one thousand of them are becoming aware that we still have an hour and a half to go before the show. I understand now that death is near.

8:00 pm: Finally, someone takes pity on us. One of the VJs (Gary Blazer or something) comes out on stage to entertain the crowd. He’s wearing jeans, a white shirt, black tie and suit jacket. My first reaction is “who is this OLD guy!?” before I realize that he’s my age. He claps and sings along like a monkey to song after song, which the good people @MuchMusic have started blaring, presumably to get the audience excited / stop them from destroying downtown Toronto.  

I vaguely recognize the first song that is played thanks to my recent stint in Vegas. “Who is this?”  I whisper to RC. “Duh, LMFAO!” she says. Yes, there is group called “LMFAO”.

The next song is by Ke$ha, according to RC (had to ask again), followed by 7 other songs I’ve never heard before. The young bastards know every word to every song, and I know none. Luckily, almost every song has fewer than 10 words, so I’m able to pick up the lyrics after one chorus. I chant “shots! shots! shots-shots-shots-shots!” with the rest of them. I sing “Never felt-like-felt-like-this before.... oh oh oh oh oh oh oh ohhh-oh!” to fit in, fist pumps and all. For a few songs, I actually start to have fun, feeding off the energy of these hyper little accidents.  

8:30 pm: Not surprisingly, the kids have lost interest in the music. It’s been half an hour, after all. Within seconds, all hell breaks loose.

I spend the next 15 minutes yelling at every teenager I can see. I snatch cigarettes out of mouths, stop Vitamin Waters from being flung into the crowd, break up makeout sessions. I’m shaking with rage. These kids! These dirty, disrespectful kids!

8:45 pm: I start silently weeping out of exhaustion, rage, withdrawal, heat stroke, and the realization that I am no longer young. I begin to negotiate with God to please just make it stop - send me a sign that I will get through this alive.

8:55 pm: A figure appears behind a billowing curtain on stage, with giant shoulder pads and a cropped wig. A hush falls over the crowd, followed by audible gasps and finally chanting, quiet at first, then so loud I have to turn my hearing aid down:

“GaGA! GaGA! GaGA!”

For the first time in the past 3 hours, I don’t feel old or out of place. I scream-sing along with the rest of the crowd. I arealize that I’m only 4 rows from the stage, so close I can almost touch Gaga’s 6-inch platforms. Suddenly I’m 15 again, screaming with tears streaming down my face, jumping up and down yelling my favourite singer’s name until my voice is hoarse.

I’ll skip the part about how none of the other performances compared to Gaga’s, how I lost hearing in my left ear when Justin Bieber made a surprise appearance, and how the after party was full of overly made up try-hards. When RC got home at the end of the night, she texted me: “U R the Best Big Cousin Ever! I had soooooo much fun! I love you!” (#heartmelt) Maybe some kids aren’t so bad after all.

[clevergirrrl-blog]

Brideslaves

One of the many gifts that the Universe bestows upon you during your 30s - besides arm cellulite and difficulty walking up stairs - is the invitation to dive into dream-crushing debt by celebrating your friends’ love. Congratulations! You’ve been selected to be a Bridesmaid. You can either say yes and drop a couple Gs for this honour, or decline and the only cost will be your friendship. Your choice!

These are your Brideslave years, ladies. Cancel all your weekend plans for the next decade, cuz you won’t be doing anything besides wearing charmeuse and clutching bouquets of baby’s breath for a long, long time. Here’s a look into some of the fun that’s in store for you and your new line of credit:

The Engagement Party

Back in the day, the engagement party was hosted by the wifey-to-be’s father in order to announce the upcoming sale of his most beloved chattel. One might expect that with the introduction of using electricity to transmit messages, such soirees would have been rendered meaningless by now. Au contraire! Why shouldn’t there be a celebration to celebrate the Bride and Groom’s upcoming celebration? As part of the bridal party, your well-groomed attendance is of course mandatory. Bye bye, Saturday night! Don’t forget your $62 gift bottle of Moet.

The Shower

Who wants to spend a gorgeous Sunday afternoon drinking tall cans at the cottage when they could be politely sipping chamomile tea in a church basement? If your idea of a good time includes eating miniature cucumber sandwiches and playing games where you win points by correctly guessing the Bride’s first pet’s name, then you are in for a treat, my friend. Kindly place your $75 hand towels on the gift table and gush adoringly while the Bride tears open envelopes full of cash for the next 5 or 6 hours.  

The Bachelorette

Bust out your curling wands and sequined hooker dresses! It’s time to prove to the Bride how much you love her by spending your life’s savings in Vegas or Miami. What do you mean you don’t think you can afford it? If you didn’t want to spend a weekend doing shots of Hypnotique and getting hit on by balding 45-year-olds while dancing to house music in your bikini all day, why would you have said yes to being a Bridesmaid in the first place?

The Dress

The Bride may normally dresses better than Sienna Miller, but don’t expect her good taste to apply to the selection of your dress. A long sleeved, ball-gown length taffeta number in the middle of August? Yes, because that’s the only style that comes in Dove Grey, the Bride’s new favourite colour. Never mind the fact that strapless styles give you back-fat: this isn’t about YOUR back-fat, sister. This is about the Bride wanting to be surrounded by a human wall of colour that makes her eyes pop. The Bride is also sorry that you had to spend $85 in alterations on top of your $450 dress and $150 shoes, but maybe you should have thought about that before you decided to have big boobs on HER wedding day.

The Hair and Makeup

True, you’ve been doing your own hair and makeup since the Olsen Twins were in diapers, but you can’t be trusted on this, the most special and magical day of the Bride’s life. Best to let a “salon” from small-town Ontario give you the updo of your 14-year-old self’s dreams. The Bride would also like your lips to match your pale pink nails, please and thank you very much. That’ll be $300.

The Accommodation

The happy couple have decided to get married in the middle of the Baltic Sea, because fuck you. The Bride already took time out of her busy schedule to do a little research, and Air Canada is having a seat sale right now, you guys! Don’t worry about where you’ll stay - the Bride already looked into it and there are two different 5-star resorts to choose from. Oh, and if your $200 gift is too heavy to bring on the plane, you can just leave it in Toronto and deliver it to the B&G when you get back - they don’t mind.

The Aftermath

Now that you have no money left to travel, go out on weekends, or do anything at all besides eating cereal alone in your new basement apartment, you’ll have plenty of time to plot your revenge. Start by getting engaged to literally anyone and picking a wedding date that falls on a long weekend when all of your future Bridesmaids will be hugely pregnant.

[clevergirrrl-blog]

Summer Solstice

Guess what? It’s almost summer! SUMMER!!!!!!

I say “almost” because everyone knows that summer doesn’t officially start until the Summer Solstice on June 21st, aka the day when the earth’s axial tilt is most inclined towards the sun at its maximum of 23° 26’ (obv). All Hail Axial Tilt!

Ignore the fact that in other parts of the world it’s already been summer for months, or is summer all year round. Who needs those places! Not us Canadians, no sir. No, we are a people who relish our four weeks of partial sunshine and moderate warmth a year, thank you very much.

Wait.

The reason I mention the Solstice (or “Soulstice”, as it also represents the day my shivering soul awakens after spending 10 frigid months whithering away) is that this is, in my mind, Summer’s LAST CHUGGIN’ CHANCE. With the almost daily JUNE showers (of lies!) , the only thing that stops me from killing all living things is the promise that the Solstice will not, CAN NOT let me down!

At the crack of dawn on June 21st, if it does not immediately hit a menopausal hot and dry 29 degrees with a slight tropical breeze, no clouds, and perfect sunshine everywhere, I WILL seek vengeance upon Mother Nature, God, Al Gore, Santa, and anyone else I hold even partially responsible for this temperature terrorism.

Let’s be real though, for a second. The true reason I haven’t snapped yet has nothing to do with the Solstice and its promise of hot and balmy excitement for all (axial tilt be damned!). It has everything to do with the fact that I don’t get a summer this year. I secretly want the weather to continue along its dream-crushing path so that no one else can have fun, either.  

What’s this about me not getting a summer, you ask? Summer 2011 has been kidnapped, probably molested, and locked away in some dark, dismal dungeon by its arch nemesis: Not-Summer 2011 (alias “Weddings Forever”).

Yes, it’s wedding season. And why WOULDN’T all of my friends decide to (a) get married in 2011, and (b) do it exclusively during the 3 remotely tolerable months of the year in Ontario?

I have - wait for it - 9 weddings this summer. This is not ok. I actually had to turn down 3 others on top of the 9 because one had a scheduling conflict, one was in the Cayman Islands (the wha?) and the other was in Spain (why can’t I go to only that one?), and I don’t have enough vacation days (money) to haul ass outside of the Americas.

How did I find myself in this matrimonial mess? I imagine it’s some combination of the following:

1. So popular. Have too many friends.

2. Have boyfriend. Boyfriend has too many friends.

3. Am 29, meaning all friends are 26 - 33, meaning IT’S TIME TO GET MARRIED!

4. Universe punishing me for making a mockery of the Holy Union of Marriage by getting hitched to a random hobo in Vegas (we got it annulled like 30 minutes later!).

Before the 18 people who read this blog (aka the 9 couples who are getting married this summer - hi, guys!) hit “send” on the angry text that they’ve started furiously typing to me, let me clarify a few things. I like weddings. In fact, if it’s a friend of mine getting married, and not my uncle Gary’s second cousin Wendy (or anyone I work with), I actually REALLY like weddings. Guys in suits! Delicious food! CAAAAAKKKE! Drunk old people! Slutty dance floor grinding! Shots of homemade whisky! Everlasting love!

What I don’t like is having 9 weddings in one already-too-short summer. It’s like finding out you’re going on 7 vacations (yah!) with your family (no!).

Basically, as joyous, lovely, and moving as a good matrimonying can be, there’s just something about it that screams “I’m not going to be as fun as the beach or that outdoor concert the rest of your friends are going to.”

So fine, Solstice. See if I care if you forget about Toronto this year. You’re dead to me anyway.