Dear Omniscient Cloud Oracle:
This may be the Facebook Oracle who affects my future
You’ve always been there, anticipating my secret thoughts, then poking those sensitive, insecure spots. Like a comfortable, yet emotionally abusive boyfriend. I want out and yet I love you because no one else will ever know me like you do.
I’ll never forget when I first had my babies and went on a posting rampage, sharing those typical first-time moments: first smile, tummy time, first bath. And in response, you started sending me weight loss ads. Only you knew I still had 30lbs to go before my post-baby body would be fuckable again and your daily reminders really helped. So. So much.
It seems like just yesterday you once again portended my body image issues with advertisements for facial rejuvenation services and breast augmentation. I used to get these in my inbox at least once a week and wonder as I scrutinized my pores and floppy tits: “Did someone complain? How else would you know?”
If I think really hard, I can remember a time when I may have searched “Single mother’s housing options + Vancouver” and “How to survive on one income” during a big fight with my husband. But it was hard to hide my feelings of restless and resentment when both my Facebook page and my inbox were flooded with ads for divorce lawyers. You may be disappointed to know my husband and I worked everything out – and without cashing in your coupons for Tinder and Ashley Maddison, but thanks for those thoughtful suggestions.
Today you sent me this ad.
I don’t know how to interpret this and it actually fucked me up a little because I just got through a mid-life crisis and shit like this actually makes me regress a little. I’m hoping you’ll read this blog or sense the intention behind it and consider sending me alternative ads for rock concerts or experimental theatre shows. Or better yet, a coupon offering a heavily discounted membership for a wine club. Just a suggestion.
What lovely little tidbits is the Facebook Oracle sending you? Let me know.
And also subscribe and/or share because it will greatly improve my sense of self-worth and general well being. Thank you.
I haven’t written any posts since I’ve been back from Amsterdam because, really, who wants to hear from a happy person? I mean you’ve all been very supportive since I started writing about my midlife crisis and I’m sure you’re glad I finally pulled myself out of that rut. But one thing you may not know and may not be at all prepared for is that when I’m happy, I tend to get a bit born again-y about whatever it is I think may be responsible for my cheerfulness.
And then I annoy people. Which makes them grow distance-y, which is sad but also great because then I can write funny stuff about feeling alienated.
Nothing has the power to bring me crashing back to earth faster than pissing my pants in public.
I was feeling pretty good on the day I stood in line at the bank to get some forms signed. Pretty good until I started coughing at the exact moment the line moved and I stepped forward.
It wasn’t a soaker, but there was definitely a gush and since I had no idea how I looked from the back, I bolted from the line and sped walked home. Feeling like a moron. A middle-aged moron with a floppy, stretched out bladder.
Why oh why did I push for natural childbirth? It wasn’t so great and now I piss my pants. Is this one of those fucked up punishments for being a woman because a million years ago some ignorant chick ate an apple? You have to admit, that particular decision-maker is one messed up dude.
A weak bladder hardly seems a fair punishment
“It’s because you have a weak core,” Alice informed me when I called looking for sympathy.
“You’ve got to do something. Get a ben wa ball or do some kegels. Because no one loves a grown woman who smells like piss.” (more…)
You haven’t heard from me for a couple weeks. This is because I’ve been lost in a morass of self-doubt and fear. I think I was waiting to find a funny angle before I could write it out, but no matter how I tell it, there just isn’t any humour there. The timing couldn’t have been worse because after my last blog, my loving and patient husband laid down the law: “Every time you write about me, you make me seem like such an asshole. Really? You don’t have anything else to say?”
I realized that I didn’t actually. And this was enough to create a huge writers block.
Desperate to pull myself out and keep my blogging momentum going, I tested out humorous versions of this story with Alice, who berated me for trying way too hard.
“Why not just do something to change your focus. Do something that makes you feel good.”
She convinced me to join her at the Synagogue.
“But, Alice, we’re not even Jewish.”
When we got there, Alice insisted we sit in the first row.
“Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”
A few minutes later a shortish man with just the hint of a receding hairline walked out and stood at the front of the room. His head was lowered and his demeanor, meditative. “Oh shit,” I thought. “A fucking religious self-help talk.”
Now I get the attraction to organized religion
But then the man raised his head and began to chant. I couldn’t understand the words, but in a moment it was clear why Alice brought me. She always has the best ideas.
The man’s voice was deep and completely filled the room. When he hit the low notes, the resonance of his voice hit me right in the clit. I looked over at Alice. She had her eyes closed and a little smile. I then glanced around me and noticed that the first three rows were entirely filled with women.
“So this is why people get into organized religion…” My last thoughts before I allowed the sensation to overtake me.
Today, I feel much better.
In a much better mood today
This morning I talked to my husband about converting to Judaism, but that’s another blog post.
So. You may remember that I quit my shitty job. Well, you’ll be happy to know that through my amazing powers of manifestation, I managed to land two great contracts. I’m feeling all like I’ve totally mastered the “Power of Now,” because I can see that I’ve made a brave choice, processed all the lessons I needed to learn at that place and have now moved on to a better position as a more evolved person.
Ta Da, MotherFuckers!
But then it turns out I actually have a whole new set of personal challenges and limitations, which will create all kinds of unhappy shit in my life until I figure that stuff out. I have no idea where this originated, but whenever someone yells at me or uses some I can’t believe I thought you could be trusted, voice, I completely crumble. I forget that there were well thought out and reasonable, even smart reasons why I made the decisions I did. Instead of just pushing back and saying all that good stuff, I get apologetic and start flapping around trying to please everyone and of course, pleasing no one.
I know this is unacceptable, but before I take any real action, I must first complete my ritual of self-flagellation. Which I’m in the middle of doing when I get a call from my husband.
Now before I continue with this story, I must tell you that because I’ve been making my mid-life crisis look so fun, my husband has decided to have one of his own. He quit his job and has also rejected all oppressive tasks that just keep him trapped in old ways of thinking, like cooking and cleaning.
I would be completely fine with this if he used his time wisely by getting really very good at sex. But no, my husband has decided to fully dedicate himself to our children’ s competitive swimming careers and also to doing all the fun, cool stuff I used to do with them – back in the day when I had time and energy.
Do I sound selfish and bitter? I know. It’s one of my many faults. I don’t get a total monopoly on irresponsible behaviour. I know this mentally, but inside I can feel something beginning to bubble.
So today, after a week of harsh lessons, my husband calls me from the car. I can hear the kids fighting in the background. Someone is screaming.
“You’ve got to get home now! The kids are starving and even though I’ve asked Naomi to stop using her high pitched, screechy voice in the car, she won’t stop and I’m sick and tired of being….”
I just hung up the phone. I turned it off. I then crossed the street and settled myself into a seat at the nearest patio bar and ordered a double gin and soda. I pulled out my journal to sort out my thoughts. Since I couldn’t, I called Alice.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” I wept into the phone.
“I’m going to text you a number. Call it and tell her that I sent you. You CAN NOT tell anyone about this. But she’ll help you out. Just call her.”
So I called. “Tell me what the problem is,” the voice said over the phone. I could hear a child talking in the background. I told her everything. She asked several probing questions and then told me, “You want to know how to improve your current situation so you can have more time for your family and be more patient with your husband.” Yes. Yes. That’s pretty much what I want right now. She grew silent for a while. I could tell she was walking. Once I heard the sound of a door closing, she explained:
“Ok the way I work is like this: Tonight when I’m mastrubating, I’ll weave your wish into my fantasy. I can’t tell you exactly what this will look like, but the more detailed and exciting, the better the results. Then at the moment when I cum, an answer will come into my head. I’ll call you with it tomorrow.”
“How much do you charge?” I asked without thinking.
“Jesus! Nothing. I’m not a whore.” And she hung up the phone.
Yaletown has a sexual psychic. You’d never guess to look at the shimmery high rises, manicured dog parks and abundance of sports wear worn as normal clothing – that somewhere behind one of those windows a woman is solving my life’s problems armed only with a vibrator and some great imagination. Somehow it makes me feel comforted – even connected to another, more ancient time.
I got her call early the next morning. “When you find ways to say No, your life will open up. You must find your voice for the right situation and everything will fall into place.” She hung up.
“She’s always right,” Alice tells me when I relay the experience. “She’s got a real gift.”
I wonder if this gift is just isolated to her or if it’s something every woman can access if so dedicated to learning this craft. None the less. I’m thinking of suggesting a gift certificate for our next school silent auction. I think it would make a killing.
How are your truths revealed to you? Don’t be ashamed if it’s all perverted, illegal or just weird. It’s obviously all, all good.
My kids are six and eight years old. I am aware that this is considered the “sweet spot” in the whole parenting journey. This is the time when they’re independent, but still love to cuddle and hang out with me. Now they’re getting into cool stuff, have interesting conversations, while still believing all my lies – we can just enjoy each other’s company.
I know this and yet, I continuously choose to be overly concerned by how they’ve only eaten half the pizza on their plates, leaving the crust and all the actually nutritious bits – rather than adding my two cents to the debate over which is cooler: Nerf water guns or the rocket launcher looking ones from the dollar store.
Why do I care so much if my kid goes to every single one of his soccer practices (“Do you have any idea how much those classes cost?) Or if they’re late for Kindergarten? Really who gives a shit??? And yet, I continuously choose to make this the focus of my attention – over just enjoying their crazy and wonderful little minds.
The problem stems from my brain getting fucked whenever I try to be too responsible. The pressure to helicopter parent is turning me into someone I don’t like and that asshole is raising my children. I know this, but my awareness is so delayed, I only realize my missed opportunity after I’ve done it all wrong.
I am ready to admit that the only way to prevent myself from turning into a tight-assed, lame parent, lies in the responsible usage of marijuana. I have a legal prescription for medical-grade pot to address my anxiety and insomnia. But I find it even more effective as a parenting tool.
For those of you who are judging me or who are reaching for your phones to dial Social Services – consider this: what would it take for you to get on the floor with your six year old son to play dinosaurs versus lego ninjas – and actually really enjoy yourself? The answer for me is two long hits on a vaporizer.
“Mom? Is Jar Jar Binks bad?”
“Well,” I answer thoughtfully. Because now I’m his intellectual equal.
“He’s good in that he’s supposed to be a Jedi Master, but he’s bad because he sucks and his stupid character ruined the entire movie.”
We spend the rest of the evening lying on the floor philosophizing about Jedi powers and the proper and effective usage of them, while dinner dishes go unwashed and wet laundry moulders in the machine. It is also hands down my favourite night in recent memory.
These days, I’m experimenting with a new medicine. Its ingredients include: one thinly rolled joint, two cups of epson salts, some relaxing music, a copy of Vanity Fair and a hot tub of bathwater.
Last night, I barely wait for both kids to get into bed before I indulge. A feeling of deep relaxation and bliss begins to wash over my tired muscles and over-taxed brain when I feel someone in the room staring at me. Felix is standing just out of reach. Normally, I would start hollering threats. “Get to bed now or I’ll….(fill in the blank).” But he’s aware that the effects of my medicine have kicked in. He knows nothing he does will pull me out of the tub, so he sits on the toilet and asks,
“Mom, where does inspiration come from?”
In my current state (hell, in any state) I am powerless to ignore this line of questioning. So we start to talk. Suddenly it’s 11:30pm on a school night and I realize that little fucker has totally played me.
Normally I would be mad, but I’m pleasantly medicated and so I decide just to enjoy. And anyhow it’s my husband’s turn to get the kids ready for school the next day.
What’s working for you right now??