The Best Kept Secret Blog - We Need To Go Out More

She was trying to up sell me. All I wanted was the lipstick but she kept pushing the shimmer powder. "She" was the sales representative at the NARS cosmetic counter at The Bay.

"You can put some on the corner of your eyes to give you that wide awake look. Or, for a special night out, sweep some on your decolletage."

"I don't go out," I replied.

She laughed. She was 22.

"You must sometime!"

I thought hard.

Hmmm... well, there was that recent parent - teacher interview. But then, everyone involved was a little more concerned with math than they were with my decolletage.

"No, not really."

As I pondered my reply, the sad, sad truth of it struck me. I'm a middle-aged married woman and my social life revolves around book club meetings or, on a particularly good month, drinks with the neighbours.

"We need to go out more," I announced to my husband that night.

"Why?" he asked cautiously. Like it was some sort of trick question along the lines of "Does this make me look fat?"

Why indeed. We both work hard. Life is busy enough. An evening in with a glass of wine and a good movie seems pretty darn good after a long week.

But I must admit that when I look at friends who are back on "the scene" following separation and divorce, I do feel a pang of envy.

There goes one taking a new LavaLife "friend" to a concert. There goes another for a ski weekend in Banff. When it's not their week to have the kids, they manage to get in movies, dinners and lectures at the ROM.

But it's more than that. I used to go out. I would get dressed up, go to a clubs or have dinners with friends. But the comfortable rut of middle-age marriage had slowly put an end to all of that. And as I thought about it now, not going out was just another way of letting myself go.

Just when I was beginning to get so low about my lack of social life that my husband's company Christmas party was starting to look good, said husband announced that he had invited another couple to dinner. A business acquaintance and his wife.

In my depressed social state, it sounded good.

The day of the dinner passed quickly in a flurry of house cleaning and food prep. Now it was time to get ready.

First, what to wear. My wardrobe was weighted heavily in jeans and sweaters at one end - the kind of garb I wear to walk the dog and take out the garbage - and, at the other end, two business suits circa 1986, shoulder pads and all, a little black dress and my stand-by dress in case someone dies and I have to attend a funeral.

I threw on my "good" jeans and a sweater and made my way to the bathroom mirror. Time for some makeup.

I figured I had things aced in the makeup department. Having recently purchased some new, mineral-based powder foundation I was ready to project a healthy glow. Unfortunately, the powder had a way of finding and falling into every wrinkle going. The finished result was something reminiscent of the Gobi desert.

On to the ambiance. I did a little better in this department - how hard can lighting a few candles be, after all? With just two minutes to go until the guests were due to arrive, my husband offered to put out some nuts until the appetizer was ready.

"Are you crazy?" I asked. "The dog will eat them!"

I felt I had things, more or less, under control when the doorbell rang. We received our guests, got them settled before the fire with a nice glass of Merlot and were getting on swimmingly when I remembered the hors d'oeuvre. The smoke alarm was just starting to beep as I entered the kitchen. Thirty-two canapes dumped in the backyard snow. How popular we would be with the raccoons that night!

The evening unfolded on more or less a fun note. But as we bid our guests goodnight and turned to the mountain of dishes in the kitchen, I turned to my husband and said, "We need to go out more."

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Help Me Marie Osmond, I Dance Like A Guy

I wish I was more like Marie Osmond.

This past year the spunky 48 year old has had more than her fair share of mid-life trauma. She's dealt with divorce, the death of her father and two teenage daughters who keep posting trashy talk on their MySpace page.

But all of this pales to what she's up to now. Marie is putting herself out there and Dancing With The Stars. Marie is doing it "for all the women over 45".

If only I could dance like Marie. But fate, in it's cruel and arbitrary way, has seen fit to make me dance like a guy.

Yes, to see me on a dance floor is to be reminded of an awkward seventeen year old at his prom, anxiously waiting for the D.J. to play Stairway To Heaven so he can at least lean on his date and not look so awkward attempting to do The Hustle.

I'm embarrassed to say I didn't know I had a problem for quite some time. Oh sure, I should have known something was amiss way back when I was a teen. Grooving to the beat at an end of the year bash, my partner commented that he had never seen moves like mine before. I just thought he was coming on to me.

I curbed my enthusiasm somewhat when my husband, (who, by the way, could give Fred Astaire a run for his money) suggested I might not want to flail my arms about so much. While it did result in less dance floor injuries, his comment sewed the seeds of doubt. Maybe I wasn't that good after all.

By the time I reached 40, I knew I really stunk. By now we were only dancing at company Christmas parties and, being conscious of helping my husband impress the big boss who might happen to glance our way, I kept my big, arm flailing gestures in check.

Which left me with a dance floor repertoire of two moves- shuffle to the right, shuffle to the left. That's when it hit me - oh sugar, I dance like a guy!

I tried to do something about it. I suggested we take dance lessons. Five sessions and two hundred bucks later I was no better off. But my husband did enjoy the way our instructor, Tiffany, flirted with him all night.

With the Christmas party season soon upon us, I'm beginning to feel a little panicky again. Another party, another opportunity to underwhelm on the dance floor.

So I'm looking to you, Marie, role model for 40 somethings everywhere. Where once you taught me how to be the girl next door, now I'm looking to you to show me how to dance like a star.

You can see more of Marie in her video, Dancing With The Starved.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Friends Of Divorced People

I don't know how to talk to divorced people.

Exhibit A. Conversing with a friend on Facebook the other night, I casually asked if she knew how her ex is doing. He's had health problems for years and I was curious how things were going. Her response was swift and curt. That chapter in her life is complete and revisiting it in any way, shape or form will only set her back.

I'd obviously touched a nerve and quickly backed off.

Exhibit B. When H. came to dinner last week, she grumbled about how tough the dating scene can be for a 40-something woman. Perhaps it was the Merlot talking but when I (tactlessly) pointed out that this is part and parcel of what comes with mid-life divorce, she snapped back and in no uncertain terms let me know that a little more support and a little less criticism would be appreciated.

It’s tough being the friend of a divorced person.

Unlike a marriage where couples start out more or less on the same footing, the rules of engagement for divorced couples are all over the map. Some remain best of friends, some negotiate a working truce and some hate each other’s guts.

Friends are left to figure out the nuances of each situation and handle themselves accordingly.

When my friends R. and H. announced they were separating, I was shocked, saddened and, well, annoyed. What about me, I wanted to know. My husband and I had known R. and H. for over two decades. They were our back-up New Year's Eve dates. Our "we need help moving furniture" and Friday night " let's just order pizza" buddies. What would things be like now? Would we have to choose one partner over the other? And who would I drink wine with when the guys were watching hockey?

If you do manage to stay friends with both parties, things can get really complicated. My friend A. complained recently about divorced friends whom she and her husband have maintained relationships with. "It works fine, for the most part. But sometimes I feel like I'm in the audience at a high stakes game of He Said - She Said. We just try to listen and not take sides."

Perhaps the hardest thing to deal with is when our friends move on. H. certainly has done that. She's working out, making new friends and taking on new adventures. I wouldn't choose to trade places with her but I must admit that sometimes I'm a tad curious (dare I say envious?) of her new lease on life. I know it comes with a huge cost but I do get a vicarious pleasure listening to her tales.

When we're young, our lives, more or less, follow parallel paths. Jobs, marriage, house, kids - it's all stuff that can be counted on. But when we stay married and our friends divorce, their path takes a sharp turn and it's that much harder to stay connected to them. I haven't quite figured out the best way to stay connected but I do know one thing that might work - talk less and listen more.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - (Apparently) I Know Nothing

This evening I got a lecture on how to load the dishwasher.

No, the Maytag repairman was not here. My pre-teen daughter was the orator. Suddenly, she thinks she knows everything and, in the immortal words of Schultz from Hogan's Heroes, I know nothing.

It was bad enough when we lost our figures, our eyesight and our memories. Now it seems we are losing our minds.

Oh, I had heard about the "eye-rolling" stage from friends who were just a little higher up the parenting ladder. And to her credit, I haven't gotten much in the way of unadulterated disgust.

But we do seem to be in the "parent's are so simple" stage.

Sometimes I wonder if it's partly my fault. She learned how to work the stereo when she was five. (We had to show her. How many times can a grown woman start a Rafi CD without losing her mind?)

The next logical step was programming the VCR and when we got the PVR, I just relinquished all control to her.

So now, on the rare occasion I get to hold the clicker and have trouble finding the Mute button, she thinks I'm really stupid. (She just doesn't understand that I can't focus on things close up anymore. I simply can't see the Mute button - or any button for that matter.)

In some ways I wish she was more insolent - that way I could fight back.

But she's not being mean as much as tolerant. It's like her father and I are the poor innocents and she, in her benevolent way, will bestow her ultimate wisdom upon us.

You should have heard her laugh at me the other day when she posed the question, "Why do we have seasons?" It was a trick question. She knew the answer but everyone in her class had been told to ask their parents to see if they knew.

Well, I misunderstood the question. I took it in an existentialist/evolutionary kind of way and answered in kind. She just thought it was wildly funny that I didn't give the correct, scientific response. (If any parent from Ms. Gatt's class is reading this, it has to do with the earth's axis. Here's to solidarity sisters!)

By all counts, I reckon this stage will last until she's a parent - roughly 10 to 20 years from now. In the meantime, I fear that I will be so worn down by her constant belittling that I will become the doddering fool she sees me to be.

I think my only defence is to play along and let her think that she really does know more than I do. Next week I'm going to suddenly go blank on how to load the washing machine and work the vacuum cleaner. I'm hoping that in her benevolence, she will show me how. Every Monday and Friday.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Step Away From The Lipstick Ma'am

My on-again/off-again relationship with make-up can be traced to the time I bought the contraband baby blue eye shadow when I was 13 years-old. Strictly prohibited from wearing make-up, I'd apply it on my walk to school and wipe it off before getting home.

Things cranked up a notch during the 1970s when I discovered Merle Norman and the joys of jewel tones. All I can say is thank goodness for my fresh faced youth that allowed me to look merely clownish and not like a female impersonator in full drag.

My 20s and early 30s passed in a blur of Clinique free giveaways and a different tube of lipstick to match every outfit I owned, until things came to a crashing halt during my mid-30s when my daughter was born. Why someone needed a pop of blush for changing a pop of poo was beyond me. And so I entered my au naturale phase.

But with the kids getting older I find I'm moving out into the world again. It's time to up the style quotient and once again I find myself hitting the bottle. The foundation bottle, that is.

Looking for a fresh start I recently had a little outing to the mall, looking to buy some new makeup.

If you find yourself embarking on a similar quest, the only thing I can say is "Dorothy, we aren't in Kansas anymore".

The tried and true names of our youth might still be around but there has been an explosion of new lines and products like you wouldn't believe.

Take foundation. In addition to the old fashion liquid formulation, foundation now comes in a powder, stick, compact, solid to powder or mineral infused format.

I have no advice whatsoever on how to navigate the makeup counter. Personally, I got myself jazzed up on a latte, pretended to care when the 20 year old salesgirl told me the blush I was buying was infused with seaweed extract, slapped down my credit card and prayed my husband wouldn't open the Visa bill that month.

I got myself out of there as fast as I could lest I suffer the fate of the customer at the next counter who had been talked into an in-store makeover. (What fun to be perched on a high stool in the middle of the cosmetics aisle, sporting winter coat and boots and wearing makeup on half your face so you can see the dramatic before and after results. All the while being stared at by curious shoppers as they wander past.)

Home at last, I dumped my haul on the bathroom counter and began a little primping.

First the foundation. Having opted for the mineral powder, I dipped my brush in the little pot and swirled some on my face. Dip and swirl, dip and swirl. I paused to admire the results. But instead of glowing and dewy I saw chalky and wrinkly. The lines around my eyes served as a perfect receptacle for the powder. There it lay, creased in my crows feet and accentuating them like never before.

Hmmm... I thought it best to move on to the blush. But the colour that had seemed so fresh under the fluorescent lights now seemed reminiscent of the safety vest our school crossing guard wears.

As for eye shadow, instead of making me look rested and alert, it made me look tired and creepy. And, for that matter, crepey. My eyelids had the texture of an alligator purse.

Things were going from bad to worse. I was hoping that at any moment the make-up police would crash through the bathroom door yelling, "Put down the lipstick, ma'am. Step away from the applicator" and save me from my folly.

At the end of the day I owned $100 worth of new makeup and looked worse than when I started.

Now I know some of you will say I just need to learn how to apply it, or find the right product. You may be right but I think this is definitely a case of less is more.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - The Woman Who Cut Her Husband's Head Off – And Other Urban Myths of the Perimenopausal Woman

I heard it over 30 years ago so I might be getting some of the finer points wrong but I think it goes something like this.

A husband comes home after a long day at work and finds his dinner on the table. He takes a bite or two then pushes his plate away, complaining to his wife that it's not to his liking.

The wife leaves the dining room, goes to the kitchen and returns with a large knife. She proceeds to cut her husband's head off.

Neighbours, alerted by the raucous, call the police who cart the wife away. Her only defence? "I'm in menopause and he bugged the heck out of me."

Did this incident really take place? I do not know.

Did I make this story up? Nope.

I overheard it one night listening to my mom talking to one of her friends on the phone. Mom was 50 at the time and like women before and since, they were trying to make sense of their world and the changes happening to their bodies by swapping stories with each other.

My mom had first heard the story from our grocer's wife. And I'm sure there was some small comfort in knowing that no matter how moody she got, at least she wasn't cutting Dad's head off. You go mom.

The story ranks up there with some of the great urban myths of our time.

You've heard them. Like the alligator that swam through the sewer system and showed up in someones toilet. Or the immigrant family who planted a vegetable garden in the living room of their apartment. They ate well until the weight from the soil and constant watering made the floor cave in on the apartment below.

This one happens to be about women and menopause and their very wicked mood swings. But it gets me thinking about the other myths and falsehoods we hold about midlife women. Some examples?

Midlife Women Are Boring
I think this one was started by some 30-something tart with an axe to grind. You know this isn't true. In fact, we're finally starting to get interesting.

Midlife Women Are Invisible
This one is partly true. You don't typically see us gracing magazine covers, starring in sit-coms or participating in extreme sporting events. We're too smart for that. We're holed up inside somewhere, laughing our heads off over a good bottle of wine with friends. As one colleague puts it, "The 40s are fabulous and those 50 year old's? They're having a hoot!"

Midlife Women Don't Enjoy Sex
I won't even comment on that one.

The list goes on and I'm sure you could come up with a story or two of your own. But suffice it to say that life is indeed good in the middle years, despite what you may hear.

Now, if you'll excuse me I have to finish cooking my husband his dinner. I'm trying a new recipe and he had better like it.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Is That A Hot Flash You're Having Or Are You Just Glad To See Me?

We need a film.

Like the one we had in Grade 4 that talked about our eggs' marvelous journey. Only ours would be more like our bodies descent into hell.

See, me and my friends are embarking on the wondrous journey known as perimenopause and we're all as confused as heck.

Now we're an educated bunch with more than enough inquiring minds to go around. Our conscientious Oprah habit has prepared us to be on the lookout for signs that The Change is afoot. But when things start to happen, we don't know if it's live, or if it's meno-rex.

Take B. When she missed her period for three consecutive months, she was positive that she was going through menopause. The weight gain that accompanied things just confirmed in her mind that her body was moving into a new stage. Six months later she was the proud mother of a lovely baby girl.

Then there's N. who wakes up most nights sweating and can't figure out if it's caused by a hot flash or all the red wine she drank earlier in the evening.

R. blames perimenopause whenever she gets into a fight with her husband. She knows it's not the reason but she's found it gives her an edge in any disagreement. She's currently trying to figure out how she can get away with blaming her moods on perimenopause when she's 60.

We feel like adolescents all over again, with hormones all over the map. Only when things settle down this time, instead of curvy new bodies and hope for the future, we get protruding stomachs, sagging breasts and a strong dose of cynicism.

I suppose information will come much as it did the first time around - through our friends. I learned more about the facts of life walking home from school with my best friend L. than any health teacher could impart. I am proud to say that at a recent get together with friends, many of whom have gone there before, I learned five ways to disguise a hot flash. (Tip: Tell curious friends and colleagues that the wet brow is caused by a fabulous new time released moisturizer, only available from Sephora.)

I know that one way or another my friends and I will get through this but I still haven't given up on the idea of a film - THE film, THE MOTHER OF ALL FILMS. I don't know all the particulars of what it would include but I do know the image of the pleasant doctor outfitted in her pristine white lab coat would be replaced by the slightly cynical 50-something wearing a leopard print skirt, tossing back a martini and welcoming us to the next stage.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - On Being Ma'amd

I remember the first time it happened - Vancouver, 2001, a crowded restaurant.

At first, I didn't realize he was talking to me. I kept glancing over my shoulder - trying to figure out who his question was for.

But when he fixed me with his deep blue gaze and asked again, there was no doubt. He was talking to me.

"Excuse me ma'am. Is this seat taken?"

I'd been ma'amd.

It's a small thing really, just a little rub. But when it doesn't seem like all that long ago I was being asked for I.D. at the liquor store, it seems so odd to be catapulted to the next level - the ma'am zone.

It could be worse. My gorgeous friend, A. was recently "Mom'd".

A. has just gone back to school, embarking on a new career. The majority of students are in their 20s and she finds she has more in common with the professor than her classmates. No big deal. She even joked about it with her fellow classmates until some of the "kids" started calling her "Mom". As in "Hey Mom, did you get that assignment done last night?" And "Hey Mom, how's it going?"

Now A. is hot. Picture the stereotypical soccer Mom, then picture her antithesis. You're looking at A. She is a mom but she is so not a Mom.

I was outraged (albeit on a small scale) when A. told me her tale. I wanted to march up to the clowns who teased her and tell them in no uncertain terms that A. is not a semi-invisible middle-aged woman. That she is smarter, and funnier and sexier than any one of them. I wanted to say that they should open their eyes and stop stereotyping people in their 40s and 50s.

But a fat lot of good that would do me. No, I'll wait. They'll get their due. Those 20 year old boys will evolve into middle-aged men, complete with paunch and thinning hair.

And as for A.? I have no doubts that she'll be one hot 60-something year old.