The Best Kept Secret Blog - Fantasies

Let's call it . . . a fantasy. A private little affair we hide from our friends, our children, and our partners.

We go about our days, smiling, composed and competent. But inside, the secret burns. We long for the moment we can unleash our hidden desire.

And make no mistake - we all kindle the same desire, the same yearning. If we were to utter our secret thoughts, reveal our burning passion, to a woman we would say, "I vant to be alone."

Or, to put it in a less Harlequinesque sort of way, "I want a moment of peace, all to myself, when the kids/husband/boss/dog/all of the above aren't making incessant demands on my time."

If and when we become parents we have an immediate and rude awakening that the privacy we so casually took for granted is a thing of the past. We fight with our husbands to be the one to run out for diapers to the 24 hour Shopper's Drug Mart during the rare 10 minutes that our perpetual eating and crying machines are calm. Trolling those aisles for shampoo and toilet paper never felt so good.

As the children grow we're lulled into a false sense of hope that maybe we'll get some time to ourselves once again. They go to bed early. If we get the dishes done, lunches packed, laundry folded, e-mails answered, we can enjoy 30 minutes in front of the TV before falling exhausted into bed.

How naive we are. Because it's just at that moment, around the time we've rounded the corner of 40 and are half way down the block to 50 or so, just as our kids are becoming pre-teens and teens that things really start to fall apart.

First, there are those children. Suddenly it seems they never go to bed. The only time we really see them sleep is in the mornings when we need them to get up for school. They are either taking over the late evening TV shift (if I have to endure one more reality TV show or Much More Music video of the reunited Spice Girls I think I will slit my wrists) or staying out late with friends. And if it is the latter, we will end up a) lying awake, waiting for them to come home safely or b) picking them up and driving them home from some party to ensure they get home safely.

And it's not just the late night thing. My friend L. and her husband sat down last Saturday afternoon for a rare and quiet glass of wine together. Two of their three kids were out at friends and the eldest was busy in his room. As they toasted the moment and settled in for a tête-à-tête, said eldest emerged for a snack. Spying the cheese tray his parents had set out to go with their wine, he figured it would make as fine a snack as any, pulled up a chair and decided to take a little break with the folks. L. and her husband were dismayed yet gracious. "He's going to university next year and we know we'll miss him when he's gone. Still, just ten minutes without a kid around would have been nice."

Now right around this time another demand on our time kicks in - our parents. They have the opposite problem of us - too much time on their hands. And they need to spend it. And they like to spend it by calling you and telling you about the things in their lives. Like the sale on chicken at Loblaws. Or the neighbour's gall bladder operation. Or what Oprah said.

They also like to get your help and opinions. Help with things like shovelling their snow. Or fixing their computer ("It keeps deleting my e-mails. What? No, of course I didn't accidentally delete them. It's the computer. It just does it.") Or taking them shopping.

And you love them you really do but between them and the kids and house and the job, there's never a moment to yourself.

Oh, and don't forget the dog. My dog, clever thing that she is, has learned to push the bathroom door open with her nose whenever I get in there for a moment on my own, answering natures call. She's learned that I'm trapped and it's the opportune time to come for a scratch behind her ears. So now, even my last bastion of privacy is a thing of the past.

My friends and I fantasize about what we would do with a weekend alone. Sleep in, read, and eat when we wanted and what we wanted and generally come and go as we pleased.

Some of us do it in small doses already, stealing a moment here and there for our own personal pleasures. Interestingly, there are many similarities to the traditional affair.

One lady I know does it in the dark, - her gardening that is - using a flashlight to find irksome weeds and snails. "By the time I get everything else done, it's usually dark. But it's something I love doing and I'm not going to give it up."

Others tell lies. R. tells the family she'll be right back, she just has to go to the bathroom. Then she sneaks off to the computer and spends a little time surfing her favourite sites on the Internet. All the while her family thinks she has a bladder control problem.

In my case, I enjoy late night trysts with my knitting and my books after everyone has finally bedded down. What I give up in sleep I regain in finding something soothing for the soul.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - When Buddhism Meets Botox

If I had to pinpoint my introduction to spirituality, I'd say it came when D. wanted the pink transistor radio.

The radio in question was the much coveted first prize at D.'s Sunday School "Bring a Friend To Church" contest.

Being D.'s one and only recruit, I believe she ended up with the Adam and Eve pencil and eraser set consolation prize. I ended up continuing to go to Sunday School, even after the contest was over.

Over the years, my religious affiliations have waxed and waned. Being the good Canadian that I am, I have developed a tolerance of and an appreciation for all things spiritual, regardless of the form they take. And, with the possible exception of the Hare Krishna's (I just don't look good in orange), can see aspects of good in all.


I don't know if this early experience had something to do with what's going on now but like many others in my cohort, I'm experiencing a new found interest in spirituality. An August 2005 Newsweek/Beliefnet Poll found a correlation between age and interest in all things spiritual. In fact, 63% of the midlifers polled (between ages 40 and 59) stated that spirituality was "very important" in their daily lives.

Now I'm not talking organized religion per se. Just your run-of-the-mill, good old fashioned, search for meaning.

These days I'm noticing I'm searching anywhere and everywhere.

I knew something was up when I became aware of my horoscope habit. In my youth, I never gave these a glance. Then one day last summer, flipping through a magazine at the cottage, I glanced at my horoscope. Here's what I saw. . .

"Rise in career due to support of superiors. Gains from govt sources possible. Issues in marital matters and aggression with partners possible."

"Support of superiors..." Hmmm.... The only ones really superior to me in the house were the kids. But wait, they were getting older and more independent. Hadn't I just told them the other day that it was much easier working than listening to their constant bickering? Maybe there was something to this.

"Gains from govt sources...." Yes! I had recently filed my 2006 tax return (so sue me, I was a little late) and maybe I was going to get a refund.

"Issues in marital matters and aggression with partners ...." Oh! Oh! My husband and I had had a bit of a row over whose turn it was to walk the dog last night.

This stuff is for real!

I became obsessed.

Not only did I check the paper daily for sun sign guidance, I began branching out.

Fortune cookies? Bring them on. Each tiny slip was a sign.

The Secret? If Oprah likes it, it must be good.

Drinks with my neighbours, best-friend's cousin who had been spoken to "from the other side"? What did I have to lose.

As the obsession built to a fevered pitch, the family began to worry. Cheeky eldest daughter suggested I need to see a therapist but really, that's her response to most things I do. (She's a Gemini, what does she know?!)

Logical, practical husband listened to all. Loving and basic man that he is, as long as I wasn't asking him what he thought of my hair or spending money on clothes, he was fine with it all.

As for my friends, they were searching for their own meaning in life. For some this meant long hours at work to earn more or achieve more in their careers. For others, an extra-marital affair. And for a few, a slavish devotion to halt the hands of time, worshipping at the altar of the Stair Master and Botox.

But like any extreme behaviour, one can only sustain such a pace for so long . At some point we have to ask ourselves what it is we are truly looking for. What are our pink transistor radios?

While searching the Internet for Buddhist websites one day, I came across this quote from author, Sogyal Rinpoche. In The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, he observes, “We smother our secret fears of impermanence by surrounding ourselves with more and more goods, more and more things, more and more comforts, only to find ourselves their slaves. Our only aim in life soon becomes to keep everything as safe and secure as possible.”

"The blind eye of this whirlwind of activity is our fear of death."

Maybe at this stage we're all beginning to understand that our time on this earth is a finite thing. It's dawning on us that we're not here for a long time and it may not even be a particularly good time. But we all somehow want to leave our mark on this earth.

Some of us will do it in a big way and win that pink transistor radio. And some will do it in a quiet way - by being a good parent, or helping a neighbour or whatever. I for one am looking forward to receiving my Adam and Eve pencil and eraser set.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Does She Know Who Rosa Parks Is?

Being a trailing edge Baby Boomer, my memories of the early days of Women's Lib are somewhat sketchy.

On the one hand, I knew it was important, ranking up there with the "big issues" of the day including Viet Nam, hippies and drugs and the suburban moms in my neighbourhood who were trading in their house dresses for polyester pant suits.

But at the tender age of 10 or so, I was somewhat confused as to why my elder "sisters" in the movement would want to burn their bras when I was dying to fit into one.

I didn't know it at the time but these early feminists blazed the trail that gave me access to so many of the rights I conveniently take for granted today.

Fortunately for me, university exposed me to the bigger picture of Feminism, compliments of the Women's Studies department. Two lectures and a "Meet and Greet" later, and I could argue fervently with the best of them - or so I thought - over a coffee (pre-exam) or beer (post-exam) at the campus pub.

But somewhere between now and those years of passionate debate, I've become complacent again. While still a believer in Feminism in principle, I was reminded last week that actions speak louder than words.

The person doing the reminding was Antonia Zerbisias. Among other things, Antonia is a Toronto Star columnist, blogger and a feminist. I interviewed her recently for an upcoming article on The Best Kept Secret website.

During our free-ranging conversation about men, dogs, diets and feminism, there is a comment she made that I can't get out of my head.

It's Black History Month and I happened to mention that my seven year old daughter had recently learned about Martin Luther King in school. Antonia threw me a wry smile and asked, "Does she know who Rosa Parks is?"

Good question.

It's no surprise that today's youth know the intimate details of the life and times of pill-popping, trashy dressing, MTV stars. But ask them who Gloria Steinem is and they couldn't tell you to save their lives.

How do you think your daughter would respond if you ask her to tell you about Kim Campbell, Roberta Bondar, June Callwood or Sue Johanson?

I didn't know if the Toronto School Board curriculum covers influential women leaders but I was feel chagrined to admit that her mother certainly wasn't.

Antonia's comment served as a subtle reminder that part of my job in raising my daughters is to make them aware of the strong role models that exist for women.

So that is why last night, as we sat down to dinner, I spoke with my daughters of June Callwood, the Toronto social activist who died last year.

My eldest daughter was somber, her eyes fixed on her plate. When I asked her what she was thinking, she looked up and replied, "Why do you think this crouton in my salad is so soggy?" Not the reply I was hoping for but hey, we're just getting started.

As for my seven year old, I asked her if she knew who Rosa Parks is. Happily she did.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - He Shoots, He Snores

I love my husband, I really do.

But as I lay here on the sofa at three in the morning, there are a few choice phrases going through my head and “I love you honey” isn’t one of them.

I’m here because “Honey’s” snoring is keeping me awake. A dilemma that I know is shared by many of my friends. And we all have our strategies when dealing with the problem.

“I pray I can fall asleep before he does,” shares M. “He doesn’t know this but a little trick I have is to give him regular coffee but tell him its decaf. Works like a charm.

"Oh sure, he occasionally questions me but I just murmur something like, ‘Poor baby, you’re under so much stress at work.’ It’s enough to convince him that there’s nothing wrong with the coffee. He just rants about being over worked and underpaid.”

My approach is less backhanded. I simply roll my guy onto his side. The problem is, after years of sleeping that way, he’s developing a few issues with his shoulder and his shape is morphing into something vaguely resembling The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

But at least I’m gentle, unlike my friend H. “I gave up rolling him over years ago. I just elbow him in the ribs until he wakes up. Then I yell at him to stop snoring.” (Did I mention that H. has a little anger management issue?)

If I must be perfectly honest, it’s not just the snoring that’s keeping me awake. At midlife, there are all sorts of things that are turning my friends and I into nocturnal creatures. In fact, a poll by The National Sleep Foundation found that 40 percent of menopausal women suffer from some type of sleep problem.

It’s one of life’s little ironies. When you finally get to the stage in life where there are no more nursing babies, toddler’s climbing into bed with you after a bad dream or school age children that go puke in the night, you’re hit with night sweats, “anxious” bladders, and worries about why the heck your teenage daughter isn’t home from that party yet.

Some professionals hypothesize that the infamous menopausal mood swings we hear so much about don’t really exist. Rather, we’re just a group of sleep-deprived women desperate for some shuteye.

At the end of the night, though, what can a woman do? I for one am not ready for separate bedrooms yet and do I really want to force my partner to have the special operation that his friend V. had? The one that was supposed to fix the snoring problem? The one that V. describes as having the Roto Rooter man remove a hairball from a clogged drainpipe only the drainpipe is your nose?

I know that somehow it will work out in the end. And in fact, there’s already a glimmer of hope. I was just reading somewhere that many women start snoring for the first time around the menopause transition.

Ahhh, sweet revenge.