The Best Kept Secret Blog - Grumpy Old Women

Everyone has at least one defining characteristic - a certain something that makes them stand out in the crowd.

My friend S. is the flighty one, always a dreamer. Y. can be counted on to come to the aid of a friend, no matter the circumstances or time of day or night. And J. is widely admired for her cool and logical approach to any problem that comes her way.

My je ne sais quoi, I've always felt, is a a remarkable sense of innocence and naivete that, try as I might, I just can't seem to overcome.

I first noticed it in high school. While the other girls were smoking, drinking and partying their weekends away, I was spending my Friday nights hanging out with the church youth group. A wild night for me was sitting around Dennys, drinking bottomless cups of coffee with my church friends and going home jazzed on caffeine.

I got a little more savvy during my university days but my overly trusting ways continued to be a problem, often leading to more than one date with men who tried to take advantage of me. And not even in the good ways. (Most memorable was the fellow who promised me a movie then ended up taking me to an Amway recruitment meeting.)

Frustrated but not knowing what else to do, I accepted my fate and continued to live my life in a world where I believed everyone was well intentioned and good things came my way.

So imagine my surprise last week when, after listening to my daughter recount a newspaper article describing a poor, unemployed mother pleading for help after being defrauded out of her rent money, the words, "She's probably lying" popped out of my mouth.

"How can you say that mom?" my daughter demanded.

How indeed, I wondered. Was I becoming cynical?

Not two days later, I was paying for a bag of milk at the local 7-Eleven when I noticed a tabloid near the cash register displaying an attractive young woman below the headline, "Megan Fox - The Sexist Woman Alive"

Rather than feeling jealous, averting my gaze or thinking how degrading stuff like this is to women, I found myself rolling my eyes heavenward and thinking, "Enjoy it now honey. You've got ten years max until you start to wrinkle like a prune and your assets head south."

As I pondered my reaction, I realized with a little shock that I've traversed the spectrum from naivete to cynicism. Is this the stuff of middle age?

I considered my friends.

T. is convinced that everyone's husband is having an affair. N. can talk for hours about how her boss is out to get her. And in a wry play on words, ex-hippie S. claims she never trusts anyone under 30.

It's true - we're getting grumpy in our old age. Interestingly, it feels good in a liberating sort of way. It's as if a veil has been lifted and I'm seeing things as they really are.

True there's something lost when we no longer see the world through rose coloured glasses but I can't help but think there's also something to be gained. If nothing else, I won't be going to any Amway meetings anytime soon.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - How I Accidentally Spent $60 For A Bottle of Shampoo

My university roommate, W., used to tell stories of how her grandparents coped with the "problem" of driving.

Neither of them could see very well, particularly her grandfather, but since he was loath to give up his license, the pair came up with a system of tandem driving. While her grandfather manned the steering wheel, gas pedal and brake, my friend's grandmother served as the eyes.

"Turn, turn, turn! You're going to hit a garbage can. No, I'm wrong - it's a pregnant woman" and "You can't park there, you'll flatten the motorcycle" served as the conversational fodder inside their Buick.

Oh how we laughed when W. regaled us with stories of these folks, never for a minute suspecting that we would become just like them.

With each passing day, my vision seems to be deteriorating and with it goes my ability to cope in this world.

At the hairdresser last week, I complained to the stylist about my flyaway hair. "I have just the thing," she replied, leading me to the Wall-O-Product at the front of the salon. After a minute or two of searching, she handed me a tiny pink tube and pointed at the directions on the back.

She, apparently, saw something that directed the user to apply a pea-sized amount. I saw fuzzy black lines.

Not wanting to be bothered with fumbling in my purse for reading glasses, I thanked her for her trouble, took the bottle to the desk and slapped down my credit card to pay. I remember thinking the price seemed a little hefty but I was preoccupied with getting home and thought I vaguely remembered hearing something on the news about an increase in the GST.

It wasn't until I got home and fished out my reading glasses that I noticed the price tag on the tube - $60 for enough shampoo to get me through three or four washes.

And while we're on the topic of reading glasses, saviour or Satan? You tell me.

While they're a godsend for seeing anything close up, they impair my distance vision and make me woozy whenever I lift my head. Hence, I am always putting them down. Hence, I am always losing them.

The words, "Has anyone seen my reading glasses?" echoe through our household 24/7. My children, in fact, are on a permanent retainer for reading glasses search duty.

Embarrassingly, I find I've begun doing that weird, unflattering thing of pushing them down the bridge of my nose when I need to see anything more than two feet away. Not only does it give me a snooty, academic look, I find it pinches my nostrils and is impairing my ability to breathe.

My husband happened upon me on the front porch the other day, gasping for air, my reading glasses gripping the bulbous part of my nose like like an infant's grasp. "Are you all right?" he queried as he rushed to my side. "Yes, yes I'm fine. I was just getting the mail when I noticed the Anderson's pool boy. I was trying to get a better look."

Speaking of husbands, if there is any comfort in this rite of passage into maturity, it comes from my guy. Not because he is sympathetic. Not because he still finds me appealing - fuzzy eyesight and all. But because his eyes are worse than mine.

While we were driving home from dinner at friends the other night, I had to warn him to be careful. A couple were out walking their dog and he came a little too close as they were crossing the street.

"Wow, thanks" he offered. "I didn't even see them."

"No problem," I said. "I'll be your eyes."

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Soccer Moms

My husband and I couldn't help exchanging a smirk or two last Wednesday night watching Vice-Presidential candidate Sarah Palin address the Republican Convention.

Though she garnered quite the applause describing herself as a proud hockey mom, in our household, we look down upon such things. I in particular think that I'm as far removed from those fleece wearing, van driving women who shepherd their spawn to sports arenas and athletic events as the earth is to the moon.

With my university degree and subscription to The Economist, I like to believe that I'm meant for finer things.

Well yes, I do drive a ubiquitous silver mini-van. And, if truth be told, my Lulu Lemon sweat pants are just so darn easy to pull on in the morning but really, I am not of soccer mom ilk.

Okay, if you press me I will admit that I have a young 'un who plays soccer but I still stand firm, I'm not a soccer mom.

Why just this weekend while I sat through five games at my daughter's tournament, I engaged the other parents in a lively and interesting debate on hip and happening restaurants around town.

Unfortunately our discussion was cut short because I was on snack duty and I was bound and determined to show a few of the uppity, fellow-moms just who knew a thing or two about nutritious homemade treats. (Their faces were positively green with envy when I told them I had slipped spinach into the brownies.)

And can I help it if it poured rain on the second day of the tournament? So I stood there getting soaking wet despite my fleece sweater. I didn't have anything else on the go.

I must say I resented the look on my husband's face when the other team scored a goal. He seemed almost incredulous that I would call the opposing team's star forward a horrid little skank but that's what she is. Really.

And of course I cheered when our kids kicked one into the opponent's net. That's just what you do at these things - I was only blending in. As to my husband's assertion that I cared more about winning than the kids did, well, he's just completely wrong. Why when our team lost the final game, I only sobbed for a minute or two.

So Sarah Palin, you embrace your hockey mom image. I will never be like you. Go ahead and campaign for Vice-President of the United States. I have better things to do with my time. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to teach my daughter how to do a serious head butt.