The Best Kept Secret

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Wine Not

2009-07-02T12:51:00.000-07:00

New research indicating a link between alcohol consumption and cancer in middle-aged women is sobering. While not quite ready to jump on the alarmists band wagon and stop drinking entirely, I for one will definitely be cutting back. My plan is straightforward and simple and I’ll only be drinking under the following circumstances:

Birthdays and Anniversaries

Statutory Holidays - One drink per statutory holiday with the following exceptions: Christmas, which is fraught with so much family tension that a minimum of three glasses of wine are needed to achieve a festive level of celebratory revalry; and New Years Eve, since giving up drinking is part of my extensive resolution list, set to kick in the next day. Oh, and Ukranian New Years (one week or something like that later) when I will be consoling myself with the knowledge that statistics show no one keeps resolutions anyway and life is tool short to live it like some virgin, sainted martyr.

Minor Holidays - These include Groundhog Day, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day and especially Halloween when all the parents in our neighbourhood escort the little ones on the trick-or-treat circuit with environmentally friendly, reusable cups filled with Merlot.

Fridays - As a reward for reaching the end of a long and trying week.

Saturdays - Just to be social.

Sunday - Enjoyed in an artsy, reflective , mildly sexy, Diana Krall kind of way while contemplating the week ahead.

Wednesday - To celebrate sticking to the plan and not drinking Monday or Tuesday.

Girls Night(s) Out - True, we’re no longer girls but this moniker is so much better than Middle-Aged Women’s Night Out. Though at 40- and 50-something, we’re able to afford much better wine than the plonk we drank when we were girls. While my plan at these events is to limit consumption to two drinks, extra glasses may be consumed under the following circumstances: 1) Someone in the group announces a major mid-life reinvention; 2) Someone in the group has failed at a major midlife reinvention; 3) Someone in the group is having an affair; and 4) Someone in the group is having an affair with the husband of someone else in the group.

Like I said, I’m not jumping on the abstinence band-wagon but I do encourage all of you to follow my example and rethink your alcohol consumption. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to pour myself a glass of wine. It's the 46th anniversary of the invention of the pipe cleaner.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - The Three R's

2009-05-06T10:50:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's fair to say I'm a keener. The word has gotten such a bad rap in recent years but back in my high school days I saw nothing weird or wrong with completing assignments on time, eagerly answering questions ("Ooh, ooh, Mr. McNally Pick me!") or using colour-coded markers to highlight key points in my textbooks.

What I don't understand is how my teenage daughter has inherited none of my tendencies. She's a bright enough child but for reasons unfathomable to me, she prefers to work to deadline rather than plunge into a project the day it's assigned. Occasionally this comes up and bites her in her butt and that's when she comes to me.

Such was the case last Monday when she approached me while I was folding laundry. "Mom, I need help with my haiku," she said. "Bless you. And cover your mouth when you sneeze," I responded.

"No - haiku. A type of poetry? Three lines? Five, seven, five syllables? I don't know what to write mine about."

Well, neither did I but I was pleased at the thought of a scholastic challenge. I put down the sock whose mate I was vainly searching for and gave it some thought.

"Well let me see, honey. How about you write one about your everyday life?" I looked around. "If I was doing it, I could make it about . . . laundry."

She rolled her eyes. "That's lame."

Well, them's fighting words to someone who got the "Miss Metaphor Award" in English five years running. "Let me give you an example," I offered.

"I don't like laundry
I really, really hate it
Wash your own damn socks"

I smiled at her triumphantly. She looked at me like she was seeing me for the first time and wasn't too keen on the image. "Yeah. Well thanks mom. I think I'll just go do my math now."

"Ahh, math. A very important subject. Do you know honey that math has all sorts of real life applications. Why just last week I was out for lunch with some of the girls from my book club and my math skills were put to the test. Here, see if you can solve this one.

"Three women go out for lunch together. Mary, who's on a diet, has the house salad which costs $6.97. Betty, who should be on a diet, has the cheeseburger and fries for $7.50. She asks the waiter for gravy on her fries which costs an extra $.50. Carol orders the $4.99 soup and sandwich special but doesn't eat anything because she just found out her husband is having an affair and she's too upset to eat. The women share three bottles of wine at a cost of $26 per bottle plus a fourth bottle sent to their table from the cute guy at the bar who helps Carol get up when she falls down on her way to the washroom. At the end of the meal, how should the bill be divided between the three women, keeping in mind that:
a) Mary and Carol are really drunk and can't write their names legibly on the VISA slip;
b) Betty has not only polished off her burger, she's worked her way through Carol's sandwich and the red onions in Mary's salad and;
c) Carol has left with the cute guy at the bar in a desperate ploy to get revenge on her philandering husband."

My daughter just shook her head and began walking away. Maybe I was being too tough on her. I softened. "Honey wait, I'll get some paper and a calculator. We can work through this together."

But she was gone. I sighed. I worry about kids these days. It's obvious our school system isn't preparing them for real life.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - So Popular

2009-04-26T19:41:00.000-07:00

Now that women over 40 are the hot new thing, I’m afraid to leave to the house lest a sex-starved college boy be lurking behind my rose bushes, waiting to seduce me. So far the only thing I’ve seen back there is the Rakowski’s poodle doing her business but I know it’s just a matter of time.

It started when the marketing types figured out that we control the purse strings. Suddenly we couldn’t pick up a magazine or turn on the t.v. without seeing an ad telling us know how smart, sexy and confident we are. At first I kept looking over my shoulder, certain they must be talking about someone else. “Who? Me?” I wanted to ask. But the messages continued, assuring me that 40 is the new 25.

Well, who am I to argue with all these smart advertising men. If they say we’re smart and sexy then gosh, I guess we are. Though I do think my friend Audrey took the message too much to heart when she went to that southern resort last winter. I don't care how sexy we are, a 200 lb. woman who's had three C-sections should not be wearing a bikini on a public beach.

And then there was poor Dorothy, newly divorced and trying to get back in the dating scene. I told her to lie about her age when she filled in her LavaLife profile but oh no, she had to be honest and put down 45. Well, she couldn't keep up with all the responses she got from 20 year-old guys wanting to meet her. After all, dating a cougar is the latest must-have status symbol.

"I really don't enjoy dating these guys," Dorothy told me. "They treat me like some Sugar Mamma, always expecting me to pick up the cheque. And then there's the sex thing. Not only do they assume my hormones make me want it all the time, they think my age and experience means I can teach them all kinds of tricks. My ex and I did buy a copy of the Kama Sutra once but we had only gotten to the second position before the dog chewed it. And by then, the kids had come along and we were so tired that we just never bothered learning anything new after that. "

And now, thanks to Susan Boyle, things have gotten even harder. It's not enough to be a middle-aged woman, we have to be middle-aged women with a talent. Suddenly everyone's looking at us, expecting us to burst into song or dance at the drop of a hat. I feel immense pressure to go out and take voice lessons, or maybe tap, so I can impress the check-out girl at the grocery store. I just can't bear the thought of disappointing everyone when they learn that my hobbies include scrapbooking and reading Harlequin Romances. Interesting, yes, but the stuff of reality shows? I think not.

How I long for the days when I was simply invisible and could let myself go. I just didn’t know how good I had it back then. But I’ll play by the new rules and keep up my gym membership, reinvent myself as a life coach and flaunt my beauty to the cougar hunters at the bar. I just hope pop culture’s pendulum swings soon and people get on to some other hot new thing. Like middle-aged men.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Dead Rodents

2009-04-14T16:19:00.000-07:00

There's a dead squirrel in my driveway. I don't quite know how it got there. It just kind of showed up there one day.

When it first appeared, my first thought was to call 911. But almost immediately I thought no, they won't see it as the same kind of emergency I do. It crossed my mind to call someone at the city but what with all the cut backs lately I was pretty sure they wouldn't be of much use. We barely get our garbage picked up, let alone dead squirrels. And even if they did have that kind of service, everyone knows what a horror it is trying to get through on those phone systems. I could just imagine it. "If you're calling about dead raccoons, please press 1. If you're calling about dead squirrels, please press 2."

I almost called my husband at work. I would have asked him to come home immediately but then I remembered he was away on business all week. Isn't that just like him to never be around when I really need him.

I know you're probably wondering why I just didn't pick the stupid thing up myself but I have a phobia of dead rodents. And live ones. And pictures of them. I was paralyzed.

With no other plan coming immediately to mind, all I could do was go about my day. I got in the car and left to get groceries. It wasn't until I got back and parked the car that I realized I had run over the squirrel. Twice.

The upside was that it was flatter and I hoped this would make the squirrel less noticeable. In fact, I could have forgotten all about it if I hadn't happened to notice our elderly neighbour out walking his poodle. My goodness, who would have thought that Muffy could tug on a leash so hard. Why I thought she'd pull Mr. Johnson right off her feet trying to get to that squirrel.

Hiding behind the curtains so Mr. Johnson wouldn't see me (I just hate when Mr. Johnson waves that cane around when he's mad) I knew I had to do something, but what?

I'm fully aware that a normal person would have just picked it up with a shovel and put it in the green bin for garbage pick up but I couldn't do that. Not only does my phobia prevent me from going near it but I couldn't stop thinking about what it would be like every time I took the trash out. It would just be laying there, staring at me.

As the week went on, it got easier and easier to run over the squirrel. Off to the PTA meeting? Vroom. . . the squirrel was flatter. Coming home from yoga class? Vroom . . . it would be practically invisible. But try as I might, the thing never disappeared, causing dog walkers and mothers of small children to start and jerk their young charges quickly away.

By Saturday, my husband was home and ready to deal with the problem. Strangely, I had grown an affinity to the squirrel. I had grown used to it in the same way one grows used to a soccer ball or sprinkler that gets left in the yard. It's part of the landscape and things just look off without it.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Dear Oprah Winfrey I'm Grateful That I'm Broke

2009-02-24T09:28:00.000-08:00

Dear Oprah

How are you? I am fine.

Well, actually I’m not so fine since the stock market crashed and we lost half our life savings but I’m trying to keep positive. Why the first thing I did when I got the bad news was a visualization exercise like they suggest in The Secret. So far the only thing I can see is me eating dog food but I’ll keep on trying.

I’ve been checking your website everyday (at least until we couldn’t pay the bill anymore and the phone company cut off our Internet access) to see what you and your friend Snooze Orman might suggest. Gosh she’s smart and so money-savvy. Why just looking at her hairdo I can tell right away she saves plenty of money by not spending very much on a hairdresser.

I love her awesome suggestions like, “Cut out the things you don’t really need.” I took her advice when the cat died recently and we opted for cremation instead of some over-the-top burial. We saved oodles of money and had a moving ceremony with just the family. Things went really well until the very end when the wind came up as we were scattering Fluffy’s ashes in the park. But as I told the kids, is it really such a big deal that she ended up in our clothes and our hair? Isn’t the Universe just giving us an opportunity to carry Fluffy with us for a little while longer?

It just makes me think of all your spiritual friends who have been a real source of inspiration! When Elizabeth Lesser told one of your viewers that she should rid herself of the idea that life is supposed to be a certain way, I thought she was talking to me. I always thought my midlife reinvention would be about running a marathon or starting my own business. Who’d have guessed I’d be looking for work and reinventing myself as a greeter at Wal-Mart.

My husband’s a little concerned about what’s going to happen when my prescription for bioidentical hormones runs out and we can’t afford to get it refilled. But I’ve told him plenty of times that menopause is a natural part of a woman’s life and all those stories about out of control, hormonal 50 year-olds who bludgeon their husbands are pure fiction. I think.

That’s it for now, Oprah since I’ve got to start dinner. Oh, and that reminds me of another thing I have to be grateful for due to this silly recession. Because we can only afford to eat one meal a day, I'm losing all sorts of weight. I call it the Recession Diet. Let me know if you're interested in the details.

Best,
Karen

The Best Kept Secret Blog - My Five Seconds Of Fame

2009-02-18T20:09:00.000-08:00

For some reason it seems important that she like my hair.

I think it's because it's been snowing or raining all the other Wednesday nights so far this semester which means I've been arriving for class with really bad hair, looking way too much like a suburban, middle-aged mom and not enough like the hip, downtown writer I'm aspiring to be.

I am thick in the throes of midlife reinvention and I have a dream - class-parent and volunteer lice lady by day, hard-hitting journalist by night. (Well, as long as I can get a babysitter, that is.)

As I navigate the mini-van through rush hour traffic on my way to class, I think that I'm looking good.

And I'm feeling good. For I have written the most brilliant article that has ever been produced by a journalism student on the face of this earth and tonight is the night I'm presenting it to the class.

Half my fellow students, I'm sure, will slam their books closed, throw their pens on their desk and declare that are just giving up - that they'll never be able to compete with the likes of me. The other half, the nice ones who have no time for sour grapes or axes to grind, will just stand up and applaud.

My accomplished instructor will love it too. Why she'll whip out her cell phone right then and there, call an editor friend at some über cool magazine, and shout for her to stop the presses - that they simply have to shift things around to accommodate my utterly engaging piece, How To Pack A Grocery Bag.

I'm early for class and the only people in the room are my instructor and one other student. We begin chatting and it turns out we all need a caffeine fix.

"Come on," says my instructor. "Let's start class five minutes late and take a field trip to the Tim Horton's across the street." I'm thrilled. I'm going for coffee with my oh-so-savvy instructor!

We chat about the weather and cold and flu season as we wait in line for our java. "This is going so well," I think to myself. "Maybe we'll become friends and get together over a glass or two of wine while we discuss writing and the publishing industry and debate which author we like better - Danielle Steele or John Grisham."

I order coffee and a couple of Tim Bits and daydream about what to serve if I end up inviting my instructor and her partner for a weekend at the cottage.

We ride the elevator back up to our floor and I think I notice my instructor eyeing the Tim Bits. I'm about to offer her one when I remember that of the many things she's published, she's perhaps best known for her recent book exploring Canada's foodscapes. I suddenly recall a passionate discussion from a class or two ago on the merits of organic food and the evils of just about everything else we can put into our mouths. I tuck the Tim Bit bag into my purse and give up on the thought of roasting weenies with my instructor at the cottage.

More students have arrived by the time we return and I'm turning to say hello as I set my coffee down and shrug out of my coat. It isn't until I hear half the class exclaim, "Ohhhh" that I realize something's wrong. I look down to see brown liquid puddling on the floor. It's coffee. My coffee. I've knocked it over and it's flowing across my desk, onto the floor and into my purse.

I'm guessing the discussions over wine are out now too.

I try to be calm as I sop up the mess with a roll of toilet paper retrieved from the Ladies room; as if spilling a full cup of coffee is an everyday thing and that I'm totally cool with it. I still have a quarter of a cup left and I drink this slowly, prolonging the feeling of being part of our intimate little coffee drinking group. When it's all gone, I even suck on the cup for a while - no one can tell it's empty with the brown plastic lid still attached.

We begin presenting our articles and finally it's my turn. Everyone reads my piece and begins scratching their criticism and feedback on the copies I've brought in. At first I sit back - I know it's good and apart from a little thing here or there, I can only expect praise. Then I notice my instructor writing something on her copy. I hear her bracelet hitting the desk again and again as she circles paragraphs and words. Then I see her bending down and retrieving something from her bag. It's a large red pencil. Is she striking something out?

At the end of the day it's no better or worse than the rest of the people in my class. No one's shouted "Stop the presses" but nor have they kicked me out of the class.

I climb into my soccer-mom mini-van and drown my disappointment in the Tim Bits I've fished from my soggy purse. I console myself by remembering that we learn more from failure than we do from success. This makes me feel a little better and I begin thinking about next week's assignment. Hmmm. . . Maybe I'll bring in cookies.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Eyebrows - The Final Frontier

2009-02-03T21:16:00.000-08:00

Ever since 1979, when I tumbled out of the Merle Norman store with fuchsia cheekbones and four - count 'em, four! - shades of shadow gracing my eyes, I've had a love affair with make-up.

My 1980's work wardrobe included shoulder pads, pert bow ties and an eye-shadow to match every power suit in my closet. I spent an hour in the bathroom every morning during the 1990's working hard to achieve a "natural" look and even as recently as the early 2000's I was hot on the trail of the perfect shade of red lipstick.

Then things started to change.

The eye shadow was the first to go. Instead of making me look youthful and wide-eyed, it began to make me look tired and slightly clownish, like I'd lost a run-in with a tropical fish.

The lovely brown-red lipstick that I had worn for more than ten years suddenly made my mouth seem lifeless and drawn, as if I'd spent the better part of the day sucking on a rusty pipe.

And even a light application of eyeliner looked like I was wearing too much.

I had entered the "less is more" era of makeup.

And while I can't say this was entirely a bad thing - cheaper and less fuss - I sometimes missed the days when I could have a little fun with making up my face; when I could spend hours putting on make-up for a big night out on the town.

So can you really blame me for getting excited last week when I bellied-up to the new Brow Bar at a swanky, downtown department store?

I had read about this Brow Bar in our local paper when it opened. Below the picture of beautiful, lab-coat wearing 20-something girls with serious Brooke Shields brows, was a small story assuring me that all a woman needed to look polished and chic was a pair of well-groomed eyebrows.

I was downtown anyway, killing time between meetings, and figured checking out the Brow Bar couldn't do any harm. The young woman working the counter was ever so nice and before you could say "Groucho", I was on a stool in the middle of the cosmetics department getting my brows done.

Now my brows suffer from the opposite problem of the Brooke Shields clones - apparently I need more, not less, in the brow department. No tweazing nor waxing for me. I need filler and powder and all manner of grooming devices to achieve a strong and natural looking brow.

The earnest technician set to work with quick, feathery strokes that would make Picasso proud and ten minutes later, I was rushing out the door, now late for my next meeting but feeling sexy and strong, thanks to my professionally groomed brows.

I should have been tipped off by the quizzical looks I got from my associates during the meeting. At the time I just thought they were having trouble understanding my proposal but now I'm not sure.

After my meeting, I proceeded to the school to pick my daughter up at the end of her day. "Mom, are you mad at me?" she asked as she climbed in the car. I thought that was a a little strange as greetings generally go but then again, I usually am angry with the kids about one thing or another so I didn't give it much thought.

It wasn't until I got home and had a good look in the mirror that I understood the strange reactions. I looked like I had two fuzzy brown caterpillars dissecting my face.

My erstwhile brow technician had gotten carried away and while my new eyebrows were fashionably full and expertly arched, they made me look angry and puzzled, like a woman who’s favourite show is about to start and she can’t figure out how to work the remote.

So much for my eyebrows, I thought as I washed all trace off my face. At first I was disappointed - the last bastion of make-up for middle-aged women was no more. But then I got an idea. I rummaged through the medicine cabinet until I found what I was looking for, something that surely would cheer me up. My fuchsia cheek colour.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Where Am I?

2009-01-28T10:25:00.000-08:00

I felt like a subject in a cognitive behaviour experiment, someone who's thrown into a foreign environment and is forced to figure out a whole new set of survival skills pronto if there’s any hope of making it out alive; or Paris Hilton being asked to collect pig manure on The Surreal Life; or Mrs. (Lovey) Howell realizing that coconut milk doesn’t “just come” in crystal glasses with little umbrellas propped in for presentation.

When I started back to school, I knew getting into the rhythm of reading textbooks and writing papers would be challenging after a long absence from the classroom but I was up to the task.

I suspected I might be the oldest student there and that my age and experience would give me a different worldview from my fellow students but I was hopeful that might turn out to be a good thing.

What I didn’t expect was waking up in a middle-aged Twilight Zone and the unwelcome realization, like a cold and unforgiving smack in the face, that the world had changed an awful lot since I left the full-time workforce to stay home and raise kids.

I thought I’d been keeping up, that I wasn’t like “the other moms” who baked and cleaned and were overly invested in their children. Anyone who knows me could tell you what a crappy cook I am, more apt to go for quantity than quality.

Didn’t I prefer to spend my days reading and having enlightening discussions with my friends (“You got that at Winners? Do they have any left?”), instead of pursuing frivolous decorating and housekeeping?

And while I adore my kids, I’m careful not to live my life through them. (“I don’t care if Sasha’s mom home schools her. Not only do you need to be with other children but Mommy’s busy with her own life. Now get to school. I’m going to be late for my manicure.”)

So when Mommy took her own life back to school and enrolled in a course at a local university, I didn’t think it would take me that long to get up to speed. Mommy was mistaken.

Last Wednesday, we were asked to break into small groups and find something we had in common with our fellow students.

My “peers” – all in their early twenties – and I tried. It was obvious the usual common denominators – do you have children, are both your parents still living, did your husband get a good severance package when he was layed-off from his senior management job – just wouldn’t work.

But even more generic things – What kind of a car do you drive? (they don’t own cars); Do you hate the sky high property taxes we’re forced to pay? (they don’t own property); What’s you’re favourite TV show (them: Gossip Girl, me: Sex and The City reruns) – didn’t work. The best we came up with is that we all had relatives who had been in World War II. Their grand-fathers, my father.

Things got worse.

Our instructor, who had asked us to bring in a copy of a magazine we read, had us go around the room and present our choices.

As their hands held up copies of artsy issues of Wallpaper, Stop Smiling and a host of other publications I had never heard of, I felt my cheeks get hot.

As they waxed on about the sophisticated use of metaphor and the sharp and beautiful cover shots of bored-looking, young metro-sexuals sporting all manor of piercings, I was in a full-out sweat.

By the time it was my turn, I thought I might pee my pants as I feebly held up my copy of Homemakers magazine, it’s warm pink and red cover a perfect counterpoint to the vegetable lasagna recipe featured prominently on the front.

We huddled to discuss magazine writing style and give examples from our favourite publications. My fellow group members got into a lively debate about the merits of particular stories in magazines I had never heard of, let alone cracked the cover on. The ones, I suspect, I gave a superficial glance at as I passed them over in favour of Canadian Living or the latest issue of Oprah’s O Magazine. Finally I had the answer to the question that always flickered through my mind whenever I noticed one of these periodicals – “Who reads these things anyway?” Now I know.

I tried my best to be part of the conversation but it became painfully obvious I had nothing to contribute. I toyed with the idea of offering to go get everyone a coffee but eventually opted to just shut-up and try to learn a thing or two.

And it was while I was listening to the debate, I realized how sheltered I may have become.

Author Leslie Bennetts, in her bestselling book The Feminine Mistake, argues that women pay a heavy toll when they choose stay-at-home motherhood over being a working mom. Like many middle-aged women who stayed home to raise their children, I'm apt to argue against Ms. Bennetts point. My husband hasn't left me, I'm not impoverished and I've got a good life.

But as my classmates have taught me, there's a world out there that keeps going on and, shame on me, maybe I haven't kept up with it enough. Maybe I've gotten a little too comfortable.

I've got another class tonight and I suspect I'll once again be stunned by just how much I don't know. The obvious upside is that isn't it great I still have so much to learn at my age. And hey, maybe I even have a thing or two I can offer "the kids" in my class. Maybe I can give them a ride home.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - And Then I Returned To School

2009-01-16T11:02:00.000-08:00

This is not another story of a middle-aged woman returning to school, only to discover that, despite a brain that's slightly mushy and fellow students who are young enough to be her children, her experience running a household and holding down a job for the past couple of decades has equipped her with the skills necessary to excel at her studies.

This is the story of a middle-aged woman returning to school only to discover that the key to academic success lies in sucking up to the administration staff - a.k.a. The Registration Ladies.

Our story begins on a cold, snowy day in early January. I'm standing in line at Ryerson University, waiting my turn to register for night school.

On one side of the counter sit the Registration Ladies - grim faced, thick skinned women whose fashion sense seems to have stopped evolving sometime in the mid 1990's.

On the other side are the students, mostly young, a jumble of damp fleece, back packs and iPods.

The Registration Ladies seem to take great pleasure in making us wait. There are long pauses between one student leaving and the next one being called though there never seems to be an apparent reason why.

I'm almost to the front of the queue when I realize the magnitude of the power the Registration Ladies wield. One false step - "I said I need to see TWO piece of ID." - could send someone to the back of the line just like that.

Verifying my own ID situation, I decide I need a plan. I have to get the Ladies on my side if I have any hope of getting my course and walking out the door in time to get home and start dinner.

Then it comes to me. I'm not like the other wet behind the ears, barely out of high school kids who are easily intimidated. I'm a mature woman and my tuition pays the Registration Ladies wages. I, in fact, am their client and I should get the same respect I get from the other women who occasionally work for me, like my cleaning lady and the girls at the Vietnamese nail studio where I go for manicures.

I will speak to the Registration Ladies clearly and directly and they will respond respectfully in turn.

"Hello", I say confidently as I approach the counter and offer my form. "I'd like to register for this course."

The Registration Lady ignores me and walks to the back of the office where she appears to be adjusting her cardigan while staring at a closed filing cabinet.

Am I supposed to wait? Is she leaving for a smoke break?

The other students glower at me as if it's all my fault that she's left her station and thanks to my dim-wittedness, they're going to have to endure even more time in the line-up.

I'm about to start calling, "Hello? Hello?" when she returns. She grabs my form and begins punching information into her computer.

"Two pieces of ID?" she barks. I'm ready and push my drivers license and SIN card at her.

"Have you ever registered for a course here before?" she asks.

"Well yes, but it's been some time since I took it. I have two children and find it really hard to balance work and family and everything else. But the youngest is turning 9 and I decided that I just really needed something for me. Do you know what I mean?"

She looks at me like I'm an idiot then selects "Yes" on her screen.

"That'll be $535."

I hand her my Visa card.

"We don't take Visa - just cash or cheque," she informs me.

"What? Everyone takes Visa."

"The system's down. It's just cash or cheque until things are back up."

I rummage in my purse accidentally spilling loose Tic Tacs, my cell phone and a tampon as I try to find a cheque. There is no way I'm giving up on getting in this course and there's no way I'm coming back another day to register.

Transaction complete she rubber stamps my copy of the form. I'm about to leave when she snarls, "Go to the One-Card office down the hall to get your student ID card."

Arriving at the One-Card office, I'm greeted by yet another Registration Lady who takes more of my money then asks me to stand in front of a camera.

Instinctively I fluff my hair - it's been snowing all morning and my hair is still a little damp from my walk from the subway but how bad can it be?

And hey, the worst of the registration is over. Just one picture and I'm out of here. I smile happily as I imagine myself back at school, drinking coffee in lectures and challenging the professor as a wise and mature returning student.

The card printer machine chugs and whirrs and minutes later out pops my card. Who is that woman on my card? Please tell me it's not me. She reminds me of one of those dried-apple dolls that were so popular in the 1970s.

There must be a mistake. This must be the card for the person just before me or just after me. But as I see a beautiful 20-something girl just leaving and a 60-something black man with a beard waiting for his card, I'm forced to accept a sad truth - the only hope I have of surviving at school, and perhaps in life, is to suck up the Registration Ladies.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Get Out Of My Face(book)

2009-01-06T19:42:00.000-08:00

It started with an e-mail from my friend R. Would I be her friend?

This was a strange request coming from a woman I had know for 30 years, whose wedding I had attended and whose head I had held over the toilet while she threw up copious amounts of the celebratory punch served at her 40th birthday party.

When I replied with a witty, "????", she immediately shot back her own response.

"I'm talking about a Facebook friend. [Duhhh...] You've heard of it, right?"

Well of course I had heard of it. It's THE social networking site for high school and college kids but why on earth would middle-aged women like R. and I bother with it?

"It's addictive. You'll love it," she promised and so it was that I found myself posting a bare bones profile of myself on my new Facebook account.

For a shy woman who is occupied with kids, husband and contemplating why her thighs are turning to cottage cheese, the profile step proved intimidating.

Do I list tunes by Van Morrison, Bruce Springsteen and Elvis Costello as my favourite music or do I try to appear hip, grab my daughter's iPod and copy down the names of the songs she listens to? I eventually decided that honesty is the best policy and listed my favourite artists from the 80s. (Besides, I couldn't figure out how to work my daughter's iPod.)

I steered clear of Political and Religious Views, was a little frustrated by the choices under Relationship Status (why can't you select both "Married" and "It's Complicated"?) and soon found myself in Favourite Quotations.

Once again, the shy woman was stumped.

While I wanted to copy my sexy friend Y's quote - "I once had a rose named after me, I was flattered until I read that it was no good in bed but fine against a wall" Eleanor Roosevelt - the best I could come up with was "When your friends begin to flatter you on how young you look, it's a sure sign you're getting old.", Mark Twain.

I finished my profile, viewed 17 photos of R. and her book club debating the merits of the latest Oprah pick and called it a day.

Then the requests started coming in.

It seems R. and I aren't the only middle-aged women on Facebook. Before I could say "Google" I had requests to become Facebook friends with three other acquaintances who found me via R.

I couldn't go to a PTA meeting or grab a coffee with a colleague without being asked, "Are you on Facebook?"

It be came stressful responding to friend requests. I suppose I could've just click "Confirm" and left it at that but I always felt compelled to write a little something to go with my confirmation - something witty and sharp.

But what with the laundry and helping with homework and my midlife inability to recall common nouns, I found the task daunting. Many a night found me sitting at the computer, staring at a friend request for hours, before finally tapping out a banal, "Yes, I'll be your friend."

Before I knew it, I had become connected to more virtual friends than I actually had in real life.

I was confused.

Maybe I wasn’t using it correctly but why would I care that my hairdresser’s cousin was a Lord of The Rings fan? Not only did I wonder how my ex-boyfriend had found me on Facebook but how did he end up with Bob Dylan as one of his friends? Isn’t Bob Dylan dead?

And to think I once found Cutting and Pasting confusing!

I'm thinking of taking a little break from Facebook and scaling back on my cyber adventures.

Although, I have recently gotten into a cool web site called Second Life. You get to create an avatar, a virtual you created exactly as you want her to be. You should check it out - it's way more fun than Facebook. Look for my avatar - she's got the body of a 25 year old, an IQ of 140 and never worries about cottage cheese thighs.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Anti-Resolutions

2009-01-02T08:06:00.001-08:00

Despite being the reigning Queen of New Year's resolution making, I just can't seem to muster the gumption to do any goal setting for 2009. Even things as simple as "Eat more vegetables" or "Floss daily" don't get me going.

While some of you won't see this as a big deal, for someone like me, whose middle name could be "Reinvention", it's perplexing.

As I sit here pondering what's caused this apathetic state, I realize I've been disappointed one time too many. Despite years of listening to the experts, gurus and pundits and believing in The Secret, S.M.A.R.T. goal setting techniques and daily affirmations, I'm still a middle-aged woman who shops too much, carries five extra pounds and can't seem to give up her red wine habit.

I think it's high time to throw in the towel and acknowledge that maybe none of this works.

In fact, I'll go one step further and save the rest of you some time by offering up some anti-resolution guidance.

1. www.TheSecretIsBS.com

It takes courage to even write this, let alone believe it.

Every time I glance at these words or repeat them in my head, I imagine thunder and lightening and fire and brimstone raining down on me.

Yes, it's good to be positive and grateful but come on! It doesn't always apply.

For example, let's see you try telling a Mexican immigrant who makes $14,000 a year picking strawberries in southern California to ask the Universe to give him back the $720,000 house he lost in the sub prime debacle and you'll have a thing or two raining down on your head - primarily expletives in Spanish.

2. Make up your mind about the red wine controversy.

This was a year of mixed messages on whether or not drinking a glass of red wine a day is a good thing or a bad thing. The jury is still out and individual women must weigh the pros and the cons.

Drink red wine and decrease your risk of stroke and heart disease.

Drink red wine and increase your risk of breast cancer.

To this I would also ask you to consider the following:

Drink red wine and increase the odds of a calm, harmonious family life.

Drink red wine and decrease the odds of ranting at your husband and kids that possessing breasts and a vagina does not uniquely qualify you to clear the dinner table and pick up dog poo from the back yard.

3. Diets Don't Work

I don't care that Marie Osmond lost 40 lbs. on NutriSystem. As anyone who is even vaguely aware of the Oprahsphere knows, her Oprahness has gained Marie's 40 lbs. and has crossed the 200 lb. threshold.

And this is despite having a personal trainer at her disposal, a staff chef who can whip up roasted flax seed any time of day or night and a host of flaky friends like Marianne Williamson and Eckhart Tolle who encourage Oprah to figure out what she's really hungry for. (I suspect it's a side of fries with gravy though Oprah claims it's work-life balance.)

While I'm all for healthy eating and regular exercise, I encourage you to never underestimate the benefits of chocolate and the number of calories burned by reaching for the a cork screw.

Last January I made myself neurotic trying to live up to all my New Year's resolutions. This year I'm taking a moratorium from New Year - New Me goal setting. Check back in a year and I'll let you know how it's gone.

My hope is that I'll be better off for it - a healthy, vital middle age woman no worse for the lack of big goals. My biggest fear? That Oprah's 40 lbs. (previously part of the Osmond clan) will find their way to me.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Out Of The Mouths of Seniors

2009-01-02T07:30:00.000-08:00

Okay, so maybe it didn't rank up there with finding a cure for cancer or being selected as a contestant on So You Think You Can Dance Canada but I was proud of what I had done. An article of mine had been published in the December issue of More magazine.

Like any proud writer I told all my friends, casual acquaintances and the woman who sat next to me on the subway about the piece. And I handed out copies of the magazine to the people in my life whom I wanted to impress, including my 80-something mother-in-law.

I love my in-laws and think we have a pretty good relationship as far as these things go but given my mother-in-law comes from a generation that values hard work and a strong moral backbone, I can`t help but wonder if she`s not just a little perplexed as to why I schlep around in Lulu Lemon`s all day, drinking coffee and tapping away on my computer keyboard, all the while calling it work. My article was vindication, proof that I had a "real" job.

My husband dropped off the magazine and I didn`t hear a peep until two weeks later when my mother-in-law called to discuss the particulars for an upcoming family gathering.

We had just dispensed with the business of whether I would bring a salad or dessert when she mentioned the article.

Mother-in-Law (MIL): "Oh, and by the way dear, I read your article."

Me (Casually, preparing to bask in the glow of her praise): "Oh - what did you think?"

MIL: "I found it really depressing and didn`t care for it much but it did seem to be grammatically correct."

Me: "But the article is about three women who tried to reinvent themselves at midlife, failed yet learned from their mistakes and became all the better for it. It`s meant to be uplifting."

MIL: "The women in your article were so obsessed with their looks and their hair turning gray. I don`t see how you can call that uplifting dear."

Me: "But the article chronicles a woman who went through a painful divorce, an entrepreneur whose first business flopped and an author who unwittingly made very publishing mistake in the book. It doesn`t even mention their looks."

MIL: "Well, maybe it was just the magazine itself but it seems like all you girls in your 40s and 50s are so worried about getting older and whether you`re accomplishing enough. Why I`d love to be in my 40s again. You should tell those women to buck up and do some volunteer work - they`d all be better off thinking about someone else than worrying about themselves so much.

"Now, how are those grandchildren of mine?"

At first, I was deflated by our conversation - didn`t she know how big of an accomplishment this was for me?

But the more I thought about our conversation, the more I detected some grains of wisdom in her words. Perhaps in our generation`s bid to celebrate midlife, we`re spending too much time at the party.

Where our mother's only provisions for navigating midlife were a box of Lady Clairol and the occasional discreet joke about "The Change:, we turn to books, magazines, coaches and websites to be our guide. We worship at the altar of reinvention and look at aging like we`re staring into the fiery maw of the devil himself.

Maybe we`re looking for too much reassurance that I`m Okay - You`re Okay and like my mother-in-law suggests, we need to get on with more important things.

I, in fact, have already made my first move in that direction by enrolling in a dance class. Auditions for the next season of So You Think You Can Dance Canada will be starting soon and I intend to be ready.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Not Since The Days Of Starsky And Hutch

2008-12-01T07:20:00.000-08:00

What do I think of middle-aged women who develop crushes on the same Hollywood heartthrobs that their 'tween and teen daughters are lusting over?

It's pathetic, absolutely pathetic.

Why just last spring on American Idol I couldn't get over all the Cougars for Cook posters being waved about in the audience by 40- and 50-year-old women hoping to catch contestant David Cook's eye. I mean come on! What were they thinking?

They should have been sitting quietly by while their daughter's did all the screaming. Women their age should know by now that the best way to seduce cougar bait like David Cook is to wait quietly at the stage door wearing nothing but a trench coat and a smile.

I'm afraid this same age-inappropriate behaviour is about to explode again as mothers everywhere take their daughters to see Twilight, the new vampire flick starring Robert Pattinson as the dreamy Edward Cullen.

I'll admit there's a part of me that understands the appeal. The book the movie's based on reads like a Harlequin Romance for 13-year old's. When I paged through my daughter's well-worn copy a few weeks ago I did wonder why we didn't have books like this when we were in puberty instead of being stuck with Nancy Drew and her limp-wristed boyfriend Ned Nickerson.

And having seen the movie five times I will warn you that watching the tall, muscled Mr. Pattinson may stir feelings you haven't experienced since watching Paul Michael Glaser in Starsky and Hutch.

But real women do not get crushes on the same screen idols that their daughter's do. That's just creepy.

It's fine for my daughter and her friends to have a little thing for Robert Pattinson, a.k.a. Edward. I don't discourage it.

I let them go on the fan websites and bookmark YouTube videos of the handsome and hot Mr. Pattinson. And yes, I may revisit these favourites after my daughter has gone to bed, sometimes lingering for an hour or more over Mr. Pattinson's profile. I'm just being a good parent, diligent about cyber-safety for my child.

If the truth be told, I get a little chuckle out of listening to my daughter opine about what it would be like if she were asked on a date by Bobby - I mean Robert Pattinson. Her daydreams are filled with rides in his fancy car, holding hands and a chaste kiss goodnight.

I keep my mouth shut and let her dream knowing full well it will never happen. Why would a guy like that want to go out with a little girl like her when he could go out with a woman my age who knows Tantric sex?

What? Well, no, I don't exactly know all the details of how Tantric sex works but at least I've heard of it. And I'd be sure to Google it before the big night out.

That's all I'm going to say on the matter. It's just plain wrong for women our age to lust after Hollywood hotties half our age. We've got better things to do.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get back to setting up my new blog, Panthers for Pattinson.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - The Ultimate Bond Girl

2008-11-20T03:52:00.000-08:00

My friend U. tells me the Dutch have a word to describe a certain type of midlife woman I remember from my youth.

A flink woman is someone who's solid, substantial and dependable.

Good natured and hard working, she's the kind of woman you turned to when you had to plan a funeral, sew 25 shepherd costumes for the school Christmas pageant or needed someone to speak with Aunt Doris about her wee drinking problem.

Every culture and group has their own version of this woman.

Coming from solid Ukrainian immigrant stock, the the flink women in my life had muscled arms, short, tightly permed hair and smelled faintly of bleach, sweat and cheap perfume. They never ventured far from their kitchens lest an emergency arise that required them to make a ham or some head cheese in a hurry.

Even within groups whose ancestors have been in Canada for more generations than we can count, it's easy to spot the rigid postured, no-nonsense, "have a good cry then get over it" kind of woman who knows how to set things right when life goes off the rails.

These were the unsung heroes of our youth - the midlife women who did what they had to do.

Then, there are us.

We were raised as the "me generation" and in midlife we're still spending a disproportionate amount of time on "me" vs. "we".

There are endless examples.

Time that might have previously gone to caring for our family and community is now spent on our upkeep. From hair to nails to Botox and filler, we're slavish in our devotion to maintenance.

Yesterday's flink woman spent little time fussing over her appearance. Who cared about a fuzzy upper lip when grandma needed to get to her podiatrist appointment.

She had no time for cut, colour and highlights and instead made-do with a box of Lady Clairol that worked it's magic while she ironed some towels.

Few flink women worried obsessively about gaining a pound or two as a little cushioning was a tribute to her cooking prowess. The few "princesses" who even gave it a thought simply took up smoking to keep those extra pounds at bay.

For today's 40- and 50-something woman, it's all about starting over and midlife reinvention. We applaud the stories ("I was a stay-at-home mom but now I'm a circus performer. Juggling the kid's schedules really prepared me for this new role.") and dream of our own transformations.

There seems to be little glamour in being solid as a rock when one can be climbing one instead.

I suspect the flink woman felt the same restless desire for something new just as keenly as we do. But she kept it manageable, occasionally perplexing her family with a sudden interest in learning to drive, getting a job at the corner drugstore or wearing pantsuits.

As the flink women in our lives enter their sunset years, the torch will soon be passed on to us. I suspect we'll put our unique generational spin on this life stage just as we have on career choice, motherhood and all the other rites of passages we've been through to date.

Instead of making dainty sandwiches and squares for the PTA tea, we'll be hitting the Tim Horton's drive through for a large box of crullers.

When a sad passing requires us to plan a funeral, you won't find us picking out hymns and selecting the flowers. We'll be planning a touching farewell complete with words of comfort plucked from Internet blogs and a Facebook group for the dearly deceased.

And when our elderly mothers need us to get them to the podiatrist, we'll be there for them - hiring the best elder care service we can afford to ferry them to and fro.

I'm not sure what the flink women will have to say about how we handle things but there's one thing I'm pretty certain of. They'll be finding Aunt Doris and asking her to pass the bottle.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - The Month of Living Frugally - Day 6 - Shut Up and Eat Your Macaroni and Peanut Butter

2008-11-18T11:10:00.000-08:00

Extend newly embraced frugality habit to food preparation and grocery shopping.

Step One - Take Inventory and USe What You Have
A quick glance of pantry contents reveals forgotten, yet yummy, items that surely can be fashioned into nutritious family meal.

Crack open a bottle of wine and set about dinner preparation. One hour and two and a half glasses of Merlot later, proudly announce dinner is served. Top up wine glass and take my place at the table, ready to bask in family's praise for being frugal and creative.

Family, however, appears to see things differently and is not buying into the notion that re-heated pork dumplings left over from previous year's Chinese New Year celebration are an appropriate accompaniment to bananas and feta cheese. Nor are they swayed when I point out how, since all the food groups are represented, they're about to enjoy a balanced meal.

Husband removes my wine glass on his way to phone for pizza.

Step Two - Shop At A Discount Grocers
Bypass high priced organic food market in favour of discount food store located in somewhat seedy part of town.

After spending two futile minutes trying to detach shopping cart, kindly immigrant man demonstrates how to insert a quarter in order to unchain a cart. Spend another futile two minutes searching for change. Eventually give an old lady a five dollar bill in exchange for the cart she's returning.

Shopping experience is positive and even I can see what that prices are much lower than at high-priced chains. Decide to stock up on sale items to save even more money. Begin throwing dented cans of tomato soup, bok choy and cases of yogurt into my cart with reckless abandon.

Feeling virtuous, I arrive at the check out. Cashier asks me how many bags I'll need. Bagging own groceries saves store workers time, cuts costs and allows store to pass savings along to customer. Very good.

Hmmm. . . .but how many? Scanning purchases laid out on the conveyor belt, I recall that spatial problems are not my strong suit. Request five bags and hope for the best.

Begin packing items and almost immediately run out of bags. Try to get cashier's attention in attempt to buy more bags but she's starting her break and is heading outside for a smoke. Receive angry glances from next customer who is waiting for me to finish. Pile items loosely in cart and head for the car.

Step Three - Plan Meals
Determined not to let new stock of yummy ingredients go unused, prepare nutritious family dinner with items purchased earlier that day. Family sits down to first course of soup, followed by steamed bok choy and yogurt.

Lesson Learned: Planning and shopping wisely go a long way.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - The Lazy Woman's Guide To Midlife Reinvention

2008-11-10T06:38:00.000-08:00

With all due respect to Oprah, the life coach industry, and my overly-enthusiastic friend Y. who keeps insisting I live an "authentic" life, I'm beginning to think this midlife reinvention stuff is strictly for the birds.

It sounds simple enough in theory. Relying on the wisdom and experience that comes to us at midlife, we take a leap of faith and pursue our deepest passions. Armed with little more than faith in ourselves and a copy of The Secret in our hands, we go forth expecting good things to certainly come our way.

And let's be honest - after decades spent raising kids, climbing the corporate ladder, and living with the same, predictable man, who among us isn't ready to shake things up a bit?

Aiding and abetting us is an entire industry that has sprung up to support our ventures. From books to videos to weekend retreats, there is no shortage of charlatans - oops, I mean professionals - lining up to tell us how to get to the next big thing in our lives.

At 47, I've ploughed through my fair share of reinvention attempts. From the would-be crafting business ($700 in supplies yielded three scarves, one sleeve and zero sales) to the "youthful and playful" hairstyle my new stylist talked me into (he goes by the name of Jean Paul but I prefer to think of him as Edward Scissorhands on Speed), I've tried diligently to reinvent myself but sadly, never quite made the grade.

Reflecting on my failures to launch, I believe I've learned a thing or two about the awakening that comes at this stage of life. As a gesture of support and solidarity for the midlife women who might be reading this, I'd like to pass on some thoughtful advice to make your own midlife reinventions go just that much more smoothly.

The Lazy Woman's Guide To Midlife Reinvention

1. It's more fun talking about reinvention than actually reinventing.
The planning stage is by far the most rewarding part of the process. What can beat long, contemplative walks, detailed list making of our strengths and interests and endless discussions with friends over dinner about hopes, plans and dreams?

Play your cards right and you can remain in this stage indefinitely.

2. Don't write a book - read a book.
For those of you who dream of penning the great Canadian novel, try reading a book instead.

Most of us are so busy that we barely have time to read a book. Wouldn't it be a challenge just to start one and finish it in a reasonable amount of time?

And I'm not talking about the dry and slightly depressing Canadian literature your book club insists on reading because it makes them feel intellectual. I'm talking about a good, juicy, Chick Lit read that you can't put down, even if it makes you feel slightly dirty when you're done.

3. Forget being a Cougar, chasing sexy, younger men. Go after the old guys instead.
Not only is the competition less stiff, older men are much easier to catch. I mean come on - which 40-something woman among us can't outrun an octogenarian in a wheel chair?

4. If you're itching to start a business, keep things on a small scale.
Sure we hear about the success stories but if the truth be told, most businesses fail within a year or two of start-up.

If you really must scratch your entrepreneurial itch, might I suggest taking a cue from all the mompreneurs of Generation X. Create a simple product and market it from the comfort of your own home.

I, for one, am waiting for some enterprising midlife woman to invent much needed products like Flash Memory Cards to combat those embarrassing short-term memory blips that come with middle age.

5. Skip the makeover - just get rid of your mirrors.
Like the proverbial tree falling in the forest, if we're not able to see the effects of aging, are they really happening?

Why spend thousands on Botox, fillers, a new hairstyle and wardrobe? You're still the same, wonderful person inside that you've always been.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - The Month of Living Frugally - Day 3 - It's Like Sending A Recovering Alcoholic To The Bar

2008-11-05T07:03:00.000-08:00

Popped into mall to pick up Thank-You notes at card shop.

Eschew convenient parking spot close to card shop entrance in favour of parking at opposite end of mall. Sadly [What's the emoticon for sarcastic, eye rolling smirk?], am forced to run the gauntlet of women's clothing stores en route to card shop. Steel myself and make silent promise not to enter any store but the card shop.

Half way there am stopped in tracks by the most beautiful pair of boots I'VE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE displayed in shoe store window. Feeling slightly fevered and with trickle of drool now running down my chin, I enter shoe store in dreamlike state and ask friendly clerk to bring me a pair in size 8.

As I wait for her to return with the most beautiful pair of boots I'VE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE, I push away the creeping sensation of guilt and begin rationalizing why these boots are not an impulse buy but a necessity. Fortunately, just when I'm getting stuck at the part about why I need more boots when I already own six pairs, the sales clerk returns empty handed.

They don't have my size but she can phone another store and have them sent in. I know a reprieve when I see one. I tell her no thanks and flee the shoe store before I can change my mind.

Clearly, I've dodged a bullet.

Lesson Learned: Cut out idle browsing.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - The Month Of Living Frugally Day 1 - Good Mothers Spend Money

2008-11-04T22:12:00.001-08:00

Eldest daughter, an avid reader, is out of books, library is closed and unless I buy her a new novel immediately she will read vampire series Twilight for the seventh time.

Mentally debate which is the lesser of two evils: A) Being a bad, "not-exposing-child-to-enough-culture" kind of mother and risk creating undead-worshipping pre-teen goth girl; or B) Falling off the NO IMPULSE BUYING wagon on Day One and rushing to Chapters in search of uplifting reading material - hopefully Heidi or The Bobbsey Twins.

Decide allowing her to read the vampire series the six previous times alrady qualifies me as a bad mother. Cull closet for black clothes I can pass on to her and add "garlic" to my grocery list.

Lesson Learned: Kids don't have to have the latest and greatest.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - The Month of Living Frugally

2008-10-31T17:07:00.000-07:00

My first reaction was scorn when my good friend D. announced she had cut her family's Visa bill in half simply by cutting out impulse buys.

"Wow, she must have been a real spendthrift before embracing this new frugality."

Next came shame. "If she can save that much, imagine how much I must fritter away each month on clothes I don't really need, magazines I never have time to read and stuff the kids ask for then forget about in a nano-second."

Finally, there was dread. "But stop shopping? I don't think so."

I consider myself average - certainly not a shopaholic. But like the women who can't imagine living without their daily glass (or two) of wine, I can't see myself saying "No" to a cute little pair of shoes that makes my heart sing. Maybe I have a problem.

So right then and there I decided that for the month of November, I would go on the wagon and cut out impulse shopping.

Mind you I'm not talking about going to extremes. I'm not a crazy Birkenstock wearing (I mean the ugly old sandal style, not the cute new ones that look like comfy clogs), coffee filter recycling, dye-your-hair-at-home kind of woman. I will only buy the things my family and I really need.

Tomorrow is the start of my month of living frugally. Check back in from time to time to see how I'm doing.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get me to a store. Like a smoker on New Year's Eve who is planning to give up her pack a day habit at the stroke of midnight, I've got some serious puffing to do. Only in my case, the smoke you see rising around me will be coming from the vigorous swiping of my Visa card.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Engine Shampoo, $352.00 - Sipping A Latte At The Honda Dealership, Priceless

2008-11-04T19:50:00.000-08:00

It's hard to say what the tipping point was - the final seduction that drew me in and caused me to abandon all reason.

Perhaps it was the chocolate sprinkles for my latte. Or maybe it was the knowing looked that played across the car jockey's face when he took my keys. But whatever it is, I'm hooked and there will never be another. I'm taking my car to Honda for servicing for the rest of my life.

To understand my devotion you must first know my history.

When I was young and foolish my cars were serviced by fast talking, two-bit mechanics with names like Gus and Nick. Their auto yards were always on the wrong side of town and I only went there out of need, I tell you.

In their dingy grey overalls, cigarettes dangling from their mouths, they'd force me to back my own car into the service bay, knowing full well I sucked at backing up, that I might accidentally fall into the oil pit at any moment.

Then I'd wait in a cramped office decorated with pictures to Miss September until they came to tell me that sure, the oil was changed but if I didn't get the engine shampooed immediately, there would be hell to pay - that there was no guarantee whether I'd live or die if I drove on the highway with a dirty engine.

What did I know? I was a young, innocent girl and their words dazzled me. "Manifold" they'd whisper. "Carburetor" they'd purr. Before I could stop myself I was forking over cash so they could add anti-freeze in July.

But it all changed the day the new mini-van drove into my life.

It was different from all the rest - new and shiny and it came with a warranty.

It was a classy kind of car - not the kind of vehicle you take to the local repair shop. Nahh, nothing but the dealership would do for an auto like this.

My first oil change with the van was like nothing I had ever experienced before. I think the earth moved.

Cute young men in khaki pants and matching windbreakers met me at the doors to the service bay. While one took my keys another guided me to the reception desk. When I confirmed I had an appointment and recited my license plate number they beamed at me like I had just solved the cold fusion puzzle.

After they slipped me a buzzer to tell me when my van would be ready, they guided me to the waiting area. Once there they showered me with free coffee, Internet access and all the piped in music I could handle. I was in love.

I know they're always looking out for my best interest. Why just last week when I went to have my oil changed they suggested that maybe I should have the engine shampooed and I said, "Yes, yes, yes". I trust them - they know what I need.

Engine Shampoo, $352.00 - Sipping A Latte At The Honda Dealership, Priceless.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Top 5 Money Saving Tips for The 40+ Woman

2008-10-27T11:04:00.000-07:00

Lately I've taken to saving rubber bands.

I haven't a clue what to do with all of them but I'm trying to be a responsible saver. The dire economic news has gotten me spooked and all I can think of these days is "Save, save, save".

This is an entirely new concept for me. While I'd never describe myself as a spendthrift, I must confess that until recently, I didn't worry much about what things cost - much to my poor husband's dismay.

Ever since I stopped working to stay home with the kids, he makes the money and I spend it. It's a perfectly good symbiotic relationship. He likes working, I like shopping - every one's happy.

Then the sub-prime mortgage, credit crisis, what the heck were they thinking, recession thingy hit and even I know it's prudent to buckle down.

Apart from the rubber band hoarding, I began to think about other ways I could make a positive impact on our family finances.

My husband offered suggestions.

"Why don't you get your hair done less often or go somewhere cheaper?" he ventured.

I just rolled my eyes and didn't even respond to that one - that's just crazy talk.

He tried again. "How about shopping at a less expensive grocery store? Take milk for example. With two kids in the house, we go through a lot. How much are you paying for it now? "

I blinked at him like a deer in the headlights. I don't really know how much I pay for milk. We need it - I buy it. I mean, come on, if I read all the little shelf tickets when I load up the grocery cart, there wouldn't be any time left to read the tabloids at the check-out.

After an hour of his lame suggestions, I praised him for his insight and declared him to be so smart. That threw him off the trail and I got down to coming up with my own list of five ways a midlife woman can save money in these tough, recessionary times.

Top 5 Money-Saving Tips For The 40+ Woman

1. Buy domestic wine instead of the imported stuff. (Yes, it's a hardship but tough times call for tough measures.)
2. Avoid impulse buying. (Okay, don't panic - I'm just joking about this one.)
3. Skip unnecessary Botox treatments. (Only go when you really need it.)
4. Rely on less costly accessories to spice up your classic outfits. (Like the $350 leopard print Michael Kors bag I spotted recently. Think of how much you'll save!)
5. Save money on Spanx and other such shapewear. Have your significant other roll you snugly in duct tape every morning. (Kinky and fashionable!)

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Elder eCare

2008-10-10T13:11:00.000-07:00

"Why do they keep sending me information on penis enlargement?" she demanded.

I briefly toyed with the idea of trying to explain to my 78 year-old aunt the ins and outs of Internet spam but figured I'd spent enough time on this impromptu computer tutorial already and one more minute would cause the tick that had developed in my right eye to become a permanent condition.

I love older people. I think they're really smart. Some of them are technological wizzes. And then there are the others.

You know who I'm talking about.

The kindly, yet befuddled neighbour who calls you in to take a quick look at his computer. "It'll only take a couple of minutes" he assures. Three hours and a long conversation with Garup from the help centre in India later you leave with a paper bag full of tomatoes from the garden for your troubles.

The father who insists that his password changed all by itself.

Or my friend L.'s mother who e-mails her three or four times a day but follows up each message with an immediate phone call. "Honey, I just sent you a pickle recipe. Did you get it?"

I try to be patient when an elder in my life needs help with a computer question but sometimes it's really, really hard. Let's face it, some things are just over their heads and it's a real burden when they rely on the younger generation to show them how it's done.

But enough of this. I have to find my daughter. I need to download something from iTunes plus I want her to tape a show. She's just so much better at that kind of stuff.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Grumpy Old Women

2008-09-25T13:34:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-16T19:23:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-11T19:37:00.000-07:00

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.