is or is not that into you

So I was reading an article about the supposedly difficult task of knowing whether or not a guy is into you.

I didn't finish the article, and I would not recommend any one else reading it. Why? Because one of the signs is "what you see in his eyes when he first looks at you". That means you have to be looking at him when he first looks at you. Because the first thing he thinks may be apparent in the first second, but after that it is likely hidden.

Nevertheless, that isn't what made me stop reading the article. The author ( a woman, which should have tipped me off in the first place) insists that you don't wear ANY rings. Any at all. Because men "can't tell which hand a wedding ring belongs on, let alone which finger".

This article should have been titled "how to know if an idiot is interested in you", and it would be something you would read to save yourself from idiots.

I took a speed reading course and read 'War and Peace' in twenty minutes. It involves Russia. (Woody Allen)

Here’s the thing: I am a reader. No really, seriously, a reader. Not quite a book a day. During vacation it sometimes works out to a little more than a book a day and during the busy baking times – like Christmas – it works out to much less than a book a day.

I don’t only read books, mind you. Not a lot of magazines mainly British Columbia Magazine and the occasional Harrowsmith Country Life. I also read various blogs and online columns. Some of the blogs belong to friends and such, some to strangers that write in a way that interests me.

One of the odd things about being a compulsive reader (I’m not sure if that is an actual condition, but if it is it certainly applies to me) is that sometimes you read something in a way it wasn’t intended to be read. Say what?

Ok, here’s an example: I read a weekly sex advice column (yeah, I get the irony. Shut up). When I first found the column I went through the archives and read every single column in it. Two years worth of letters. And I did it all over the course of one weekend.

Not surprisingly, I don’t remember many specific questions but I certainly remember the overall impression: we (and I mean ALL of us) are obsessed with “normal”, which is kinda sad given that normal is not a constant, nor is it something that any two people can agree on a definition of. T

he vast majority – and possibly all – of the letters could be boiled down to our fear of not beeing seen as normal. I like this Is that weird? I don’t like that Am I normal? I don’t look like this Is that ok? I do look that. Is that odd? It was quite the eye-opener. I knew, in general, that society likes to conform. Even those who think they are not conforming are nevertheless conforming. The teens that I know that are the most proud of NOT fitting in are almost exact copies of everyone else in the group they have chosen to identify with. I just didn’t know to what extent acceptance – particularly in such a sensitive area as sexuality – mattered. Really mattered. I learned a whole lot of other stuff too but the big lesson was to question myself when I worried about what was normal.

Recently I read many years worth of archived blog entries written by someone I don’t even know. It was interesting in a sad sort of way to watch the marriage of the writer slowly fall apart. I’m assuming the blogger didn’t include every detail but such a life-change couldn’t help but be hinted at over the course of years. Despite the occasional hints, I finished the whole thing wondering how and why it all happened. Early entries spoke of such love and compatability and then there were suddenly hints of anger and resentment. I thought that perhaps as a non-player I’d be able to see some sort of ultimate truth about the whole situation. Turns out that there is no ultimate truth, at least not in a story half-told. Perhaps if the other half blogged the reason behind the sea change would become clear. And perhaps not. Maybe this all comes back to me and my own marriage break down. However many years later it is, I still find myself looking for the “why” of it all. And the truth - ultimate or not - is that I don't really need to know why.

Dear Lyn

Yeah, I could just email her but I've been sadly remiss on the blogfront, so I'm blogging it:

Dear Lyn;
We need, you and I (and possibly The Girl) to go to my little hometown in Quebec. Why? Do they have a Christmas celebration there that we'd enjoy? As a matter of fact they have....twelve.

Yes, you read that right my fellow Christmasaholic, twelve. They do something called the Twelve Days of Christmas. Twelve days of different things, different interesting Christmassy things. And not all in a row, spread out a bit so some of them are in NOVEMBER. I think this could be worth running away from home/university for oui?

Hair today

Hair tomorrow. In the end the cut didn't happen. The salon had the wrong date so they had no time for me when I showed up. And by the time my post-poned date came up, I had to choose between a retreat for The Girl and a hair cut for me. Chose The Girl. So I'll either have to wait, or just shave my head myself. Depends on how the weekend goes, I guess.

Parental Blindness?

I have nothing against Halloween. And I have nothing - or nothing specific, at any rate - against girls in their mid-teens. Yes, the giggling/texting/talking/eye rolling can make my crazy but still, they're just kids. I also have nothing against dressing up as a naughty nurse. I haven't - yet! - but I have no strong feelings against it. What happens in Vegas....you know the drill.

You know what I do object to? All three of those things in one place. As happened on Halloween this year. A 14/15 year old friend of The Girl went trick or treating as a naughty nurse. Her words, not mine or The Girl. And it wasn't some innocent "I'm a nurse" costume that turned out a little too risque. Because on the ride to the farm (I was taking her and The Girl out to visit some horses) she was quite vocal about how much her friend's fathers liked the outfit. Me, I was just creeped out.

Adieu Rapunzel

The time has come. The monkey on my back has got to go. In more straightforward terms, the cost (in detangler and frustration) of hair long enough to TUCK INTO MY JEANS is now equal to the cost of maintaining a short haircut. So on Friday....snip. The length will go to Wigs for Kids and then hopefully I'll emerge as close to a butterfly as this particular caterpillar can hope to be.

My kids have got my number

I had, for a brief bit this weekend, (Saturday night until late Sunday) three dogs instead of two. Why? Because my kids have me worked out.

They know that I'll hug if asked, always, and quite often when not asked. They know that if they ask me to make a favourite meal/salad/cookie/dessert for them I will. They know that if they have a friend that needs cheering up and they want to take them cookies that I'll bake some. They know that if someone/something needs rescuing, I'll ride in on a white horse. Or something like that.

Which would explain the extra dog. The Boy went to a party on halloween, way out in the east end. I drove him there (of course I did - let him go to a party where I haven't met the parents? Without making sure that the parents really are home? Not going to happen) and then went home to hand out candy.

The kids at the party - 17 & 18 year olds - went out to some of the neighbours, after all the little kids had been around. They were joined by a small puking lost dog. The dog went with them from house to house. No one at any of the houses they went to had seen the dog before. They took it back to the party house, where it continued to puke. And there was a cat in the house and the mom didn't know what to do with a dog. So...The Boy called me. Which is how we had - temporarily - a brindle pug. Sweet little thing he was, too. Once he stopped being sick that is.

No collar, but he had a tattoo. We signed up on the lost/found site that is a link from the Regina Humane society. No listing of it up, but there were several "ran out the door on halloween" notices up, even that early. The voice mail on the RHS phone says their hours are nine to five on Sunday but in the end they weren't open until noon. We finally got the name and number of the dog owner, but no one was in when we called. Out looking for the dog, maybe? Anyway - he was returned to his rightful owner, evenetually. And both the kids and the dogs we have were sad to see him go. I myself thought about trading him for the two we own but that would involve heart-breaking ande dog stealing so in the end I'm back where I started: two dogs, two kids, lots of love.