My Three Words

A few weeks ago, I was over at a friend's house for dinner. After the food had been consumed and conversation settled back into its usual rhythmic pace, we were all given the task to come up with three words that described ourselves. Out of the four of us, I seemed to be the only person that was finding it rather difficult to settle on anything more than "indecisive". I was told that my inability to think of three mesely words did not warrant me having to define myself by it. Taking pity on me, I had been given one word by my host. I was grateful for both the start and the compliment. But when I left there, later that evening, the question of how to describe myself was still swirling around in my head.

For days I tried to come up with two other words that I felt I could wear comfortably; ones that I felt fit me like a second skin. I tried them on, one after the other, and finally, after much reflection was pleased with my hard work.

1. Compassionate

2. Fanciful

3. Irrepressable

You know, I've spent nearly an hour writing explainations to why I chose the words I did, but it seemed wrong. It's enough, I suppose, that I know why I chose them.

Two Old Ladies

Millie and Gladys are two ladies very near and dear to my heart. The problem is, they don't really exist. You see, the duo started as a joke between my friend, Carol, and I a couple of years ago. Into our msn homepages we pasted in fake pictures of some eccentric looking old ladies and soon enough we were creating profiles to fit. The joke stuck and the two old ladies became alter egos of sorts. Their personalities began to take on stories of their own, made up as they may be: how Millie would call Gladys from a pay phone, claiming to be God, asking if she'd found her yet; how Gladys liked to take a walk down memory lane and always brought back a souvenir or two; how a good friendship evolves, so that only the strongest bits are left.

They were born of a time when my sense of humour bordered manic; when I was fond of excusing my outlandish behaviour with the phrase, "I have a lot of emotion that just needs to come out" followed by hysterical fits of giggling. This is also when, I have discovered, when my laugh changed from a quiet sort to a huge guffaw, one that could be heard for miles around. Millie is the woman I hope I will one day be. She is strong and has a wicked sense of humour. Maybe not everyone understands her, but they can clearly see how good her intentions are by her actions. Her friend Gladys is how I see my own friend. And like us, Gladys and Millie have weathered their fair share of stormy weather.

How do I know so much of two ficticious women? Well, I've written a story or two about them. Within the lines I've woven a bit of myself and a bit of Carol. It's a story that took me nearly two years to finish, as Carol and I were not in a good place for awhile. It seems that Millie and Gladys ran deeper than I first suspected, as I couldn't imagine a strong friendship between them, until we had re-established our own.

One day, Carol and I will look back and laugh about it. It was a story for the ages, she will say. I will roll my eyes and mock her. She will carry on about the days of our youth and I will remind her that part of our youth was firmly embedded in the days of two old ladies, near and dear to our hearts.

Cheese Update

My mother is not as innocent as she seems, she does, however, have a great sense of humour. If you read my last post about the smelly cheese, you will see that I wrote it for her. What I didn't know is that it was a set up. This past Saturday I was bridesmaid for a dear friend and I had heard that the best man was digging up dirt for the toast to the wedding party. I had been so confident that no-one could find anything on me (as most of my embarrassing stories seem to happen outside that circle of friends). I was wrong.

I stood up to receive my toast, smiling in my blue dress and heels. My stomach was already aching from the three previous speeches, but still, I remained poised. Not even my ex boyfriend (the brother of the bride) could be convinced to give up a story or two. I was going to have it easy. Secretly, deep down, I was a little disappointed. I didn't want to be the only one not to be mocked for fun!

I needn't have worried.

The best man started his speech, "She believes I have no dirt on her," and promptly started in with a tale of how, one day, I went to the doctor to have my back checked out... (for any new readers, please check out the post right before this one... I swear it's worth the time).

At this point in the speech, I knew what was coming... "Nooooooo!" could be heard throughout the banquet room as this realization hit me. I laughed until I nearly cried. The best man, did a lovely job, I thought, though the wording seemed awfully familiar to me. A second realization smacked me between the eyes about half way through the story (right around the part where the doctor cannot form normal speech): the rendition was more than familiar, it was what I had written for my own mother!

She not only gave up some goods on me, she devised a way that I, myself, offered them up without the slightest hesitation. Well done, Mom! I didn't think the smelly cheese story could get any better, but I was wrong.

A little slice of cheese

I received an email today, from my Mom. She had just returned home from work and decided to read my blogs. This surprised me as I didn't realize she knew I even had a blog. Much to my delight, she enjoyed reading my sparse entries (I've not felt like writing lately, but am sure I have gotten over that, now). In fact, she mentioned how she liked the underwear up the pant leg story, but was disappointed by the lack of a personal favorite of hers. So, Mom, here it is, just for you...

When I was about twenty years old I went to the doctor for my physical. This involved me taking off my clothes and wearing one of those little hospital gowns. I was seated on the table and we discussed this health issue and that. About half way through the exam she opened the gown to check out a minor skin problem I had on my back. She was in the middle of a sentence and stopped dead. She touched my posterior and muttered a few more half sentences which sounded something like, "...that doesn't look... too... hmmm. Yes... that's... well... alright," and continued on with the rest of the exam.

A few hours later I was at home and in the bathroom, running a hot shower. I was standing in front of the mirror, undressing. I turned to walk into the tub when I caught a glimpse of my reflection from the back. Oh my God... there it was.

I had forgotten that the day before I was at my boyfriends house and he had wanted to draw some small thing with the black marker he had found earlier. I had let him do it and forgotten about it. This is what had caused my doctor, a woman experienced in all sorts of human diseases and conditions to become inarticulate during a medical examiantion. Drawn on my back, taking up most of the room between shoulders and tailbone was a very large piece of cheese. But it was not just any cheese, no, no. It was smelly cheese, complete with wafting stink lines above and a decorative plate below.

So there you have it. Just one tale from a rather large repitoire of similar experiences that I am sure make my mother shake her head and ask just whose daughter I could possibly be. Love you Mom!