Whenever I fall in love with a product, the retail gods take it off the shelves. If I was given a dollar everytime this happened, I’d be rich.
I remember my mother used to complain about this. She loved a perfume called Demi-Jour by Houbigant. Then the company stopped making it. After she passed away, all I had left was an empty bottle, which I cherished. A few years later my sister discovered that a new company now makes Demi-Jour: Dana Classic Fragrances of New York. She got me a box for my birthday, which I covet like liquid gold.
The same thing happened to my favorite perfume: Milles Fleurs by Crabtree & Evelyn. For some unknown reason it was discontinued in 1980, and I never liked any of their replacements.
What is it about these long-lost products that we would love to have back? Memories of our best summer? Our first love? Our youth? If I could find a bottle of Sea & Ski suntan lotion — a 1960’s brand once more popular than Coppertone — I would take a good whiff and be transported back to my Cape Breton summers as a teenager. But it’s no longer made and all that remains is the trademark.
This happens with food, too. There was a cookie that my grandmother bought similar to Arnott’s Lemon Crisp but under another brand which I can’t for the life of me remember. I have scoured the shelves of my local store but can’t find it. It may be available in another province, in the States or even in Europe, but not here. She also kept a handful of green spearmint jelly-filled buttermints in her apron pocket. They are nowhere to be found, only the ones with blue peppermint jelly. Not a big thing, I know. But it’s a detail about this wonderful lady that I wish I could hold in my hand again.
Now my daughter is complaining about this same phenomena: the demise of Time Out chocolate bars by Cadbury, introduced to Canada in 2001 but discontinued here due to lagging sales. Our local pita shop Extreme Pita, that stopped offering pineapple. No more chocolate peanut butter bars sold at Starbucks. Don’t know if this is a local decision or franchise wide. What does all this mean?
That I pay way too much attention to this stuff and am a sentimental, nostalgia junkie or that my taste doesn’t run with the majority of consumers out there, and anything I really like will eventually go the way of the dodo bird.
Either way, it’s annoying.
The original plan was to return our foster — the bouncing, bumping, body-checking 1-year old Lab Shepherd mix named Bowser — back to the shelter next week before our annual Canada Day backyard party, since the thought of a yardful of family (half of whom are allergic to dogs) and grandkids and grandnieces and grandnephews mixing with this crazy canine was just too overwhelming. The animal shelter agreed and admitted that we’ve had our hands full lately with two ‘high maintenance’ dogs back to back. Bowser is finished his run of antibiotics for kidney stones (although they never even slowed him down) and he’ll be soon ready for adoption. Hubby and I will also be babysitting more now that summer has arrived, and decided we needed a wee break from the fostering, maybe until September.
However, hubby woke up yesterday morning finding it hard to breathe, and although he has a summer cold it had gotten a lot worse quickly, and mysteriously improved whenever he was out of the house. Our conclusion? He’s probably allergic to Bowser’s fur.
I hadn’t prepared myself emotionally, but was forced to pack up Bowser’s things and bring him back to the shelter just before noon. I said a prayer that he’ll find the right family: owners who are committed to exercising him at least twice a day — and we’re talking 30 minutes of running beside a bike or a jogger, plus 30 minutes of chasing a ‘Chuck It’ ball. That’s what this big guy needs.
It’s also why hubby and I are exhausted. And finding the chewed remains of two garden chair cushions, several plastic children’s toys, a life jacket and the handle of a scrub brush strewn across our lawn, despite the presence of Kongs and doggie chew toys, we’re kinda done.
But that didn’t stop me from crying while I drove him back, or feeling like I had somehow failed him. That maybe if I’d spent more time on training or given him more walks, he wouldn’t have needed to chew my chair cushions? That if I’d vacuumed more there would have been less fur around the house? That if I was younger and stronger and more of an ‘calm, assertive’ type like Cesar Milan that I could have handled everything better?
Except I’m not calm and assertive. I have struggled with anxiety my entire life, have a history of being a bit of a doormat (although in recent years I’ve improved in that category) tend to get excited easily and being a perfectionist, have always expected way too much of myself.
So now I feel like a big loser in the dog-fostering department, and am worried I’ve bitten off more than I can chew . If hubby is allergic to my new hobby, I’ll be forced to stop anyway, but maybe I can find a more ‘hypoallergenic’ breed.
In the meantime, I miss my big bouncing ball of fur.
At the age of 58, I’m classified as old whether I like it or not. I don’t feel old, but when young twentysomethings eye my grey hair I know they’re thinking, ‘she’s old’. Such is life. I’ve also borne two children and struggle with a sweet tooth, so I weigh more than I should, in the company of at least 1/3 of the population. Being a woman in menopause, my estrogen production has declined and my body fat has migrated from my buttocks, hips and thighs to my waist. Nice, huh?
I wouldn’t mind all this ‘old and fat’ business if our fashion industry recognised this reality, too. But the fashion industry has been dominated by men for a long time, and more recently by skinny women. They just don’t get it. How many old, fat, female fashion designers can you name? Do you see my point? Hip, stylish clothing is made for the young and skinny. If you’re bigger than you should be, your only choice in the majority of retail stores is to buy ugly, shapeless stuff that makes you look even bigger and older.
I live near a big city in Canada, and the fashion I crave is almost non-existent. Shopping in the U.S. is much better, with more variety but still it’s difficult to find decent styles for OFBs (old, fat broads). If I had more sewing/designing talent, I would start a company called OFBs and make slimming, hip-looking clothing for REAL WOMEN that doesn’t end at size 10.
Listen up, Fashion Industry. You’re supposed to be the experts, you should know this already. Here are my pet peeves:
Bathing Suits – I’m tired of ugly bathing suits that make me look 88, not 58!! And enough with the stupid v-necks. Nobody wants to see 58-year-old cleavage, unless you look like Christie Brinkley. I sure don’t. But halters or simple scoop necks are very difficult to find where I usually shop. And here’s a news flash. When you’re big, your thighs rub together causing painful chaffing especially when your skin is wet. I finally found a pair of swimming ‘shorts’ in Florida, along with a swim top with a gathered neckline that minimizes the bulge at my waist. And guess what? It was the last one in the store. Trust me, I would have bought two or three otherwise. Clearly I’m not the only woman who recognizes good styling.
Tops – I waste a lot of my time searching for a top that not only covers up my flab but looks flattering. Lately my only choices have been tops that look like square table cloths with ugly patterns. And if the tops have too much of an a-line, or are too long, they can make you look pregnant. Yeah, pregnant in my 50’s, that’s the look I want. Please, let’s make a few more tops with an empire waist (just under the boobs) and a gentle flowing A-line down to the hips. Styling 101: Darts, pleats and gathering can work wonders in shaping a garment.
Fabric – clingly stretchy fabric is great for yoga pants, but for a top this fabric is a OFB’s nightmare, since it clings to flab. Please consider a little more poly cotton, which is also more breathable during hot flashes.
Dresses – same thing as tops. More darts, pleats, gathers, and empire waists. And no ruffles. Nobody over thirty should wear ruffles.
Shorts – For several years I couldn’t find bermuda length or mid-thigh length shorts in my hometown. Only capris or Daisy Dukes. Not sure what black hole these shorts styles fell into, but I finally found a nice pair — in the states, of course. My husband always complains when I shop in the states, since our dollar exchange now sucks (again). My reasoning is simple. More selection (still not enough, but more than I’m used to).
Patterns – I enjoy patterns as much as the next gal, but there’s a fine line a fifty-something woman must be aware of when choosing patterns. Is it an ‘old crone’ pattern? If you have to ask me what that is, sorry, I can’t describe it in words. Here are a few examples I came upon recently.
Be careful of Old Crone patterns. The Fashion Industry has it out for you, and wants you to look old before your time. Don’t do it! Always ask yourself, “Does this make me look old?
If enough OFBs complained we could pave the way for the younger generation coming up behind us. Because no matter how young you are now, someday you’ll be an OFB, too.
March is a mad month. College students party like crazy on a week-long break, usually on a beach, where they drink too much and indulge in general debauchery. The weather can’t decide if it’s winter or spring (at least this far north of the equator) and Mother Nature teases us with a few days of mild pseudo-spring temperatures, followed by bone-chilling Arctic winter air. On St. Patrick’s Day people of Irish descent (and everybody else) enjoy green beer in pubs decorated with shamrocks.
The Ides of March have become a metaphor for impending doom. What is an ‘ide’, anyway? Apparently it represents the middle of a month with 31 days on the Roman calendar– in other words, March 15th: the date Julius Cesar was back-stabbed 23 times on the street by people whom he trusted. Understandably, a very bad omen.
For this grumpy blogger, March also means that time of year where I escape this dreadful Canadian winter for a while and head south to Florida, along with thousands of other Snowbirds.
Wishing you all a crazy, mad March, in whichever way you choose to spend it.
I like dogs more than most people. They have their priorities in order, live in the moment and teach us what it means to be human.
In my former life I took care of people with heart disease. My job was important, all-consuming and never dull. Despite the incredible workload and stress, I knew I was giving back in a unique way and making a difference to the world around me, patients and co-workers alike.
Now I write novels, which has given me a chance to explore my creative side, a part of me I ignored for too long. But it’s a solitary activity, sitting on your ass in front of a monitor all day. You live inside your head with your characters, a self-absorbed practice that can make you anti-social. Add to that cold winter weather, and many days go by where I haven’t stepped outside in several days, except to have my evening cocktail and smoke the odd cigarette — gasp, yes, I even do that occasionally — and to throw some food at the birds and squirrels in my backyard.
But I’m aware something is missing in this empty nest of mine, so I’ve decided to become a volunteer foster parent to dogs from my local animal shelter. It’s a charity close to my heart. I have time on my hands, own a big house and fenced yard and I miss walking dogs.
Chewbacca will be with us for a few weeks. He is scary skinny, and needs some meat on his bones. Whereas, I’m on a perpetual diet. If only I could give him some of my fat. But alas, the universe doesn’t work that way.