Hi VIP Members.
I adapted my show Downward Facing Broad into an E-Book! And you have the chance to read it before anyone else.
Here are the first two chapters. More funny to follow every two weeks.
DOWNWARD FACING BROAD
by Deborah Kimmett
Acknowledgements: Tracy Rideout, CBC Radio for broadcasting this as a comedy special on Laugh Out Loud. Allison Dore, Howl and Roar Records, Richard Side, Laurel Brady, Dale Boyer, Christian Smith, Brendan Brady, Libby Osler. Stephen Shehori.
“At 60 I joined a women’s choir, booked a bus trip to a Broadway show, and began to dress in a tribal-looking eco-friendly coat. A coat made of bamboo. When I sweat, I smell like a Burmese forest.”
“At 60 I joined a women’s choir, booked a bus trip to a Broadway show, and began to dress in a tribal-looking eco-friendly coat. A coat made of bamboo. When I sweat, I smell like a Burmese forest.”SENIOR’S DISCOUNT:
When I turned 60, things began to change. I never even bought a scarf to wrap around my neck until I turned 60. On my birthday, for no apparent reason, I began to adorn myself in pashmina. It’s not age that makes men leave us, it’s scarves. They don’t want a woman they have to unwrap.
And although I can’t carry a tune in a bucket — I sing in the key of “off” — I joined a women’s choir, booked a bus trip to a Broadway show, and began to dress in a tribal-looking eco-friendly coat. A coat made of bamboo. When I sweat, I smell like a Burmese forest. Hand-stitched in Central America.
I was attempting to look like an original, but when I went out into the theatre lobby, every woman there was dressed the same way. We all looked like we’d just arrived from Zimbabwe. We had the same scarf, the same hairdo! The bob with the blonde streaks. Some women go grey because they say they want to go natural. I’ve had laser surgery and heart stents. If I went natural, I’d be dead.
You might think I’m being misleading, and that the carpet doesn’t match the drapes. Well, maybe the carpet is a shag rug from the ’80s. Maybe the carpet is old and has dust mites. And maybe the drapes should mind their own damn business.
The whole game began to change in my fifties.
I remember the exact day it happened. I was standing at the cash register in my local pharmacy, when I looked down at my sales receipt and saw the clerk had given me 10% off.
I said, “What’s this?”
In a high-pitched up-speak voice, that voice that makes a statement sounds like a question, she said, “Oh actually, that’s the senior’s discount.”
At the time I was only 54, so I quickly corrected her.
“Oh actually, I’m not a senior. I’m ONLY 54!”
Then her voice went up another half octave. “Actually, at this store we give it to you earlier.”
I countered her timbre by speaking in an alto voice, like I did in the choir. “Actually, that’s ridiculous. What if you did that with the drinking age? 19 in one place, 18 in another?”
And then she did something that would continue to happen every time I said anything after the age of sixty. She rolled her eyes at me. She gave me the same eyeroll all of society would begin giving me once I took that discount.
She was trying to cull me from the herd.
I’d experienced this before. Like when I was at Target and a rather officious worker came up and asked me to go to the PLUS section.
“I’m sorry ma’am. Could you come with me? The size of your ass is scaring the petites.”
Then security escorted me down the escalator to the basement, to the land of stretchable waistbands.
I couldn’t let this happen, so I said to the pharmacy clerk, in no uncertain terms, “Take it back. Take the discount back.”
Have you ever tried to give back a senior discount?
This was the scene that unfolded.
Cashier: “Actually, I need my calculator.”
Me: “Actually, it’s ten percent. All you have to do is move a decimal point.”
And then she started crying, “Actually, I have an urban planning degree and I’m only the manager on Fridays!”
What a mess. By the time I got to my car, I felt so ashamed. I was an older woman who was supposed to be supporting the sisterhood, and she was a nice gal just trying to get by in the service industry. Working minimum wage. What was wrong with me?
I went back inside, and there she was, still standing behind the counter, still crying, and talking to herself. “I’m almost 30. I ride a bicycle to work, I’m still living with my parents…”
I walked up to her and said, “Look I’m sorry. I was rude. It’s just that I feel more and more invisible each day.”
And when I finished, she looked stunned, almost like she hadn’t heard a word I said.
And then she walked off, like I didn’t exist.
“Ghosting is when you text your kids and they act like they didn’t get it.”
GHOSTING
Ghosting is when you text your kids and they act like they didn’t get it. I know about ghosting; I’ve been a comic for forty years. I was in comedy in the days before “women were funny.” In a business with ten men to one woman, we were apparitions. If they hired us at all, they couldn’t see us as more than a foil or the butt of their jokes. Guys were constantly mansplaining my own joke to me, all the while they were dry humping me. Ah, the good old days. No one is dry humping me now, are they?
By the way, there’s no need to go on Tinder if you want to date an old man. Go to a Krispy Kreme donut shop and all you see are old men. The only thing they’re swiping left-to-right is icing sugar off their top lips.
What happens to some old guys is they get that angry face, like they don’t know what the hell everyone is up to. So often I’ve wanted to turn to one of those men and say, “Come on buddy, put a smile on. We’re all trying here.”
That’s the problem, isn’t it? I look at them and think “YUK,” and they look at me and think “YUK,” and that’s why everyone my age is lonely.Sometimes I have to Swiffer under my boobs. I’m always leaning back, like at any moment I’m going to yell out, “Get off my lawn!”
IS THIS WHAT I ACTUALLY LOOK LIKE?
There’s an image in my head that doesn’t match up with what I see in the mirror. Or when I pass by a store window and think, “Who the hell is that old broad?” only to discover it’s myself.
And the problem is, I’ve been hanging-out with people my own age. People who say, “You look great, Deb.” And I reply with, “Well, you look like you did in high school.” That’s if we went to Dried Apple Doll High! I’m lying to them and they’re lying to me. Don’t you love it when people say, “You look great… for your age!”
I used to think of myself as a handsome woman, but now it’s like my whole body yawned and it’s never returned to its first position.
I have a shelf on my chest. I can set my coffee cup on it. Sometimes I have to Swiffer under my boobs. I’m always leaning back, like at any moment I’m going to yell out, “Get off my lawn!”
Is 60 the New 40?
At 40 you can get pregnant. At 60 you look pregnant.At 40, you’re talking about your new food plan. At 60, you’re thinking, “Eat it! Don’t eat it. Shut up about it.”
When I turned 60, my aunt sent me a birthday card that said, “Now that you’re 60, the weeks will fly by but the days will drag. Happy birthday!”
There wasn’t even any money in the card. Apparently, at this age, not only is time flying by and dragging, there’s no cash!
Some people will say 60 is the new 40. Not one 40-year-old on the planet thinks this. Not one forty-year-old I’ve ever met has said “I want to look like that sixty-year-old over there.”
And frankly, men thinking 60 is the new 40 is why there are motorcycle accidents.
At 40 you can get pregnant. At 60 you look pregnant.
At 40, you’re talking about your new food plan. At 60, you’re thinking, “Eat it! Don’t eat it. Shut up about it.”
You know there isn’t some other body going around the suitcase carousel at the airport, waiting for you to claim it. But at 40, you don’t know that. You’re still buying self-help books. At 60, you’re having a yard sale for those same books. By this age, you’ve done everything to improve. You’ve envisioned prosperity. You’ve got your colours done.
You’ve been disrupted, downsized, amalgamated, outsourced, thought outside the box, drank wine from a box, and you know with complete certainty you have absolutely no more potential.
At 60, are you still wondering if you’re going to make it? No, because you know, in no uncertain terms, that this is as good as it’s going to get. That’s OK. 60 is the new 40? Imagine, saying that if you got pulled over for speeding.
“But officer, 60 is the new 40!”
BUSY IS THE NEW FINE
Life is going faster. Not just for me, but for everybody. You used to ask people how they were doing and they’d say “Fine.” Now they say, “I’m busy.”
Busy. Busy. Busy. Busy is the new badge of honor. Frankly, a lot of times I say I’m busy but I’m doing nothing. I want to be busy. but not too busy.
Mostly I make plans I want to cancel. I wake up in the morning with two equal and opposing thoughts. One part of me wants to go out for dinner with my friends, and the other part can’t wait to get home and take off her bra.
It’s hard to get anywhere anymore.
Construction everywhere. Getting out of traffic is like getting out of an escape room. Trying to work as a team to exit the downtown core, yelling, “We read the clue wrong; we were supposed to avoid Adelaide.”
Tell me why cities still close all the major roadways for the Run for the Heart race. You’d think heart people would not want to block a main artery.
The other day I tailgated two cops on horses in the middle of downtown traffic. Two cops just ambling along so slowly, at first I thought it was some sort of historical re-enactment. I’m not sure if I’m even allowed to pass a cop on a horse, so I was stuck behind them, not sure what they were going to do. There are no turn signals, just the tail swishing back and forth, which I believe is actually tailgating. Then one of the horses let go of a big plop. And did the cops climb down to poop n’ scoop?
The only thing worse is cops on bicycles. Do these guys in shorts actually scare anybody? Are they trying to intimidate us with the size of their calves? The cops that have to ride bikes are likely the violent cops. The precinct wants them biking 40 kilometers a day to get rid of their rage before they interact with a visible minority.
What do cops on bikes do if they actually get a call? Do they have to unlock their bikes and put their helmets on the moment they hear “We got a 10-4-12 in progress” on their walkie-talkies? They can’t exactly burn rubber or put a cherry on their helmet to get pedestrians out of the way. At best, they can maybe do a wheelie out of the parking lot.
Plus, drug dealers have no respect for these cops, because drug dealers are in cars. They can see the cops in their rear-view mirror, biking against the wind like they’re mimes. With their hands placed on the steering wheel in completely the wrong position: they should be at ten and two, and they’re at six and twelve. These guys are just taunting the cops, and the cops are like The Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz, “I’ll get you, my little petty thieves!”
When they start gaining on the car, the drug dealers just open their doors and nail them.
When I was growing up, women never swore. But now they sound like geese on a pond.
Things get crazy on social media pretty fast. A few months ago, a comic on Facebook posted a picture of her potato from her fall harvest. And as a joke, I wrote, “Hey, isn’t that last year’s potato?” Then she private messaged me and said, “Why did you criticize my crops?”
I wrote back to her, “LOL,” because I’m a comic, and I thought it was a joke.
And she replied, “You’re always so negative about my vegetables. Unfriend me.”
The first thing I wanted to say is, “I’ve never met you.” And secondly, are your hands broken? You can unfriend me.
So, I quickly private messaged Comic #2, and she agreed that Comic #1 indeed tries to pull off the same potato picture every year. “I’ll talk to her for you.”
No, I didn’t need her to fight my battles for me, but Comic #2 talked to Comic #1. And ten minutes later, Comic #1, private messaged me and said, “Oh I didn’t realize you were a comic. I didn’t realize you were being funny.”
So I blocked her.
That’s the way it is now: we’re getting into fights online with people we’ve never met. And that’s why we’re all swearing so much. When I was growing up, women never swore. But now they sound like geese on a pond. “FFFF.”
We’ve got to get ourselves under control, because if we don’t we’re going to get kicked out of the nursing home. Imagine your family visiting you there, and your little grandchild presents you with a gift. “Grandma, I made you a Mother’s Day card out of macaroni.” And we’ll all be swearing like, “I hate that FFFFing macaroni!”
A SWEET TREAT CALLED RUBY
Mother Earth was having a hot flash.
It had been stinking hot. My air conditioner was dripping sarcasm, and my body parts were sticking to each other like Post-it Notes.
I was hot and cranky. And although there had been a lot of domestic nudity, I had the decency to throw on a caftan before going on an ice cream run.
The moment I walked into that ice cream shop, an itty-bitty sweetheart of a girl ran up to me and asked, “Can I have that dress when you grow out of it?”
I’d bought my caftan in Mexico; it looked like what Mrs. Roper would wear if she’d moved to Cancun. This pup tent wasn’t going to be form-fitting, even if I ate three scoops of maple walnut ice cream.
“Pardon me?” I asked.
“I love your dress, beautiful lady. It has jewels. Can I have it when you grow out of it?”
Beautiful lady? I love children’s perceptions of things.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Three.”
Her grandmother yelled from behind the counter. “She’s four.”
The little doll confided, “I loved three. It was a much better age.”
I started looking at the various tubs of ice cream, window shopping with my mouth. I wanted something — either sweet or crunchy or salty, or maybe a trifecta of abuse — but it was hard to concentrate with Sweetie Pie following me. She was breaking out her dance moves and rolling around the floor on her head, jabbering away the whole time.
“What are you looking for? Do you want to see me dance? If you buy an ice cream cone, you won’t be able to balance it and drive your truck at the same time.”
“Oh yes I will,” I thought.
As the little girl’s innocence washed over me, the need to obliterate my discomfort began to melt away. The three scoops of ice cream I’d had my heart set on became two, and eventually just a single scoop.
What a child she was — innocent like we all once were before we became filled with doubt and cynicism. She still had that openness to say what was in her heart.
As I left, she called out, “What’s your name?”
“Deborah,” I said.
“Mine is Ruby.”
“Nice to meet you, Ruby.”
“You too, beautiful lady.”
I almost cried. I realized I was feeling sorry for myself. I wasn’t the only one on the planet who was hot. It hit 65C in Iran that day. No wonder they want nuclear power; it’ll cool things down.
I finished my one scoop — as I drove, thank you very much — and it made me feel a little less cranky. I had to admit that three scoops would have been overdoing it. We don’t have to eat more than we really need, just to escape what’s troubling us. Sometimes our inner child encourages us to accept ourselves, caftan and all.
And sometimes life just wants us to see the gifts before us, and delight in a sweet treat like Ruby.
SUMMER DRIVE
Fall drives are nice, going up north to watch the leaves turn. But if your timing is off by a week, all you’ll see are dead leaves.
The spring drive means nothing is open yet. And the winter drive? Well, I’ve never once in my life gotten up and said, “Hey, it’s February, let’s go for a spin.”
But when the temperature hits over 20 degrees, I get a hankering to get in the car and go somewhere. I lather the SPF 60 sunscreen on my driving arm, which is perched on the partly rolled-down window. Beyoncé’s Single Ladies is blaring as I merge onto the highway. I’m met with the sweet smell of tar and the dulcet sound of jackhammers.
Nothing says summer like a highway pared down to one lane. Within minutes, I’ve cranked the air up to the same temperature as a meat locker. I know the heat is out there waiting for me.
I grew up near the Thousand Islands, which meant if someone said to go jump in the lake, you could. In the summer, you’d never think of getting in the car without your bathing suit underneath your clothes. If you wore a swimsuit on a winter drive, it meant you’d run out of underwear.
The best times were the trips with my dad.
My parents’ idea of a holiday was stuffing six kids in a panelled station wagon and driving 500 or 600 kilometres a day. My dad was the kind of guy who, if GPS had been invented back then, would’ve thought it was lying. He also believed rest stops were for the weaker relatives. I think we’d be in Quebec before we’d get our first bathroom break. One time he slowed down in New Brunswick and said, “Hey kids, there’s Magnetic Hill. We don’t need to stop, because if we go backward like that we’ll lose time.”
We didn’t care. Perhaps we had Stockholm syndrome, and had started identifying with our captor. Or perhaps we were having a ball in the back seat.
These were the days before seatbelts. Every time dad turned a corner, we’d slam into each other. It was like being on a ride at the amusement park – without the height requirement.
We played “I Spy” and spotted love bugs – punching each other until our upper arms were black and blue.
My mother gave us 50 cents each, and I convinced my brother to pool his resources with mine to get some itching powder.
“Come on, it’ll be fun!”
We shook it down my sister’s back when she was sleeping. She immediately broke out in hives and tried to crawl out of her skin. The mayhem ended with my exasperated mother marching down the road trying to leave, with my dad driving behind her, arms hung defeatedly over the steering wheel, muttering, “I don’t know what she’s thinking. At this rate, we’ll never make it to the ocean by nightfall.”
Being forcibly confined breaks some people. It’s broken me. Being trapped in a small space impairs my ability to make reasonable buying decisions. Summer drives often lead to odd purchases of fudge or folk art. Once on a 12-hour drive to Timmins, I picked up a Billy Bass fish singing Take Me to The River.
That’s because reality is heightened during a summer expedition. Swims always feel more refreshing. Hot dogs taste like steak. The connection to friends is never sweeter. A lot of summer drives end with great late-night conversations echoing across the lake.
I still like to go on road trips in the summer. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe I’m trying to chase a feeling I had in my youth. Or maybe my dad was right: the destination is far better than the journey.
MY 60-YEAR-OLD HIPS THAT MADE THE NORWEGIANS LAUGH!
A while back, I was in Isla Mujeres, Mexico for International Women’s Day, attending a conference called We Move Forward. Eighty amazing women from all over the globe, gathered for three days of inspiration. Other than to be with fabulous women, I had no goals for this conference. I didn’t want to be Helen Reddy: I was a woman, but there would be no roaring. I didn’t want to change my vision or be motivated. I’d improved enough. I wanted to enjoy the beauty of Mexican beaches and my delightful hotel.
But when you start to relax, you find one thing is true: your mind has a mind of its own. As soon as I committed to enjoying myself, I began to hear a radio show playing in my head: CK-R-U Kidding Me?
CK-R-U Kidding Me? is like a talk show with callers chiming in from my childhood, all blabbing about how I shouldn’t be this size, this age, this pasty. I should be someone else. Who? I don’t know. It’s a female trait to put all our anxiety on the body. We could have a day where we popped out a kid in a field, put out fires, rescued cats and spayed them. But at the end of the day, we’d always bemoan the fact we’re fat. Or think we were. I think it’s because if we had to own how powerful we really were, we’d be afraid we’d start blowing up buildings with our excess energy.
As the conference went on, and one woman after another inspired the group with stories of courage and determination, I thought, “I’m so sick of this CK-R-U Kidding Me? playing in my head.” It was like relentless elevator music.
I really didn’t care why CK-R-U Kidding Me? was on my satellite dish – I realized I didn’t want to subscribe anymore. So for the next several days, every time I started to hear some negative mind fart, I purposely nipped it in the butt. I mean bud.
I walked, danced, moved my booty, ate, laughed, and cried until it hurt. I even attempted snorkelling. And although I ingested a fair bit of salt water, I started to feel good. Me! Someone with psoriasis and age spots and cellulite — in other words, human — finally felt like they fit in their body. This body was OK. I was OK.
Naturally, the universe would want to make sure I’d learned this lesson…
One delightful afternoon, I came back to the hotel, where a Norwegian couple I’d befriended was splashing around in the pool. They yelled, “Hey, Deborah, come on in. You look hot!”
I did? Wow! This affirmation crap was working!
Those beautiful young people didn’t care I was walking around with 54-year-old hips and a size 14 bathing suit. Petra and Jarold thought I looked hot. Sweaty even!
I went to my room and shut the curtains (my room overlooked the pool). And as I slipped into my swimwear, I did my chant: “You’re good. You’re fine. You’re lovely.”
I sauntered out of the room and hopped into the pool. And to my surprise, the young Norwegians began laughing at everything I said. I was tickling the Norwegians’ funny bones BIG TIME!
Then I looked down and saw what they found so hilarious. I had put my bathing suit on inside out! I looked at the Norwegians. They smiled. I looked at the bra cups bobbing on top of the water. I looked back at the Norwegians. They waited for my response.
“This is how we roll in Canada.”
Then I dove into the water and flipped them my bum. To hell with it. I wasn’t going back to the room to change. That’s what I wanted from this vacation: no change! No more turning myself inside out.
As I did my self-love victory laps, I wondered how many mojitos it would take before the Norwegians would pass out and I could finally go back to my room.
INSOMNIA
I don’t sleep anymore. I now wake up most days at four in the morning. No matter how late I go to bed, it’s always 4 a.m. I lie there and count the minutes ‘til I can get up and drink coffee. I think of the weirdest things at this time:
Who was the first person to knit socks?
Was it a fisherman and his dyslexic sister, Purl?
And another thing, why does anybody who’s done one yoga class start saying “Namaste”?
I feel like genuflecting, to tick them off. You have to agree there’s a societal overuse of the prayer hands emoji in our texts. Followed by the pine tree emoji! What does that pine tree mean?
In the light of day, I could care less about these things. But at 4 a.m. they’re what I’m replaying over and over. Damn flippin’ pine tree emoji.
I’m never getting an answer. My brain is like Google in reverse.
Waking up at that time means I’m so tired by evening. Some nights I have to nap on the couch so I have enough energy to get up and go to bed.
VAGINAL ATROPHY!
Apparently, I have vaginal atrophy.
Let me back up for a sec. I was getting my annual physical. And as I was looking up at the cartoons on the ceiling, the doctor said to scooch down.
Scooch is never a great word for women.
Dr. Chow is so tiny, it’s like having a butterfly examine you. But she has no sense of timing. One time she was south of the border and asked me if I had my tonsils out.
“Hmm, can you tell from that angle?”
But this year, while she was feeling around in my nether regions, she asked, “Are you still sexually active?”
“Well, if you mean, ‘Did you try to write off your vibrator as a medical expense?’ Then yes…”
Dr. Chow’s reply to my quip? “You might have vaginal atrophy.”
Then she flitted away like Tinkerbell, while I scooched up enough to get back on my feet.
She left me with two of the most horrible words I’ve ever heard in my life. Vaginal Atrophy. They won’t be putting those words in any public school’s next sex ed curriculum. It sounds like something stuck to a roasting pan. “Let that soak overnight, it’s got vaginal atrophy!”
I gave that doctor a very bad Yelp review.
My biggest fear with this is that I won’t be able to keep doing stand-up. I created these videos for YouTube called Kimmett on a Couch. I referred to them as “Sit-down comedy.” I put my vaginal atrophy set on YouTube. I was thinking people would see me playing a “character.” But people online didn’t read the byline that told them I was a comedienne. They just saw an old broad ranting on YouTube about her kooch. They wrote comments like, “Sending love and prayers.” Some lady in Oklahoma said, “I’m sorry you have V.A.” V.A.? Is this such a rampant condition that it needs a short form?
I replied, “It was just a joke.” She wrote back and said, “VA is no laughing matter.”
So, I blocked her.
To stay healthy, I got one of those step trackers to better manage my stress. Mine is the Fitbit! It never seems to be correct. One time I ate chips, and it said I did 100 steps. I made out with my boyfriend and it said I pole vaulted for three minutes.
I imagine if I have a heart attack, after they’ve quit paddling me, it’ll say, “Congratulations. You’ve reached your goal.”
Recently I started walking with urban poles. I don’t think I’m using them correctly because people asked if I had polio as a child.
Oh, don’t be offended. When was the last time someone you know had polio?
OK, maybe someone you know might contract it in the future because your mom’s an anti-vaxer, but the rest of us have nothing to worry about.
Someone said at my age I should do Aqua-Fit.
Yes, let’s get a gaggle of people with leaky bladders in an aquarium of warm water and hope for the best. That’s why they make you lift Javex bottles. You can exercise and disinfect the pool at the same time.
I decided to give it a try, and it didn’t go well. There were a bunch of women standing in a line at the back of the class. You know those women who never get their hair wet?
ey talked so much we couldn’t hear the instructor. So I said, “Shh” a few times, until I had to turn to the ringleader. And with the sound of a goose squawking, I said, “Shut…the ffffff up!”
Then this broad started splashing me, which is the most exercise she’d gotten in a long time.
Then there was a melee, with noodles and underarm wings flapping. It sounded like a flock of starlings taking flight. I was swinging and ducking, but I didn’t see that arm coming at me. Before I knew it, I got nailed by a skin tag and ended up in the ER.
Can you guess the wait time in Emergency for an Aqua Fit-related injury? A long time!
GET A HOBBY
I can’t retire because I didn’t develop any hobbies. I like eating lunch. Don’t you hate people who eat lunch and say, “Well I guess I won’t be needing any supper.”
Why are you saying that? We weren’t going to check up on you. I always need supper. I have two hobbies: lunch and supper.
DON’T MESS WITH AN OLD BROAD
I like going to the theatre but I don’t want to become one of those gals that I went on that bus trip with and they were brutal At one of the matinees we attended , a guy had a heart attack, and as the EMT wheeled him out, these two women next to me, said, “Oh great. This performance better not start late. We have reservations for six.” That’s what happens to people in retirement. They make leisure time sound like work. They start packing for a trip three months before they leave. Thursday we will be in London, so I will need a raincoat but then if it snows I might need a toque. The U.S. pulled out of Afghanistan, with less planning.
Now that I am old, I will have to do “good”. How many hours a day would that take up?. 3? 4? I did Meals on Wheels, but I ate the meal.Some of my friends go to Africa to help people. I’m not going to Africa. I’ve been to Kenora and that was bad enough. They put it in this revolving room. The room kept moving slowly in a half moon circle. I realized this as I looked out and saw the tree I had been staring at was no longer in my sight line. I thought I was having a stroke. I had to be moved. If I can’t handle a revolving room- how could I ever handle warlords?
So many of my friends are doing this volun-tourism thing. Which sounds good but you got to know if you are making a contribution, or just being a pain in the ass. Like my friend who went to Mumbai. She paid $5600 dollars to help make bricks for poor people. That sounds lovely, but she isn’t a brick maker. She can’t even handle crumbs on the cupboard, so she had no business going to a third world country thinking she was going to be of any help! I got a call from her when I was on the road, far from home myself in Hull, Quebec and I don’t speak the language. I speak French but not Hull French and I’m having dinner in a St. Hubert’s Chicken joint and ordering a Caesar salad with no croutons because I don’t want any wheat, when I got a call from her because she had escaped her compound.
Compound- is that a special section on Airbnb? Are there super hosts in compounds?
And my friend is very upset, she can’t quite cry, “They are feeding me mush-I’m dehydrated and I’m shitting.”
I wanted to say are you shitting bricks?
But I didn’t. No, because I am a good person and I don’t kick a friend when she’s down.
But I did say, cash out your retirement savings plan and get out of there.
Meanwhile, after the call, I got the shits.
Maybe it was in solidarity or maybe because the sous chef didn’t wash her hands.
My point is my shits cost me! $26.50.
Her shits cost her $5600.
And that night neither one of us did absolutely any good for anybody.
Africa is a very beautiful country but they don’t need me going over there shitting- they have enough trouble.
So when I happen to have another $5600 dollars lying around I will stay home and send the cash so that a village can get clean water.
I decided to volunteer in a local seniors home, and I said I don’t want to hand out cookies because I will eat them. And if I play cards I am a sore loser. I decided to come in and read them some stories. When you walk in it’s like getting a visit from the ghost of Christmas future.
There was always this woman crying “Get me out of here.”And that is just the personal support workers. One day, I was reading a story and this lady with white hair-comes up and she stands beside me bouncing up and down in one place.)
And there was a man next to her in the front row,
“Sheesh. Irene you ruin every friggin thing we do.” I find out later he and Irene were married. Without warning she pulls her skirt over her head. Now listen if you do that as a little kid, your parents pull out their phones and put it on Instagram. But if you are in your second childhood you will get body shamed. Irene, cover up your kootch.I’ve played biker bars that were kinder. There is also this rumour that seniors are having sex to beat the band that is suspect. People say STDs are an epidemic.I think that’s an urban myth, like the one, about the rat that was found in a Big Mac. There was only one rat. And in the nursing home there is only one man and he’s tied into a chair. Unless that’s why he’s in the chair, because he’s worn out, and they want the women to leave him alone.
After the a few times I’d finish my stories, I’d walk around and give out hugs to people in the audience and by the time I got halfway around the circle I met this woman called Keitha who looked at me and said,“What’s your game? Why are you coming in here and hugging me?”
And I said “I guess I’m lonely. I guess I am suffering from existential loneliness and we all need a hug.” so she reluctantly gives me a hug. The next week she brings a friend and when I get to the hugging part and the friend looks at Keitha and says,
“What the hell is she hugging us for?”
To which Keitha snorted, “She’s hugging us- because apparently she suffers from existential loneliness.”
A SWEET TREAT CALLED RUBY
Mother Earth was having a hot flash.
It had been stinking hot, hasn’t it? My air conditioner has been dripping sarcasm and my body parts have been sticking to each other like Post-it notes.
One day last week, I was hot and cranky, and although there had been a lot of domestic nudity, I had the decency to throw on a caftan before going on an ice cream run.
No sooner do I walk into the store when an itty bitty sweetheart of a gal comes up to me and asks, “Can I have that dress when you grow out of it?”
I’d bought my caftan in Mexico; it looked like what Mrs. Roper would wear if she’d moved to Cancun. This pup tent was not going to be form-fitting even if I ate three scoops of maple walnut ice cream.
“Pardon me?” I ask.
“I love your dress, beautiful lady. It has jewels. Can I have it when you grow out of it?”
Beautiful lady? I love children’s perception of things.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Three.”
Her grandmother yells from behind the counter. “She’s four.” The little doll confides, “I loved three. It was a much better age.”
I started looking at all the tubs of ice cream, window-shopping with my mouth. I wanted something — either sweet or crunchy or salty or maybe a trifecta of abuse — but it was hard to concentrate with Sweetie Pie following me. She was breaking out her dance moves and rolling around the floor on her head, jabbering away the whole time.
“What are you looking for? Do you want to see me dance? If you buy an ice cream cone, you won’t be able to balance it and drive your truck at the same time.”
Oh yes I will, I thought.
As the little girl’s innocence washed over me, the need to obliterate my discomfort began to melt away. The three scoops of ice cream I’d had my heart set on became two, and eventually just a single scoop.
What a child she was — innocent like we all once were before we became filled with doubt and cynicism. She still had that openness to say what was in her heart.
As I left, she called out, “What’s your name?
“Deborah,” I said.
“Mine is Ruby.”
“Nice to meet you, Ruby.”
“You too, beautiful lady.”
I almost cried. I realized I was feeling sorry for myself. I wasn’t the only one on the planet who was hot. That day, it hit 65C in Iran. No wonder they want nuclear power; it’ll cool things down.
I finished my one scoop — as I drove, thank you very much — and it made me feel a little less cranky. I had to admit that three scoops would have been overdoing it. We don’t have to eat more than we really need just to escape what’s troubling us. Sometimes, I thought, our inner child encourages us to accept ourselves, caftan and all.
And sometimes life just wants us to see the gifts before us and delight in a sweet treat like Ruby.
A SUMMER DRIVE
Fall drives are nice, going up north to watch the leaves turn, but if your timing is off by a week all you’ll see are dead leaves. The spring drive means nothing is open yet, and the winter drive? Well. I have never gotten up once in my life and said, “Hey it’s February, let’s go for a spin.”
But when the temperature hits over 20 degrees, I get a hankering to get in the car and go somewhere. I lather on the 60 SPF sunscreen on my driving arm, which is perched on the partly rolled down window. Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” is blaring as I merge onto the highway. I am met with the sweet smells of tar and the dulcet sounds of jackhammers. Nothing says summer like a highway down to one lane. Though within minutes I’ve cranked the air up to about the same temperature as a meat locker, I know the heat is out there waiting for me.
I grew up near the Thousand Islands, which meant if someone said to go jump in the lake, you could. In the summer you would never think of getting in the car without your bathing suit underneath your clothes. If you wore a swimsuit on a winter drive, it meant you had run out of underwear.
The best times were trips with my Dad.
My mom and his idea was that a holiday was to stuff six kids in a panelled station wagon and drive 500 or 600 kilometres a day. My Dad was the kind of guy who, if GPS had been invented back then, would’ve thought it was lying, and who believed the rest stop was for the weak. I think we were in Quebec before we got a bathroom break. He slowed down in New Brunswick and said, “Hey kids, there’s Magnetic Hill. We don’t need to stop because if we go backward like that we’ll lose time.”
We didn’t care. Perhaps we had Stockholm syndrome and had started identifying with our captor. Or perhaps we were having a ball in the back seat.
These were the days before seat belts. Every time he turned a corner we’d slam into each other. It was like being on a ride at the amusement park – without the height requirement.
We played “I Spy”, and spotted love bugs – punching each other until our upper arms were black and blue.
My mother gave us each 50 cents and I convinced my brother to pool his resources with mine to get some itching powder.
Come on, it will be fun.
We first shook it down my sister’s back when she was sleeping. The result was similar to trapping a cat in a tent while camping. She broke out in hives trying to crawl out of her own skin. And it ended with my mother marching down the road trying to escape, with my Dad driving behind her, both arms hung defeated over the steering wheel muttering:
“I don’t know what your mother was thinking. At this rate, we’ll never make it to the ocean by nightfall.”
Being forcibly confined breaks some people. It did me. Trapped in a small space impaired my ability to make reasonable purchases. Summer drives often tempt odd purchases of fudge or folk art. Once on a 12-hour drive to Timmons, I picked up a Billy Bass fish singing “Take Me to The River.”
This is because reality is heightened after a summer expedition.
Swims always feel more refreshing. Hotdogs taste like steak. The connections to friends are never sweeter. A lot of good summer drives end with great late night conversation echoing across the lake.
Despite evidence to the contrary I still like to go on road trips in the summer. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe I am trying to chase a feeling I had in my youth. Or maybe my Dad was right: The destination is far better than the journey.
55 Year Old Hips That Made the Norwegians Laugh!
Awhile back, I was in Isla Mujeres, Mexico for International Women’s Day, attending the conference called “We Move Forward.” Eighty amazing women from all over the globe gathered for three days of inspiration. Other than to be with fabulous women, I had no goals for this conference. I didn’t want to be Helen Reddy. I was a woman, but there would be no roaring. I didn’t want to change my vision or be motivated. I had improved enough. I wanted to enjoy the beauty of Mexican beaches and my delightful hotel.
But when you start to relax, you find one thing is true: Your mind has a mind of its own. As soon as I committed to enjoying myself, I start to hear a radio show playing in my head: “CK-R-U kidding me?”
“CK-R-U kidding me?” is like a talk show with callers chiming in from my childhood, all blabbing about how I shouldn’t be this size, this age, this pasty. I should be someone else. Who? I don’t know. It’s a female trait to put all our anxiety on the body. We could have a day where we popped out a kid in a field, put out fires, rescued cats and spayed them, but at the end of the day we always bemoan the fact we’re fat. Or think we are. I think it’s because if we had to own how powerful we really are, we’d be afraid we’d start blowing up buildings with our excess energy.
But as the conference went on, and one woman after another inspired the group with stories of courage and determination, I thought, I am so sick of this “CK-R-U kidding me?” playing in my head. It was like elevator music.
Frankly I have made the self-help industry thousands of dollars. I really don’t care why “CK-R-U kidding me?” is on my satellite dish. I don’t want to subscribe anymore. So for the next few days, every time I started to hear some negative mind fart, I purposely nipped it in the butt. I mean bud.
I walked, danced, moved my booty, ate, laughed and cried till it hurt. I even attempted snorkelling. And although I ingested a fair bit of saltwater, I started to feel good. Me! Someone with psoriasis and age spots and cellulite — in other words human — finally felt like I fit in my body. This body was okay. I was okay. But the universe would want to make sure I had learned this lesson….
One delightful afternoon, I came back to the hotel where I was staying and a Norwegian couple I had befriended was splashing around in the pool. They yelled,“Hey, Deborah, come on in. You look hot!”
I did? Wow! This affirmation crap was working!
See, those beautiful young people didn’t care I was walking around with 54-year-old hips and a size 14 bathing suit. Petra and Jarold thought I looked hot. Sweaty even!
So I went to my room and shut the curtains (my room overlooked the pool) and as I slipped into my swimwear, I did my chant: “You are good. You are fine. You are lovely.”
When I came out of the room, I got into the pool and the young Norwegians laughed at everything I said. I was tickling the Norwegians’ funnybones BIG TIME!
Then I looked down and saw what they found so hilarious. I had put my bathing suit on inside out! I looked at the Norwegians. They smiled. I looked at the bra cups bobbing on top of the water. I looked back at the Norwegians. They waited for my response.
“See, this is how we roll in Canada. It’s a fashion thing.”
Then I dove in and flipped them my bum. To hell with it. I wasn’t going back to the room to change. That’s what I wanted from this vacation: No change!! No more turning myself inside out. As I did my self-love victory laps, I wondered how many mojitos it would take before the Norwegians would pass out and I could finally go back to my room.
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