Mysteries of the Make-up Counter-Culture

I have never been accused of being a terribly girly sort of girl. As a youngster, while all of my friends with XX chromosomes were dreaming of owning Barbie's  dream house and marrying her off to Ken, I was hoping for a new hockey stick with a decent blade. While they were all hoping their mothers would take them for manicures and pedicures, I was praying for Blue Jay tickets. And while they all fantasized about the ultimate wedding dress complete with the perfect shoes, I just wanted to change out of my heels into sneakers. So, it should come as no surprise that I have never really been all that knowledgeable about the mysterious world that is cosmetics industry.

I am krill in a shark tank. I am Daniel in the lion's den. I am the Jamaican bobsled team. I am so ignorant on the subject that I require tutoring sessions. The experience is overwhelming. One step into a department store and the barrage is in full swing. Perfectly coiffed and over-made salespeople surround and attack. They push lotions and potions, refining masks and pore minimizers (Do they also sell pore maximizers for those that are "pore-challenged"?), eye paint and face paint in hues with names that sound more like a salad than a blush, and scents that bring this asthmatic to her wheezing knees. These people have no problems pointing out my problem skin zones (In the world of skin care, it is all about targeting your zones; dry zones, oily zones, patchy zones or breakout zones!) or insinuating that they have all of the answers to my issues. Who knew I had issues?  In a department store, the cosmetics area is so large that it literally encompasses a full floor, with counters from dozens of companies, most of which are foreign to me. Heaven forbid that one should want to purchase a Revlon lipgloss at Bloomies! That is so bourgeois. 

A dear friend of mine is the makeup maven and my personal touchstone for all things cosmetic. This is a woman who follows trends in the industry the way that I follow music, politics or baseball. Whenever I am with her, I am in awe and completely submissive. She is like a graceful dancer, easily maneuvering through the crap. She actually can speak with authority on mineral based foundations and she knows every brand and colour that is new. When Sephora finally opened a store in Toronto, I honestly thought that she might declare it a national holiday. She has more points as a frequent shopper there than she will ever be able to use, and I honestly believe that they may create a "super-elite" status just for her. Every time that I am with her, we take several trips to the cosmetics counters. She has a thing about lipstick. She told me once that she continually is experimenting and purchasing new tubes because she hasn't yet found that elusive perfect colour combination. Several years ago, when her family held a garage sale, she allowed her son to sell off hundreds of unopened lipsticks and glosses that she never used. All in shades of brown! Oh sure they may of had fancy names like "rum raisin" and " New York coffee toffee", but to me they all looked brown. Her son made hundreds of dollars that day, because apparently there are many women out there just like my friend. 

I am far more utilitarian in my cosmetics purchases. I use drugstore moisturizers, and my foundations are purchased at Target. I own 2 blushes, a half a dozen shadows and several shades of the aforementioned Revlon lip glosses. I use Oil of Olay body wash and I buy my shampoo and mousses on sale. I colour my own grey (horror of horrors!) and I never, ever use scented anything. (I can't even come within 10 metres of stores like the Body Shop or Bath and Body Works, for fear of a scent triggered attack!) I am a mess when it comes to brushes. I use a blush brush for foundations and a liner brush for shadow. Yesterday, as I entered a MAC (cosmetics, not computers!) store at the mall, I was stunned and amused to note that every salesperson was equipped with a holster of brushes strapped to their chests like some weird kind explosive device. They whipped them out at will, and they knew which to use for shading and which to use for foundation. I was duly impressed, but still unwilling to invest. 

There is evidence to suggest that in times of economic hardship, one of the few industries that actually improves is cosmetics. Maybe people feel that a new lipstick or cologne provides that little lift to get them through a rough spell. As for me, I would rather get my little lift from a good bar of 70% extra dark chocolate. We all have our vices.

Weather Thoughts From the Comforts of South Florida

I am a proud Canadian. It is often said of Canadians that we are obsessed with two things in life; hockey and the weather. Actually, if you think about it, the two are inextricably linked. Winter life bred our consumptive fascination with shinny. But, it is our interest in the weather that I find truly interesting. 

My guess is that our history as an agrarian society has some basis for this passion. Farmers need to follow weather patterns, else they perish. There was a time in the not-so-distant past where a majority of my compatriots depended on rainfall estimates and wind models for their livelihoods. Not so much today. More than 80% of Canadians now live in major urban centres, where weather is a thing to be loathed, embraced, feared or mocked. Ask any Canadian today what the temperature is and they will answer something like this: "Well the actual temperature is a brutal -21 degrees C, but if you factor in the windchill, it feels more like -32!" (For all of you Americans who still haven't embraced the metric system like the rest of the world, that is translated as f*&$#@g cold!! As a touchstone, you might want to remember that -40 is the same on both the Fahrenheit and Celsius scales!) The same holds true in the reverse. If you were to ask a fellow countryman for an assessment of the searing summer heat, you would get a response close to the following: "Well the actual temperature is hovering around 32, but the humidex has it closer to 43! It is stifling!" We can never just say the real number, because the real number doesn't feel like the real number. 

We pour over the weather reports like crack addicts. We need to be the most accurate and the most up-to-date. "It isn't -21.  CityPulse said it was -19, and they are never wrong!" Cold is cold people! We are incredibly loyal to our weather casters. Everybody has a favourite. 

"I watch Dave because he is always accurate." 

"Are you nuts? Susan is the best! She has never steered me wrong!"

Dipsticks!!! They all get their information from the same place, Environment Canada, and they are all preaching the same bullshit. You like Dave because he can write backwards with both hands and you like Susan because she is hot! You could be just as accurate by walking outside and assessing it yourself.

And, we are pompous about our weather acumen. We brag about our heartiness and we scoff at blizzard reports. Snow? Bring it on! Heat? We're tough! Rain? We'll compare our floods with your floods anytime, anywhere! Most of us own several winter coats. One for looks, one for warmth and one for frigid. When a former mayor called upon the army for aid during a particularly horrific storm, we Torontonians cowered in shame at the images broadcast. We were the laughingstock of the country. (It is interesting that we also can't forget about it. The ten year anniversary of this event occurred last week and it was marked with commemorative newspaper articles and interviews galore.) We mock our southern brethren when they close schools for an inch or two of the white stuff, and we laugh out loud at the mess they make of road clearing. Yes, we Canadians know our weather.

It is amusing that this obsession transfers when we travel or relocate. Whenever I come to the southern house, The Husband always immediately checks out the weather channel. We worry when a cold front is approaching (as if a 70 degree temperature will seem chilly to us!) and we stress over the number of rainy days. (I will admit that being down here for an extended period of time this year has made me far less involved with the atmospheric conditions!) You wouldn't believe how many native Floridians are wearing turtleneck sweaters and ski jackets today in what they laughingly refer to as a cold snap! We Canadians? Today you can find many of us at the beach soaking up the sun. 

I know that whatever I say today will be of zero comfort to my nearest and dearest back home, stuck in the midst of a miserable deep freeze that is showing no signs of abating. That is the reason that I winter as much as possible down here. I may be a proud Canadian, but I sure as hell am not stupid!!

The Bloodsport of Shopping at Publix!!

I am not a terribly competitive person by nature. Opinionated, yes! Expressive in my thoughts? Absolutely! But, competitive? Not so much. I play for the fun of the game. I enjoy the strategy and the machinations, but the outcome is not really an issue for me as long as the game has been played by the rules and fairly. (In the interest of absolute transparency, I should offer the following caveat. When it comes to games of trivia, all bets are off. In those cases, it is every person for themselves and I promise you that I will show no mercy!!!) But, I find myself in a whole other game-playing dimension when thrown into the ring of hand-to hand combat. This occurs every single time I undertake a shopping trip to Publix on Hallandale Beach Boulevard.

This is the den of the devil; the pit of mass destruction. One better be prepared for all comers, else one perish. Octogenarians armed with canes and carts engaging in wheelies in the aisles. Single mothers attempting to corral escaping children with snot-filled noses with one hand, while tossing boxes of sugared cereal with the other. Women screaming obscenities at the deli counter along with their orders for roast turkey. God help the wait person who slices 12 pieces instead of 10! Scooter driving maniacs who are better suited for Daytona, than a residential grocery store and check-out staff whose faces bear the scars of verbal encounters in several languages. This is Darwinian shopping; shopping where meekness cannot be tolerated and only the strong survive. 

I drip with perspiration at the very thought of my descending into the bowels of the beast. I psyche myself up for the task at hand, and I head out into the fray with a self-promise to stay patient and aware at all times. This will be the time that I survive intact. This will be the time that I don't get rammed from behind by an old lady hopped up on caffeine. This will be the time that I don't get pushed over by an obese, sweating man at the bakery counter. This is my time and my time is now! Armed with my list, (NEVER, EVER go to Publix without a list! It is like baking without a recipe. Disaster will certainly ensue!) my people and I headed out for our confrontation with the enemy. You all should have seen us! We were like a finally tuned offense. Three carts working in tandem. When one stopped, the others kept moving, scouting, looking for deals. When one needed to search for coupons, (the coupon fetish down here is a whole other post!) the others provided cover and shelter. When the old man brandishing his cane as a weapon shouted at me in a voice reminiscent of "The Shining", "MOVE!!", I silently complied so as to avoid a beating, all the while the other members of my team were loading up. We glided up and down the aisles with military precision; we took no shit and we took no prisoners. We were in a word-SPECTACULAR! Any of today's NFL playoff teams would have been left slack-jawed at our synchronicity. I felt like patting them all on their butts and giving them all a high-five. Way to go team!

I can't promise that my next trip into the lion's den will have as positive an outcome, but just for today I feel as though I have won the Super Bowl. 

Send OUT the Clowns!!!

I have a thing about clowns. Please don't mistake this as a positive "thing". I think that clowns are irritating at best and slightly creepy at worst. There is something about a grown human being decked out in full facial make-up, bright red nose, ridiculously ill-fitting shoes who is attempting to douse me with water, that sets my teeth on edge. I realize that I am probably in the minority on this side of the circus, but clowns piss me off. They are freaky and slightly on the scary side. Mimes are no better. They are just clowns that don't say anything that beg for money! Have you ever seen a small child at a circus? Most of them are crying in horror and scrambling for protection in Mom and Dad's laps when the clown mafia approaches. For years down here in South Florida, one of the local flea markets used to feature a full circus under its roof as a way to draw in customers. I will forgo the obvious animal rights issues of keeping large cats and elephants in a flea market building, but the thing that disturbed me more than Leo the Lion or Jumbo the Elephant in captivity, was the over- eager and very pushy clowns. (Honestly, is there anything lower on the ladder of "clowndom" than working at a flea market on I95?) Whenever it was suggested that we trek up the interstate to show the boys a "fun time", I could feel that knot tie just a bit tighter in the pit of my stomach. I knew that Older Son would grasp my hand a little bit harder, and Younger Son would beg to be carried. This was supposed to be entertaining? Needless to say, we stopped going.

On my first trip to Las Vegas, we were instructed by friends that we "absolutely must" take in the Cirque du Soleil show Mystere at The Mirage. We purchased tickets, but unfortunately they were for the first night that we arrived, and we were all a bit past the point of exhaustion by the time we settled in our seats. (Not a great mood for me to be in to see a circus of any name!) The clowns came out first to warm up the audience. I had the "good fortune" of sitting on the aisle. (I guess given my short stature, The Husband wanted to make certain that I could see the entire show unobstructed.) Within 30 seconds, one of the f*&%#*g clowns zeroed in on me, and started in on his routine. (He must of sensed my seething dismissal of his supposed craft!) When he saw that I wasn't into the game, the asshole stole my shoes! I sat through the entire performance barefoot. I didn't get my shoes back until were headed toward the exits. God, I really hate clowns.

I mention all of this because of a birthday gift. Last week was my birthday and to my surprise and joy, my sons ordered me a floral arrangement. As I went downstairs to the concierge to retrieve it, I was filled with pride (they remembered!) and excitement to see what my gift would look like. Imagine my horror when I spied the balloon attachment. CLOWN!!! I brought the bouquet upstairs and when the boys saw it they were stunned. "That wasn't what we ordered", they cried. Older Son could not stop apologizing for the kevlar nightmare. "Honestly, Mom! I am truly embarrassed by the balloon." I was just so thrilled that they recognized the day, I just waved away his misery, thinking that when the stupid thing ran out of helium, I would remove it from the otherwise stunning arrangement of flowers. Well, here we are 8 full days after the fact and the miserable thing is STILL floating. Observe!

The damn flowers are starting to wilt and fall and that stupid thing is still up there, grinning its evil at me every day! I know I should just take it down, but it was a gift from my boys and I just can't bring myself to do it. Maybe I will give it a little nudge with a pin and cause it to slow leak. Curses to you my white-faced nemesis! 

***UPDATE***

At approximately 10:32 am EST, I released my nightmare into the wild blue yonder of Hallandale Beach. Clown was last seen floating high above Three Islands Blvd with stupid grin on his face shouting "Free at last, free at last! Thank God almighty, I am free at last!" Good riddance to you, sucker!!

Strange Goings On to Begin the New Year

One of the strange by-products that has come out of this blogging thing, is the oddity that I am able to track who stops by to visit my site and from where they are logging on. Please do not misunderstand this practice. I cannot in any way determine who individual users are, nor can I discern anything more than an IP address, which to the computer idiot like myself, means absolutely nothing. I subscribe to an online statcounter (one of many that are available for free!) and through them I can view a myriad of stats, most of which are about as logical to me as is the Russian language, but every so often I am intrigued by the global power of the Internet and I check out the traffic. Most of the time the voyeurs to my site come from my hometown, as is befitting a small local blog like mine. Every now and then, I can see that a few of my American friends have had a minute or two to kill and thus, decide to waste it on my ravings. But, once in a while I get hit on by the obscure. I have had viewers from Australia, Pakistan, Viet Nam, and Egypt. Usually, these folks have stumbled upon on my blog either because they are sleep deprived and have nothing better to do in the wee hours of the morning then surf, or they have conducted a Google search for something specific and their search engines flagged a singular and peculiar word or phrase from my blog. This morning yielded just such a hit. This morning, I received a hit from that great bustling metropolis and home to the most famous unwed teenage mother in the country, Wasilla Alaska! (By the way-Mazel Tov on the birth of your grandkid, Sarah!! When is the bris? I'll send a gift!) It seems that someone (wink, wink!!) in Wasilla was conducting a google search using the keywords "Jewish Men Hairy" and for some reason was directed to my blog post about hairy Jewish men not wearing kilts. Now, here is the big money question-Is Moose-Hunting Sarah doing market research or is she looking for a shidduch, a match, for one of her brood? Is she concerned that we Jews are a tad hairy for the likes of ivory-skinned Bristol, Willow or Piper, or did she by chance have an encounter with Sasquatch and mistake the mythical beast for one of my people? Sarah, bubbelah, let me put your mind at ease. It is true that many of my people, both men and women, can be considered somewhat hirsute, but it shouldn't be a disqualifying genetic characteristic. I would think that hairy individuals would be commonplace in your neck of the woods. Not only that, hairy is warmer! If you are still not convinced, then I am certain that the Republican National Committee would be happy to pony-up for waxing or laser removal. Just send them the bill!

The Hope Chest

In my last post, I made mention of the fact that I believe that New Year's resolutions are strictly for suckers. Ask anybody who has promised themselves to quit smoking, exercise or drop 20 pounds at the stroke of midnight, how long the commitment lasted? No, I prefer to proffer my personal amendments in small increments and at times that make more sense than the changing of the calendar. As we finally leave the chaos of 2008 behind, I thought that instead of a resolution list, I might instead offer a hope list. These are things that I hope will happen, (as outrageous as many of them might seem) and even if they don't, even if they seem slightly impossible, the wishing is half of the fun.

• I hope that my years of suffering as a Leaf's fan comes to a merciful and joyous conclusion. I realize that there is about as much hope for this happening as there is for me jumping out of an airplane, (and believe me-that is one thing that does not appear anywhere on my personal life list!) but remember, this is a hope list. My beloved shinny team has been stuck in the hockey equivalent of the Cubs futility for most of my life. The difference is, is that the Cubs actually have made strides over the years and the Leafs have careened from bad to worse to mediocre to pathetic. For all the blather about Detroit being HOCKEYTOWN or Montreal being the hotbed of Canadian hockey, the real truth is that if the Leafs were to ever get past the 41 year old ghosts (and counting!) Toronto would erupt like Boston did when the Sox won in 2004. Bedlam would ensue, civic holidays would be declared and it would probably be enough to sustain us for another half of a century. 
• I hope that politicians stop promising and start doing. I am so tired of hearing partisan bullshit that my ears ache. My city and country, and the cities and countries around the world, have real on-the-ground problems that desperately need addressing. Specifically for Toronto, I hope for a concrete, sustainable and real solution to our transit issues. Anybody who has been stuck in our constant gridlock would hope for the same. We need rapid public transit built in bulk and we need it now. We need an integrated system of fares and we need to stop expecting that it will pay for itself at the cash box. All of our levels of government need to stop analyzing an issue that has been analyzed to death and pony up with permanent and sustainable funding. If our leaders are truly serious about greening our city, then getting people out of their cars and into fast, clean and convenient public transportation systems like our European cousins have done, should be a gigantic first step. Moving the people of Toronto has long been ignored and it is crucial to our economy, our environment and our social structure.
• I hope that reality television will die. In 1976, Paddy Chayefsky scripted a brilliant movie entitled Network. In the film, Peter Finch's Howard Beale is a network news anchor who is unceremoniously fired after his ratings drop. He responds to his dismissal by announcing on air of his intention to commit suicide in front of his millions of viewers. Stunningly, the ratings skyrocket and unscrupulous network executives take advantage of his ravings by giving him an unscripted forum to vent; in effect the genesis of the modern reality show. I don't think that Mr. Chayefsky could have foreseen the cesspool that network TV has become, but he was incredibly prescient. Today we have dross like Wife Swap, (how totally misogynistic is this crap?) Mamma's Boy, (the Bachelor trying to get a date to meet the approval of his forever disapproving mother. Again; women "what are you thinking?) and SuperNanny. This doesn't even begin to address the litany of crappy half-assed talent shows like American Idol, Dancing with the Stars, So You Think You Can Dance, America's Got Talent and on and on and on. We have created a subculture of "Z" list celebrities that show up in newspapers and magazines long after the expiration of their 15 minutes. Worse yet, we think this idiots have talent and we pretend that their goings-on have importance. TV has become devoid of true talent. Gone are the writers, actors and directors with vision, only to be replaced by the Simon Cowells of the world. And the worst part is, that we the public have become willing voyeurs all in the name of ratings.
• I hope that baseball gets a salary cap. Is there any fan out there outside of New York that doesn't hope for the same thing? I speak as a Blue Jay fan who knows that my team can never compete for the playoffs, let alone the division, so longs as the Yankees are allowed to spend 485 million dollars on 3 players. Most teams are slashing payroll and yet the Yanks, with their bottomless pit of resources, are behaving like Saudi oil sheiks. Sports leagues may think that they are 30 individual teams, but there needs to be a collective good so that all teams can compete on equal financial footing, else the league dies. Baseball is the only major professional sports league without salary management, and the time has come to join the club. I realize that a whole host of problems stand as impediments to this occurring, but with shrinking TV revenues, a diminishing fan base and a tanking economy, the baseball mandarins on both sides are finding it harder and harder to justify the grossly inflated salaries. I mean, really. C.C. Sabbathia will make $100,000 an inning over the life of his contract! The time is now.
• I hope that Barack Obama can restore credibility to the White House and that the faith placed in him by the American people is justified. He is just a man, not the messiah many make him out to be, but so much damage has been done on such a massive global scale, that even small victories will be hailed as gigantic achievements. He will encounter dissent and debate, and he will make choices that are questionable, (see Rick Warren!) but the entire world should be at least be willing to give him the chance to try. At least he speaks with intelligence and sophistication and he never, ever mispronounces the word NUCLEAR!!
• I hope that Bernard Madoff gets his comeuppance. I cannot even fathom $50 billion dollars. The numbers are so astronomical that they defy comprehension. I have not historically been a big believer in an afterlife, but I do think that there is a special place in hell reserved for people like Madoff who stole from rich, poor, and middle-class alike. He took money out of charities and ripped off his friends and family, all the while pretending to be a pious and observant. Madoff gives all of my people a bad name. The punishment coming his way will never be enough.

I hope that we all enjoy health, family, good friends and much peace. I hope that we know a life rich with chocolate and that we take a few minutes to smell the bread. I hope that we won't fret over a pound gained and that we won't kick ourselves when our resolutions go awry. I hope that we will see the good in our opponents and have the patience to understand that we all want the greater good. I hope 2009 is a bit better than 2008! Happy New Year to all!

A Year of Personal Reflection

It is the time of year when one cannot open a newspaper, magazine or blogsite without seeing some sort of year-end review. There are top ten lists of everything from movies to books, and there are people or events of the year gracing every cover. I have never really been one to look back and lament over things that cannot change. I tend to look forward to what might be. But I am blessed or cursed, depending on your perspective of birthdays, of being born two days before the end of the year. Since I have never been a big proponent of New Year's resolutions, (I am still attempting to lose the same 10 pounds that I couldn't lose after the birth of Older Son in 1987!) I thought that a bit of self-reflection over the past 365 days (leap year!) might not be a bad idea. Call it a birthday present to myself entitled "Things I Discovered in 2008".

1. I had even less tolerance for stupidity than ever before. It isn't like I ever had much tolerance for it, but this year was the year that any residual tolerance for the chronically stupid went out the window. From inept politicians to crap on television, I felt the need to call out the idiots. I was bequeathed with an opinionated streak a mile long and I seemed less willing to allow people to get away with pandering bullshit. My mother even had to beg the Little Bro and I to curtail any talk of politics at the Shabbat table. From Sarah the Moose Hunter to W and his butchering of the English language to Sweater-Vested Steve to just plain ridiculous conversations in my everyday life, I learned that my time on this earth is finite and I refuse to spend one more second of it pandering to stupidity!
2. I found that my role as a day to day parent had come to an end and that I had to reinvent my relationships with my sons. I realized with fascinated horror that both of my little boys are now independent and self-sufficient young men who are developing lives of their own, outside of the confines of our family structure. I had to learn when to ask a probing question and when to mind my own business. (OK! I am still evolving into this role. Gimme a break. It is new to me!) I had to learn that there would be times when they wouldn't be able to be in attendance at certain functions and I had to learn that this was okay. I learned that our grocery bill was cut in half, our hot water bill was a third of what it was before (no more 30 minute morning showers!) and laundry could be done with increasing irregularity. I learned that my house was cleaner than it had been in 20 years and that there was something tremendously liberating about closing off two bedrooms and a bathroom. I learned that I could drive my car for 3 weeks without a fill-up. I also learned that there is a chance for reflection in the silence and a calmness that comes with less chaos.
3. I reconnected with The Husband as life partners and not merely parents. We have always made concerted efforts to do just that, but this was the year when empty-nesthood stared us down. We shopped for groceries together and cooked our meals together. We spent quiet time together and knew instinctively when to give each other space. I became a maven of all things whisky and he immersed himself in Kol Isha. We both found new interests that didn't impede upon our collective enjoyment. All in all, a pretty positive beginning for Chapter 2.
4. I watched from an uncomfortable distance as some of my friends had to cope with major life trials. Illnesses, aging parents and deaths made me realize what a gift this life is, and that I plan to enjoy every last second that I am granted on this earth. I refuse to worry about the calorie count of that brownie if I really want to eat it. I will eat bread, because fresh-baked bread is one of life's greatest enjoyments. I will not relinquish my work-out time for any rehearsal or meeting because it is my time. As long as it is not illegal, immoral, I can afford it and doesn't hurt anybody, I plan on doing it-whatever it is. 
5. This was the year where I challenged myself to try something outside of my comfort zone and I think it was a success. When a rabbi friend invited me to participate in the Kol Isha concert, I tried to come up with a myriad of excuses as to why I couldn't or shouldn't participate. "It isn't really what I do", "I am not really a performer", "It is way too much to take on right now", "I am not good enough", or "Who would want to pay to see me?" Even when it was apparent that it was too late to back out, I secretly hoped that I could find a non-invasive, non-confrontational way to run in the other direction. I am so glad that I followed through with it. I found a strength in the challenge that I never knew that I had, in spite of all of the ego-boosting that my family and friends heaped upon me in anticipation of my trepidation. I made new friends and strengthened old relationships with a camaraderie that only women can know and understand. I found new passion in my work and a sense of renewed purpose in my professional life that had been missing for a while. Early in the spring, a dear friend told me that stretching myself in this way could only be positive, and that I needed to "get over" the impostor syndrome that I seemed to find myself mired in. I am so grateful to her and everybody else who made me see that this journey was a moral imperative.
6. This year I discovered a new outlet in this blog. It provided me with a way to vent, cry, cheer, share and connect. Creativity shows itself in the strangest ways and I honestly never thought that this was part of mine. 

And so, I begin the second half of my 40s looking forward and building on what I have learned. I hope to be a bit more patient, a bit less self-involved and a bit less picayune. Happy Birthday to me!