An “Adult” Relationship

It was a great anniversary, although a fairly no-frills one. We were on our way home from a business trip, and had the better part of the day free. We had a great lunch in a small, but charming bistro. We walked in the park, sat in the sun, and got caught up on each other’s lives. At one point, my sweetheart paused and remarked “You realize our relationship is old enough to vote.”

Yup, it’s now been eighteen years, really good years. Our first years together were spent flirting across the room during band practice. At university, when I’d been up all night studying, he’d wake me around noon with a sub sandwich and a cup of tea. We’ve been through four degrees, three houses, four continents, and a dog. We’ve crammed as much wonderful relationship stuff into eighteen years as two people can. Our relationship has definitely grown up.

It’s ironic that what’s got us here is our habit of being distinctly immature. Eighteen years has taught us that it’s okay to admit to being hooked on cartoons and cheesy talk shows. We’ve learned that bed heads and wrinkled pyjamas can be charming. We still hold hands and tell stupid jokes. We’ve found that an argument is officially over when one of us starts giggling. Our couplehood may have reached adulthood, but we as individuals have fought hard to remain the same dorky teenagers that we were when we hooked up.

A long time ago, we danced together for the first time. The song was “Forever Young” by Alphaville. Hmmmm…good advice.

Putting Barbie in Her Place

I had to suppress my gag reflex as they raised a glass of cheer in honour of her 50th. Words like "style icon" and "beloved" were rolled around as I rolled my eyes. Thankfully, I ran across this article http://www.thestar.com/living/article/599343.

I'll admit, I had a collection of Barbies as a kid (feminists like me don't like to fess up to that). Despite my mother's best efforts, the little plastic terror snuck into the house, along with her pink sports car, her prized plastic poodle, and her crew of factory-extruded friends. My sister soon added her own horde to the collection. In time, an entire Barbie compound occupied a sizeable chunk of the basement.

Barbie's life in our house, however, was less than fabulous. In the commercials, she cruised the strip with Ken, bought stylish knee-high boots and giggled on the phone. Our crew waged hostile take overs, got into in fist fights, and routinely lost limbs. We put Barbie through Darwinesque dramas, not to mention some goulish haircuts. Even as children, we saw through the carefully-moulded perfection that came with her in the box. Just as we kicked over lego buildings and purposefully dried (and ate) play-doh, we deconstructed Barbie, found out what really made her tick. If the manufacturers didn't want us to know her head was empty, they shouldn't have made it so easy to remove. According to my husband, it was just the right size to fit into her patented pink dryer.

Happy Birthday, old girl! Here's to fifty more years of little girls who aren't afraid to kick some plastic toy ass.