Girl, you'll be a woman, soon.

August 30, 2010


I am finally sort of back to work. . .in my office, all alone. There were times this past month when I wondered if this was ever going to be possible again.

The Mer-is-moving-back-home saga seems to have run its course. She is now ensconsed her own apartment. No more sleeping on the couch for her, or taking over Em's bedroom, making it her own personal closet. No more pulling her bra and panties out of the couch for Keith.

You can only imagine the look on Keith's face when he pulled Mer's bra out from between the couch cushions.

Almost more than anything else, save how much I love my family, I love to read.

I never have less than 5 books in my purse at one time, fiction, non-fiction, it doesn't matter to me.

When I was younger, I don't know how many buses I almost missed because I was reading while eating breakfast. Or the arguments with my brother over who was going to read the cereal box.

Worst of all was that I was notorious for reading in the bathroom. And in a house with one bathroom this was often a problem.

More than once I was happily reading in the bathroom, minding my own business, not even aware of how much time had passed. Meanwhile (usually) my father is outside the bathroom door, dancing from foot to foot, pounding on the door, yelling:

"You'd better not be reading in there!"

I would jump off the tiolet like a scalded cat. Haul up my drawers, stuff whatever I was reading down the back of my pants, and scuttle out of the bathroom while my father ran in there holding on for dear life.

Literally.

Once, he scared me so bad that I dropped my brother's Archie's comic book in toilet (thankfully I had already flushed). I had to hide the wet comic in the back of my closet, wrapped in a towel, until it dried. Of course, I didn't know that when it dried it would be the size of a Funk and Wagnall's dictionary, a water stained F and W dictionary, with water wavy pages.

No way I was shoving that down the back of my pants.

So reading is a passion. I'm in a book club. I get special coupons from Chapters for being a "preferred customer." I spend hours in used bookstores, combing through the stacks, looking for all sorts of hidden treasures. In Antigonish, my first stop was the used book store, located downtown. It was small, but this wasn't an issue.

It had books.

I dig through bins in hospital book shops, pour over the discount section at Chapters, and when I have the time, the library is my favourite place.

And I was never the kid who read only kid's books. My parents were also avid readers, so if there was a book in the house, I read it.

Hence, I met Jacqueline Susann, Harold Robbins and Stephen King when I was quite young. You cannot imagine the trouble that got me into. My mother was not the least bit thrilled that her 11 year old daughter was reading about the trials and tribulations of Seconal addicted movie stars in 1960s Hollywood.

And I'm willing to bet that she, in no way, appreciated the questions that emerged from my readings of these books.

My parents were not the kind of parents you could just approach with a question.

Edith Bunker, from my favourite show All in the Family, laments in the episode where she realizes that she was going through menopause,

"When I was a young girl, I didn't know what young girls were supposed to know. Now I'm an old woman and I don't know what old women are supposed to know."

Prime example: how I learned about periods.

When I was in grade 6, which was still considered elementary school at that time, my homeroom teacher (who absolutely terrified me), came into the classroom when the girls were changing for gym.

The boys changed somewhere else. . .probably in the hallway.

She said something like, "If you need anything during your time of the month, just let me know. We have what you need in the teacher's lounge."

All the girls nodded, me included. Except I had absolutely.no.clue. what she talking about.

None.

Nada.

At the same time, though, there was an internal voice saying to me that this was something I was supposed to know, and clearly everybody else knew, so the smart thing was to pretend that I knew what she was talking about, and go along with it.

Looking back, if she had of pulled out a pad or tampon, I would have assumed my mother missed something on the school supply list.

Later that evening, during dinner, I mentioned what my teacher had said.

My mother dropped her fork.

My father started coughing.

And then my mother looked at my father and said something about this was not the teacher's business and it was our decision to talk with her about this when we were ready.

Okay, now I KNEW there was something going on.

Nothing else was said. After supper, after the dishes and homework were done and by brother and I were in our jammies watching tv, my parents called us into the kitchen.

They had paper and pencils with them.

Somehow I just knew we weren't playing tic-tac-toe or hangman.

And then we had the "you're going to be woman soon" talk.

They drew pictures. Used words I didn't know (in spite of reading Jacqueline Susann and Harold Robbins. I mean, novelists selling novels about sex don't usually talk about ovaries and fallopian tubes).

Looking back, I can't imagine how they felt about having "this talk" with me. I should be thankful they weren't playing Neil Diamond in the background.

Bottom line: this was not something I was going to enjoy.

At least they were right about that.

To this day, neither my brother or I can figure out why he had to be included.

Title Lyric: Girl, You'll be a Woman Soon, by Neil Diamond