The making of the family black sheep

I am the black sheep of the family,” she confessed. “These types of things never go well.

Recently, a girlfriend of mine was lamenting the fact she had a family reunion coming up this summer. I was surprised to learn she was so anxious about the event. 

It reminded me of a story I wrote many moons ago for National Post -- the content of which, sadly, still holds true today. If you're the black sheep of the family, or arguably as importantly, the favourite child, give it a read and share your thoughts. The article was published in National Post - Oct 2009 read the full article

Storm in a Triple-D Cup

Storm in a Triple-D Cup

Colossal cans, humongous hooters, tatas ‘til Tuesday … Suzann Paterson, 46, has heard it all. The married mother of two from Oakville, Ont., has always found such euphemisms somewhat offensive, but tries to see them as silly—worthy of an eye-roll, say, versus an icy glare. She’s happy those days are behind her and the comments are no longer being directed at her.

Suzann hails from a long line of large-breasted women. “All of the women on my mom’s side are large breasted. In fact, we jokingly call it the family curse. But for me, it wasn’t funny. I hated having big boobs, and by the time I was in my mid-20s I couldn’t stand it anymore.” So just over 20 years ago, she had a breast reduction—and it changed her life.

For those who wish their breasts were bigger, it may be hard to wrap your head around why a woman would want to go down in size. After all, aren’t big breasts attractive? Wouldn’t it be nice to have an attribute that sets you apart? Wouldn’t you secretly enjoy showing up at pool parties and watching the faces of other females fall? No, no, no, says Suzann. It is utter hell. 

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Puppy Love: Donny Osmond

Puppy Love: Donny Osmond

If you had told me when I was on the cusp of becoming a teenybopper that I would one day meet heartthrob Donny Osmond, I would have looked you in the eye and glared.

“Meet him? I’m going to marry him.” Such was my unwavering optimism,

just as I anticipated one day developing breasts.

I grew up in North Bay, a mid-sized town about four hours north of Toronto, in a modest bungalow next to a wooded area. In the early ’70s, Denise, my best friend who lived next door, and I were at that bipolar time in girlhood when we could spend the morning building forts and climbing trees only to find ourselves after lunch holed up in my family’s pop-up trailer parked next to our house, imagining what it would be like to kiss a boy. One minute we’d be slurping pink Popsicles, the next “smoking” the sticks. Usually, we merely held them between our fingers like cigarettes, but I remember on more than one occasion lighting them up.

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