TUNA! TUNA! TUNA!!

"Are you ready for lunch?" asks Rissa.

"Lunch Time!!" I reply "♩♫ It's Lu-u-u-unch... TI-I-I-IIIIIME!!♬♫ "

"O... kay..." says Rissa, eyebrows dropping in resignation. "What were you planning on for lunch?"

"I dunno. Grilled cheese??"

"Or... tuna melts?"

"TUNA?!?" This is the best idea Rissa's ever had in her entire life. "TUNA! TUNA! TUNA!!!!"  I make my way over to the pantry. "♩♫ We're ha-ving Tuuuuuuu-naaaaaa♬♫ "

"What is happening?" asks Rissa.

"Tuna, tuna, tuna!!!" I grab a couple of cans and dance my way over the counter.
"♩♫ Tuuuuuuuuu-Naaaaaaaaa!!!! ♬♫ "  I pause to take a breath. "That was exciting."

"You are literally the only person who made that exciting," says Rissa. "I am just standing here."

"Yes but you thought of the "♩♫ Tu-na Me-e-e-elllllllts!!!! ♬♫ "

"You're so weird."

"I prefer to think of it as manic without the depressive."

"I gotta say that's mostly accurate," contributes David.

#copinginquarantine

TASSEL TWIRLING 101

Remember your first bra?  That verging on A cup, training bra?   This clothing item had two purposes: to mask breast buds and to serve as a horizontal bulls-eye for the boys in grade 5 who seemed to make it their life's work to SNAP the back of that sucker as soon as they glimpsed it underneath your shirt.  Those bras didn't have any padding, so God help you if it was cold and your nipples stood to attention, because everyone would notice them. Boys. Girls.  Teachers. The Custodian. EVERYONE. Or so you thought.

My barely there pre-pubescent breasts sqwooshed into that fabric at the age of ten - already pushing things down,  smoothing  them out. One hook at the back.  Earning my Brownie badge in "Brassiere Closure."

Shopping for that first training bra at The Met in 1978. And when I say "The Met" - I mean The Met department store at the Greenwood Mall in the heart of the Annapolis Valley, Nova Scotia... Canada.

You move beyond the B cup and you're up to at least two hooks.  By the time you sport those D cups, you'd better hope that you have at least three hooks or there could be a situation.

As I take the bras from their 'delicates' bags to move them to the drying rack - because, let's face it, if you're paying $50 or more for something that reliably lifts and separates your girls, you DO NOT put those fuckers in the dryer - I look at my bra and I look at Rissa's.  Rissa's with its 1" band and two dainty, nay elegant, hooks.  Mine, with the almost 4" band and 4 Industrial/Frankenstein hooks to corral my beauteous pulchritude into its massive cups that (cool fact!) could also serve as hats/medical masks if need be.

Along with the rest of the breast-blessed world who are"sheltering at home," I have mostly been eschewing the brassiere, letting the girls go free range. This lack of underpinning is indeed comfortable - as long as I move sedately. Coming down the stairs in the morning, I find myself riveted by the clapping sway of Itsy & Bitsy, wondering how I can reliably replicate the motion, for NOW is obviously the time to invest in pasties with proper tassels and get on that middle-aged burlesque career track.

Jo Weldon teaches nipple tassel twirling - Northside Media Inc.

"Am I doing it?" I ask, bouncing up and down.

"Please don't make me watch you practice this," says Rissa before subsequently yelling, "Pear! Pear! Ma is shaking her breasts at me!"

"She's doing what with her breasts?"

"I'm learning how to twirl tassels!!!"

David comes into the room. "You're what?"

"I'm learning, " I say as I continue to bounce, "To twirl tassels!"

"Un-huh..."

"How's it looking?"

"Well, there is definitely A LOT going on there."

"What if I try the shimmy method?"

"I'm going to the other room to read," says Rissa.

Because a cat's the only cat who knows where it's at.

"Hey there Handsome," says Rissa.

"Well, HE-LLO!" I reply, modulating my voice to a lower, much sexier, register.

"I am not talking to you," she says. "I am talking to Steve, obviously."

"Obviously."

"Because he is the handsomest being in this house," she continues.

"Yes. Yes he is."

"Did I just lose a beauty pageant to a cat?" queries David from the living room.

"You did. Sorry love."

"I am offended."

"You don't have to be. Few can compete with Steve's perfection."

Grumble, grumble, grumble... from the living room.

"If it's any consolation, your tummy is much more attractive than his, since he started licking it bald."

"I'm not sure it is."

DON'T STEP ON THE TEETH!!

"Uh-oh," I say as I'm about to step into my bedroom.

"What?" asks Rissa.

"Hold these," I say, pushing freshly washed sheets into her arms. (Sidebar: have I mentioned that I have a kid who never complains when I ask her to be my Plus One in household chores? She's a fucking unicorn.)

"Why?" She looks around suspiciously.

"I had a little ceramic box on my dresser that holds pins and baby teeth. The cats must have knocked it off. Everything's on the carpet now."

"You have a box that... You...?" She shoots a horrified glance to the floor.

"Just don't step on the carpet. I don't want you to step on a pin."

"Or a BABY TOOTH?!?"

"Or a baby tooth," I say as I start to gather up the debris.

"You kept my baby teeth?"

"Uh... yeah..." Obviously.

"You have my baby teeth in a box."

"With pins."

"Ewwwww... That's so fucked up. EEEEEEEWWWWW!!!"

I shoot her a confused look. "Everybody keeps baby teeth. Plus, you're going to be a nurse, you should be okay with this."

"A nurse. NOT a dentist." She shudders. She reaches for a baby tooth and almost vomits.

"You're SO weird."

"I'M SO WEIRD?!?"

***

FYI everyone - according to DOCTORS - parents are supposed to keep baby teeth. You know, in case your kid needs a stem cell replacement. Mind you, I didn't know this until today when I Googled it, but still...

https://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/parenting/news/a36607/why-you-should-save-your-babys-teeth/

THE PANIC LIAR

David sucks at stopping conversations. When he has the opportunity to make a declarative statement that will allow him to be able to walk away? He can't do it.

Thursday, March 12, right before it was announced that schools would be closed and the shit had yet to actually hit the fan, David was antsy to get home. He was in rehearsals with his students for the student-written, one-act play festival. They rehearsed three afternoons a week. At 4:30 p.m., the last day before March Break, with the exuberance of teenage drama kids, they were champing at the bit to go through their plays "Just one more time, Sir?"

"Guys," said David. "No can do. I've gotta get home." (This is where he should have stopped talking.)  "It's my turn to cook dinner. It's Perogy Night!"

(There is no Perogy Night.)

"Perogy Night?!?  Really?  Cool! Do you make them yourself?"

"I do!" (He doesn't.)

"Really? The dough and everything?"

"Oh yeah!" (Nope.)

"How do you cook them?"

"Oh, I boil them up first and then like to brown them in a frying pan." (Really? You don't just take them from the freezer and nuke them and brown them?)

"What are you filling them with tonight?"

"Cheddar, bacon and chive." (And chive?!?)

David is a panic liar. He can't do small talk. He invariably says something interesting enough that there will always be follow up questions. Witness what happened when he bought a suit.

When I asked him how the perogy debacle had manifested, he said, "I didn't want to tell them that the thought of having to watch them rehearse it one more time would make my brain implode."

"You were trying to be nice."

"I was trying to be nice."

"That's a good thing."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Next time though, don't tell them that you have to go home to feed your alpaca."

I HAVE BECOME A MEME

"I've decided against cutting my own hair," I say before heading upstairs to have my shower.

"That's probably a wise decision," says Rissa.

"Yeah, I can just wait until social distancing is over."

"Good choice."

I'm not sure exactly what happens before I make it into the shower, but somehow there are scissors in my hand.

I remember going into my bedroom, and divesting myself of all my sweaty exercise clothes. I know that I walk to the bathroom and remove my Fitbit. I start to pull the hair elastic from my hair... It has to be the hair elastic. I touch that hair elastic and the subliminal messaging embedded in the Unicorn Cut and Double Unicorn hair cutting videos that I'd been consuming over the weekend compel me. I am a fucking sleeper agent!

I tie my (Dry! What for the love of Vidal Sassoon possessed me to do this dry?) hair off with the hair elastic and cut.





I pull out the hair elastic to see the results.

"Uh-oh."

"You okay up there?" asks Rissa.

"Um... yeah...?"

"Heather?" Now David is calling upstairs. "You okay?"

"Yes," I say faintly, looking at the sharp line of hair that is now my first layer.

"Heather!!"

"I'm okay," I murmur, transfixed by my reflection.

"We're coming up!!"

I am standing naked and dazed in front of the mirror.

"Ma," says Rissa. "When we call you, you have to answer right away. You need to let us know you're okay." (She may be referring to previous incidences of me saying "Uh-oh" before I fall over.) Her shoulders slump and she gives me the resigned-child look. "Did you just cut your own hair?"

"I just cut my own hair."

"Ma, you just said..."

"Oh, thank God," says David as he hits the doorway, Kramer-like. Always my biggest cheerleader, he says, "Hey that's not..." I turn to face him with my dry-cut Mullet. "...terrible."

"I don't know what happened," I say, staring at the scissors. "I just don't know."

"Oh, Ma," says Rissa.

"How is it that this part is soooooo short, but this, is still soooooo long?"

"You can always take a bit more off the bottom to even it out," says Rissa. She puts my hair over my shoulders. "Just take this much more off." She indicates a couple of inches. "No, no wait, let me actually comb a part so that we're doing this scientific-like."

"I just gave myself a Unicorn Cut, can science really help me?"

"It'll be fine."

I cut another two inches from the bottom layer and then I use the twirl and cut method that I think I've seen my stylist use to get rid of the choppiness.

I hop into the shower and feel the bulk of hair at the top and the lack of bulk at the bottom. Even my hands know I've done a bad, bad thing.

Strangely though, when I towel dry my hair and throw some detangler in, it's not that bad. Oh, I'd be completely fucked if I tried to wear it straight - but curly? Curly, I might just be able to con people into believing nothing has happened. #badpandemicdecisions

I AM NEITHER PREGNANT NOR HAVE I WET MYSELF

When you dress for the day, you think to yourself, 

I feel so confident in my pseudo retro-look! My posture is something my mother can be proud of! My shoes match my skirt almost exactly!!!

And then you see photographic evidence of yourself from that day...

Ladies and Germs I give you Heather from a January 2020 event.

How far along am I? That's a great question Susan.

Why yes, I AM Ralph Kramden's sister!

"Fold and Shadow in the Skirt"

And then it struck me, This is not the first time I've created a post like this:
http://whatthepoohdude.blogspot.com/2012/12/never-take-pictures-of-me-when-im.html

CATMAGEDDON!!!

Sure, the sound of cats having sex is impressive, but nothing can beat the noise of cats out to kill each other. That alarm clock has you leaping from your bed, blood-pressure skyrocketing, arms gesticulating wildly before your feet even hit the floor. Special Ops units use this sound to train their soldiers to be ALERT.

We have three cats: Minuit (10 lb black female, 13 years of age, crotchety, still suffering the effects from temporary paralysis of her back end 6 years ago, frequent vomiter), Steve (18 lb orange tom, 9 years of age, goofy, snuggly and terrified of Minuit) and Lola (8 lb black female, 9 years of age, the Audrey Hepburn of cats, apart from her habit of over grooming her nether regions).

About a year ago, Minuit started to dip her toe in the pool of feline dementia. Every three weeks or so, she'd hiss, growl and generally sound like the world was going to end - but only at Steve. She'd spend 65% of the day cuddling with Steve and Lola and 35% of her day wanting to kill Steve before then grooming him (literally) for his next attack.

Three weeks ago that pattern dramatically shifted. Minuit now attacks Steve daily - sometimes several times a day. Because her back end still doesn't work well, Steve has the easy escape of jumping higher than she can to get away, but once in his 'safe place,' she won't let him leave.

It was time to take action. With dread I took her to the vet, suspecting that it might be time for Minuit to shuffle off this mortal coil.

You see, we've got this rule. Each of our pets gets one round of veterinary extraordinary measures. One near-death experience that costs us several grand in vet fees. They all get one. After that, if the bill is more than $500, I call my friend Narda, our Pet Decision Proxy, and she says, "Put it down."

Minuit's extraordinary measures occurred 6 years ago when she was inexplicably paralyzed from her mid-back down. We did the express blood-work, we did the x-rays, she stayed overnight and in the end, short of exploratory surgery, the vet didn't know what had happened.

I was frank with Minuit. "Dude, you won't be able to use a litter box. I'm not that selfless. I am not shutting off a room in which you may languish and use as your personal litter box. It's not going to happen. You've gotta get your shit together." 

I may have used a gesture across my throat with an accompanying sound effect. Minuit got up, stumped her way out of the cat carrier, meowed determinedly at me, turned around and stumped her way back into the carrier. She was totally channeling John Young from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, "I'm not dead yet!"

She'd had her reprieve and she mostly came back from the paralysis, so it was good that we hadn't offed her. But now, now that she was losing her mind? My hopes weren't high for her returning home after seeing the vet. Our incredible vet looked at Minuit, and gave me my options. We decided on express bloodwork and urinalysis, and I'd leave her at the vet's so that they could get a urine sample. 

After having been away for 3 hours, when Minuit came out of the cat carrier the other two cats lost their minds. She smelled different. Cats don't like different. Steve attacked Minuit, Minuit hit back, Lola screamed at Steve, who in turned looked at me as if to say "WTF??" It made what we'd been dealing with before the vet trip look like child's play. Dozens of cat skirmishes lasted well into the night.

It turns out Minuit has thyroid disease. That makes two of us. (She's hyper and I'm hypo, but at least we now have a commonality of language and can commiserate.) I was to give her liquid thyroid meds and capsule anti-anxiety meds which could be sprinkled in her food. I managed to wrangle Minuit to successfully give her the liquid meds. The powder from the capsules? Another story.

Day One: I mix the capsule with mushed up wet cat food. Minuit eats it. 3:00 a.m. we awaken to Minuit attacking Steve.

Day Two: I mix the capsule with mushed up wet cat food. Minuit refuses to eat it. I add sour cream. She eats it. 2:00 a.m. we awaken to Minuit attacking Steve.

Day Three: I mix the capsule with sour cream. Minuit refuses to eat it. I add grated cheese. She eats it. 2:00 a.m., 4:00 a.m. and 7:00 a.m. she attacks Steve.

Day Four: I mix the capsule with grated cheese. Minuit refuses to eat it. I add fish oil. She eats it. She still attacks Steve.

Day Five: I visit the local pet supply store and stock up on homeopathic Bio-Calm liquid, high end cats foods and purees. I mix the capsule with high end wet cat food. Minuit refuses to eat it. Steve eats it. She attacks Steve. I give all the cats Bio-calm liquid in high end puree. Minuit attacks Steve - Steve growls.

Day Six: I give the other two cats Bio-calm liquid in cat food puree. For Minuit I just shove the anti-anxiety capsule down her throat. After which, she can barely walk. Her pupils are the size of saucers. She still wants to kill Steve, but now Steve is growling and whacking her on the head as it's been three weeks of this shit and he's had enough.

***

Day Fourteen: Everyone gets Bio-Calm liquid in various doses, twice a day. We visit the pet store and get Animal Rescue Remedy to drop in their water. I enjoy bourbon. David has several glasses of wine. Minor cat skirmishes can be heard, but we don't care as much. I think we might be able to...

Oh for the love of... 

"Get off of her! You! Quit hitting her! Minuit! Minuit! Let go of Lola!"

A clump of Lola's fur sticking out her mouth, Minuit looks at me all innocent-like. Steve is lying next to the piano completely content not to be Minuit's victim this time. Lola has doubled her body size in fur puff. I calmly reach for the Animal Rescue, dropping it into my palm before smoothing it all over all three cats. I look at the bottle, drop more into my palm and then rub my own face. In the last 10 minutes there have been no fights. Of course all three cats are in different rooms and it's not near feeding time, nor the middle of the night, but I'm calling this a success. 

"David? Do you want me to rub you with this too? I think it might be helping."

Surviving your toddler's cold

There he is, seated on the love-seat next to the kitchen. In his striped onesie. Trying to blow his nose.

"Morning love," I say.

"Borning," he manages. He is adorable.

"You hungry?"

"Yeb, pleebe."

"How about some eggs?"

He nods sadly. "Pleebe." Poor guy looks so exhausted. I know that he didn't sleep well last night. I ruffle his hair.

I make him a fried egg on toast and bring him a glass of O.J. to wash it down.

"You good, love?"

"Yeb. Dank you."

I turn to plate my own breakfast.

"Oh... doh." He sounds like he's about to cry.

"What is it?"

He looks down at the front of his onesie. "I drobbed egg on me."

Sure enough there's a trail of runny yolk down his chest.  "It's okay love. I'll get you a cloth."  I grab one from the drawer and wet it.

"I'b a toddler," he says as I start to wipe off the yolk.

It is now official. My 46 year-old husband, in his striped onesie, does not have a "Man Cold," he has a "TODDLER COLD."

beware the pre-christmas pluck...

I just want to be at my best for Christmas Eve dinner, you know? Well-presented. Whisker-free. Having spent a great deal of time yesterday absentmindedly playing with my chin and neck hairs, I knew that this morning should really be dedicated to the pre-Christmas pluck.

I head to the bathroom with purpose. I ablute as per my regular morning routine and prep my supplies: industrial tweezers and magnifying mirror. All goes well for the first half dozen whiskers. Then, as I'm turning my neck to get to one of the really determined, nearly-invisible buggers, I feel a twinge. Have I? Have I really done this? Yes, yes I have. I have displaced a rib. By moving my neck. It's December 24th. We are travelling 3 hours in the car. This seems to be the perfect time to be really high on muscle relaxants.

I spend the next five minutes on my bedroom floor trying to get a tennis ball to adjust me. No luck.

I head downstairs to greet David. He notices that I'm grimacing a titch.

"What is it?"

"I displaced a rib."

He snorts. "Of course you have. How?"

"Tweezing."

He cocks his head to the side and raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

"I turned my head instead of turning my whole body to get more light on the bastard hairs." I plunk myself down sideways on his lap. "Could you please press really hard around my left shoulder blade?"

He uses the heel of his hand.

"A little up... To the left. Yeah! YEAH!! There!!" I lean into it.

"Whoa! Whoa! If my hand slips you're going to skewer yourself on the corner of the mantle. Use my head."

I move so that I'm now centred on his lap. He pushes the top of his skull against my shoulder blade. I lean back...

"Whoa! Whoa! Holy Crap you're strong!" Checking for whiplash, he circles his neck before pressing his elbow against my back.

"That's it!  That's it!! Right there!!" I am now desperately trying meld my body with David's as I push back into his elbow.

"Whoa! Whoa!! Too much!!" He moves his shoulder to ensure it hasn't been dislocated. "Have you tried leaning against a tennis ball?"

"Yeah. Upstairs." I breathe in and wince. "Yeesh." I breathe out carefully before tentatively adjusting my shoulders. "Okay... no problem. I can be high all day, right? You'll drive?"

Merry Christmas everyone! Here's to a very HAPPY and very HEALTHY New Year!

Preying upon the vintage nerds

Dicks. SO many dicks out there on the interwebs. Leaving virtual spooge on our screens and an ether trail of fake websites / Facebook pages / online stores. Preying upon the vintage clothing / cheap electronics / insert niche market here nerds.

I freely admit, I click that bait. Vintage style wool coat?  The Angels' chorus sings: Halle-fucking-lujah!  My years' long search is now over!!

It's only $50.12!!!  Shit. That price is too low.

Too low, you say? Yeah, it's too fucking low. Come on, even the Bay when it's selling its wool coats for 50% off will still rate $100 or more for a well made wool coat.

It's a fucking scam.


Victorian style boots? $42.46.                                   









Vintage Dress? $34.59.


Mother fucker.







Go ahead and order from this site. You're right, the price is SO GOOD. And you might even get something shipped to you that could possibly, maybe somewhat resemble the product in the photo, but odds are you're not going to see it and when you attempt to contact the sales department asking either where it is or try to figure out how to get your money back for the piece of shit that they did ship you - the company will be long gone.

Want an I PHONE 11 for $100? You're not going to get it. An accurately-crafted Victorian ensemble for $30? You are deluding yourself.

The modern snake-oil salesmen are pitching to the niche nerds / bargain hunters and will keep doing it as long as people are buying it. And then you read in the comments sections of "Is <insert fraudulent company name here> a scam/legit?" from all the poor schmucks who only wanted a double-breasted wool English riding jacket for $35 instead of $350 for the real deal and are shocked that they didn't get it.

If it seems too good to be true? Come on now... everyone!

"IT'S TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE!!" 

Google it. DuckDuckGo it. Hell, you can fucking Bing it. Just don't buy it.

JOHN WICK'S LITTLE WHITE LIES

Originally, David wants me to go to our local Community Theatre's Costume Shop and "pick up a black suit that should fit." He is perplexed when I explain that were I to pick out a suit without him there, that the suit would not fit.

"You're going to actually have to try a suit on."

David scowls. He is not a fan of shopping.

"I'm going to have to shop? Alone?"

"Well, if you want to get a cheap suit in time for Halloween, yes, you are going to have to do this alone. You've never bought a suit so this is a good excuse."

"But where do I go?"

"International Clothiers?? Check the mall directory in Oshawa - they'll probably have one."

~~~

David enters International Clothiers. There is an elderly couple bickering about the winter jacket that the octogenarian is holding while a teen aged sales associate looks on in bewilderment.

"I don't LIKE this coat!"

"Just try it!"

"Myrtle, I don't like it!"

"It will be be warm!"

"The tag is itchy"

"You haven't put it on yet!"

"The tag will be itchy!"

"We'll cut the tag out!!"

David and the sales associate share a commiserative look before she comes over to ask if she can help. David holds up his phone.

"I would like a suit so that I can look like this." He shows her the photo.

The sales associate looks at the photo, looks at David's face and then looks back at the photo. "Oh my God! You could totally be John Wick!" She gives him a high five.

"Do you have a suit that would work??"

She glances around. "Not really. You'd really have to piece it together." She looks covertly around the store then whispers, "Go to Tip Top Tailors. They should be able to set you up."

~~~

The older Italian woman at Tip Top Tailors looks at the photo. She turns away.

"Don't you need to measure me?" he asks.

She looks him up and down. "No."

She pulls out a black suit jacket, matching pants, a black shirt and tie. "Put these on."

"Shouldn't I have another size, just in ca..." He stops talking when she shoots him a deeply offended look.

He comes out of the dressing room in shock. The sales associate has the suggestion of a smile on her face. "Good." She's not asking a question.

"It all fits!"

The sales associate's eyebrows rise. David puts his arms over his head in awe.

"The shirt sleeves are long enough."

"You need a tall shirt."

It is a revelation to David.

As the sales associate is ringing up the purchases, she asks,"You're going to a Halloween party?"

An introvert, David doesn't generally like to prolong conversations.

"Yep."

"Is it a fancy party?"

"Oh yeah!"

"Are you going with a date?"

"Yep! My wife!"

"What's she wearing for her costume?"

Now David is stuck. He is conversing. If he admits that he is actually not going to a fancy party, nor that his wife is coming along to the imaginary party, that he is, in fact, dressing up for his high school where he teaches Communications Technology, it will get awkward.

"Oh... I'm not sure what she'll wear. Something new or her old standby."

"What's the old standby?"

"A mermaid!" he blurts.

~~~

"But I have never worn a mermaid costume," I say, slightly dazed, as I gaze upon the glory of my very own John Wick. I am fingering the lapels of his slim-fitting jacket.

"I panicked."

"Apparently."

"But I remember you wearing something shimmery and silky and your face was green one year..."

My brows lower as I mentally itemize my various costumes.  "My face was... Do you mean with the blue, satin sheet as a toga and the snakes in my hair? My Medusa costume?"

"Maybe...?"

"How is Medusa anything like a mermaid?"

"If your hair was in the water it would move around sort of like snakes."

~~~

"I would like shopping, if shopping could always be this easy, " he says.

"So what you're saying is that you need a no-nonsense, Italian woman as your personal shopper whenever you need clothes?"

"Pretty much."

John Wick (pre beard mascara)

Full of Moist

I'm standing in the kitchen - fighting with a safety pin to ensure that my tatas don't escape my cotton summer dress. The sweat is... everywhere. My forehead, neck, décolletage... Between my shoulder blades, the curve of my ass... MY FUCKING SHINS!

I start to hyperventilate in discomfort. I'm nauseated.

David looks at me. "Love, are you okay?"

I burst into tears. "NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I wail.

"Oh love, it's okay."

"It's not, it really isn't. I'm SO hot. It's so fucking humid. Meaghan and Ron are WRONG. S...s...summer is n..not the b...b....best season!"

David attempts to hug me.  I recoil.

"Don't!! DON'T!! I'm so sweaty. I'm disgusting!"

"You're not disgusting."

"I AM!!!"

"Do you want to stay home?"

"YES!!!"

I am supposed to go with David to his Step-Mom's house to help him sort through his father's stuff. I am supposed to have dinner with David and his son. I am supposed to be a rational and functioning member of society.

I'm in the midst of a humidity tantrum.

"It's okay, you can stay home. You don't have to come."

"I... don't?" I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. David gives me a tissue and I blow.

"You don't."

"I w...wanted to," I sob apologetically. "I wanted to go..."

"I know you did. But you don't have to."

"I'm so sweaty."

"I know."

I start struggling with the buttons of my dress. I'm a rabbit caught in a cotton pastel plaid trap. I start to panic.

"Whoa... it's okay."  David hold me still and helps me get my arms out of the dress and undoes my brassiere.

"Th...thank you." I'm still crying.

"Go change and I'll get you the cool pack from the freezer."

Sniffling, I stumble up the stairs, dropping my slip as I go. I find a cotton nightie and slip it over my disgustingly moist body.

David meets me in the living room. The window air conditioner is on full blast. He helps me drape a cool pack around my neck. He cracks open a sparkling water and sets it on a tray on the ottoman.

"Okay. Here's your phone and your e-reader. You can plant yourself here until your temperature has come down."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. And you can always have a cold shower."

I burst into tears again. "I already DID!!! After I exercised, I h...h... had a cold shower!! And the minute I got out, I was already swea...sweating!  I even stood in front of the fan in our room to dry the sweat before putting my dress on but it didn't help, so I put powder everywhere and now I'm ca...caked in wet baby powder... and I'm STILL sweaty!!!"

David bites his lip. "I'm sorry... I know it's not funny..."

"I know I'm ridiculous! I know that!!!"

David just puts his arm around me. "It's okay. This is a day for me anyway. You don't need to be there to go through Dad's stuff with me..."

I sob louder. "I'm so sorry!"

"No, it's okay. It really is. You take the afternoon and relax. Read. Watch some trash t.v. and cool down. I'll see you tonight."

30 minutes later I have managed to come back to my senses. I go upstairs to get dressed. Pulling my nightie off, I notice some dirt on my stomach. How could I have possibly gotten dirt on my...?

I look closer.

It's not dirt.

It's a moth.

Earlier, when I'd stood in front of the fan in a vain attempt to dry the post-shower sweat, a dead moth had been blown against my stomach. The sweat from my body allowed that dead moth to stick to me - a Southern Ontario tattoo, so to speak.

I let out a snort of laughter. And then I head downstairs where the AC is blasting and my e-reader is packed with downloaded library books. I'm aiming to immerse myself in delicious steampunk vampire/werewolf smut and get the good kind of moist.

Yes summer, you and your fucking humidex may have momentarily brought me to an emotional/physical low, but I'm hydrated now and I have enough media to keep me occupied until the humidity breaks. Just two more months and it will be autumn. And I will dance at your funeral summer. I will dance.

And that is why you put your toys away...

It felt as though we were missing a limb for about eight months,  but we managed to survive Rissa's first year at university.

However, with no one to "adult" for, we devolved into teenagers ourselves. We forgot to do laundry, haphazardly cleaned the house and rarely grocery shopped. Rissa would come home for a weekend and clear the fridge of expired items for us.

"What are you guys eating? How many frozen pizzas do you ingest in a week!?!"

We didn't have to worry about food for Rissa's lunches, so there was no need to head out every Sunday and grab juice boxes, mini yogurts, and sandwich fixings. David took a salami and crackers to work and I existed on Protein Bars at the office.

We both began to work late. David was in rehearsals after school for various drama projects, and with no one to welcome me home except the cats, I felt there was no real point in my rushing to leave the office. Not to say that having a ginger Tom, his high-strung sister and our crotchety, arthritic senior cat at the door didn't ease the pain, but walking past Rissa's empty room for the first 5.5 months of the school year kicked me into cardiac arrhythmia.

Settling into our sans enfant routine after Reading Week, we realized that vegetables existed and that we didn't have to carve out intimacy or Running-Around-Naked-Time. To be fair, I have always enjoyed my Running-Around-Naked-Time, but David seemed to revel in striding around majestically without having to throw on underwear.

We had sex whenever and wherever the urge struck us, and we weren't quiet about it. We had dinner at friends' places and stayed out late.

Rissa arrived home at the end of April. We easily went back to our regularly scheduled programming of sofa-snuggling, binge watching Netflix and family dinners.

We didn't realize the shift in what had been our non-parental status quo until a couple of weeks ago, when Rissa was out with friends. Feeling amorous during an afternoon nap, we were well on our way to the Big Finale when the downstairs door crashed open, and Rissa sang out, "I'm ho-me!!" Nothing like a good case of coitus interruptus to put  Return of the Child into its true cock-blocking perspective.

We didn't despair. With Rissa working nights from 10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. at a health-care facility, we knew that climactic sex was on the horizon.

Early Friday night, I enjoyed a lowball of spicebox whiskey. Before we headed up to bed I had the epiphanic recollection that with pot now legal in Canada, a friend had been kind enough to roll a joint for me. Having placed said joint with my vitamins on the bamboo lazy susan - above the stove where the cats couldn't mistake if for catnip - I grabbed said joint and smoked 1/4 of it...

This note was waiting for us in the main bathroom on Saturday morning:

The arrow was pointing to the toy.  Feel free to enter the
pool betting on what the toy was and its colour.

Turns out that after we had our mind-blowing, child-not-in-the-house sex, we HAD remembered to clean our accompanying sex toy in the bathroom, but we HAD NOT remembered to take it back to our room. Oh, and when I smoked up? Because I'd already imbibed my Spicebox Whiskey and was a little tottled, I enjoyed those few puffs in the windowless 1/2 bath downstairs. The main floor smelled like a frat house.

It would appear that I have yet to leave teenager mode.