Kev? Buddy. What did you do?

As I'm writing at the kitchen table, I intermittently glance out the window - enjoying flashes of flora and fauna in our backyard. The Engleman's Ivy lushly embraces the pergola, the grass is green, there are birds and squirrels, and... a... fox? As I lean to the side of my computer screen, desperate to catch a glimpse of the suspected fox, I almost fall off my chair. I see a fluffy orangey tail disappear around the bushes at the bottom of our yard.

Two thoughts immediately dance around my frontal lobe:

DID I JUST SEE A FOX?!?

HOW CAN I MAKE FRIENDS WITH IT?!?

I'm up on my feet and out the back door. Taking a calm breath, I nonchalantly make my way towards the bushes. I pause at the edge of greenery. I do not want to startle the fox. Our friendship should be predicated on trust and respect. Plus, if a fox is comfortable in our backyard, who's to say that there won't also be a deer, a family of racoons and maybe a couple of porcupines? All living together, like a John Lewis Christmas advert!!

THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER!!!

I peer around the bushes.

There, not 20 feet away from me, in my very own backyard... huddling against the shed is... a... dog. A mixed-breed-tail-like-a-fox-probably-a-longhaired-chihuahua-crossed-with-a-corgi kinda dog. I register a moment of slight disappointment before bright-siding that I'm still pretty frickin' psyched to have the opportunity to befriend a new dog.

"Hey buddy! How are you?" I make no sudden movements. 

Now that I'm close enough to look at it properly, I'm pretty sure the wee beastie belongs to the alleged "Pharmaceutical Rep" from across the street. When I've seen it in the past, it's usually tied to the front stoop. It softly growls at me.

"It's okay buddy. You're okay." I take a slow step towards him. More growls.

I reverse my step. "No worries, bud. You are O-KAY." I hunker down and make the typical "tch-tch-tch-tch" noises that one uses when one is desperate to attract an animal. The dog neither growls, nor does it scamper over to leap into my arms.

"Dude," I say. "Hold on a sec!" I run to the house where I have emergency dog biscuits. 

I grab a large-breed biscuit and snap it into three smaller pieces as I make my way down the yard once more.

"Hey bud," I say, holding out a piece of biscuit 10 feet away from the dog. "Do you want a cookie?"

It cocks an eyebrow at me.

"Cookie?"

The dog take two small steps towards me, wagging its tail. I take a step towards the dog and it backs up and growls.

"No worries. No worries." I step back and toss a cookie. The dog grabs it in mid-air, a canine pro. "Good dog!!"

I start moving towards the front yard. "Okay, bud, come with me. I'll walk you home." I toss another cookie, which is immediately scarfed up. "Good dog!" I hunker down and offer another cookie. The dog moves towards me, tail wagging and takes the cookie from my hand. "Good dog!! What a good dog!!"

I walk to the driveway. "Let's get you home." The dog refuses to set foot on the driveway. It looks at the driveway - past the gravel to the road - and then back to me with sad, frightened eyes before booting it to the back yard where it hides behind the bushes again.

Well, now it really seems like the dog doesn't want to go home. Which means that the alleged 'Pharmaceutical Rep' is probably a terrible owner. So I'm going to have to adopt the dog. OBVIOUSLY. Which might be a little awkward for walking the dog, on account of the fact that we share the street with the alleged "Pharmaceutical Rep." So that means that I will either have to spray paint the dog with Just for Men hair colour to disguise it... or dye its fur. Dying the fur will probably be a better long-term solution. First, though, I need to look at its dog tags so that I can use its proper name. For that I will need more cookies. I grab supplies from the house and head to the back yard.

"Hey bud," I say, crouching down to offer a cookie. The dog comes right up to me. We are now friends. I hold the cookie in my left hand and reach very slowly with my right hand to take a gander at the dog's tags. And that is when the dog takes umbrage at my forwardness and bites me. Twice. Because it didn't have the right angle the first time. 

"It's okay buddy." The dog  has retreated several feet away. "You're okay. You're okay. I'm so sorry, I should have not tried to look at that tag. I shouldn't have done that. I recognize that now." I glance down, happy that my hand doesn't really seem... to be... bleeding... that much.   I begin to suspect that the dog and I may not be destined for a long-standing friendship. I heave a heartfelt sigh. I probably need to head over to the alleged "Pharmaceutical Rep's" house and bring him back over here to get his dog. 

I cross the street. I'm about to knock on the door when I hear voices in the backyard. 

"Oh, hey! Hi," I say, giving a jaunty wave with my non-wounded hand. There are two men in the backyard. One is standing and looks like he's visiting his alleged "Pharmaceutical Rep." The other is sitting and looks like he is the alleged "Pharmaceutical Rep." Not that I should be making any assumptions about anyone.

"Is anyone here missing a dog?"

"I am!" says the seated gent. "Where is he?"

"He's uh..." I glance down at my hand, which I am keeping surreptitiously down at my side. There is now a fairly steady stream of blood coming from the bite. "He's in my backyard. Does he have his..." I look at my hand again. "Shots?"

"Yeah! Yeah, he does! Did he bite you?"

"Oh, just a wee nip," I say.

"I'm so sorry! He ran away last night during the thunder storm and he wouldn't come back."

"Awwwww, poor guy! No worries, no worries. Yeah, he's uh... he's in my backyard - he didn't want to cross the road with me."

We walk over to my house and head back towards the shed. There's the dog, looking very apologetic for having bitten me.

"Kev," the alleged "Pharmaceutical Rep" says. "Kev. Buddy. What did you do?"

Okay. The dog's name is Kevin. Can we just marvel at that for a moment?

The guy scoops up Kevin, who lolls in his arms, looking like a fox-tailed, teddy bear now.  My new neighbour thanks me profusely for my help.

"Any time!" I say. I then walk into the house to deal with the fallout from my morning adventures.

"David? Can you help me upstairs for a second ?" Upstairs is where all the First Aid supplies live.

"Sure! What's up?"

"I just have a minor dog bite," I say.

I'm in the bathroom rinsing my wound when David appears Kramer-esque in the doorway. "You have a what?"

"A very small dog bite," I say, gently applying soap to the wound. Now that the adrenaline of having saved Kevin has worn off, I recognize that I am feeling a wee bit of pain.

"Jesus! Heather that's a  BITE." He peers closer. "That's actually two bites."

"Two relatively small bites." I give him the scoop on the action he's missed. Once I finish recounting my Choose-Your-Own-Adventure, I proudly exclaim, "This is the first time that I've ever been bitten by a dog."

"Which, given how often you approach animals, is a fucking miracle," says David, grabbing antibiotic ointment and some gauze. He looks at the expiry date. "November 2012? Seriously?"

"The good thing is that we don't need antibiotic ointment that often," I say. 

David is now in full-on trauma physician mode. He finds another tube of non-expired antibiotic ointment, then pulls my hand from under the water to generously apply it to Kevin's love bite. It immediately starts bleeding again. He cuts off 6 feet of gauze and wraps my hand. I now have a club for a hand. David looks manic.

"Did Kevin have his shots?" he asks.

"Yep. That's what his owner said."

"The drug dealer from across the street? That owner?"

"Alleged!" I say. "We don't know for sure why he has so many visitors come to his door at all hours who only stay for 2 minutes at a time."

After I'm bandaged up, I call my doctor's office and confirm that I've had a tetanus shot recently.  (You know, just in case the bites get infected by all those Kevin mouth germs.) BOO YEAH! 2019 BABY!! Then, Dr. Google tells me that I should  keep an eye on the wound and look out for signs of infection. Check. Doing that right now.

When I tell my friend Meaghan about the incident, she stops me when I get to the part about going to find the dog's owner.

"Excuse me? Instead of going inside to give yourself much needed First Aid for dog bites..."

"Just two small ones!"

She rolls her eyes at me. "Instead of taking care of your BLEEDING DOG BITES, you cross the street to the DRUG DEALER'S..."

"Alleged!"

She snorts. "You go to the ALLEGED drug dealer's house, whom you have NEVER met and you make sure that the DOG'S okay??"

"Kevin was really traumatized. I scared him."

"Did it ever occur to you that you should go inside and get David to go to the drug dealer and you should have gone to do First Aid?"

"No." 

"You're out of your fucking mind."

***

One month later... it strikes me that I never did have proof of Kevin's rabies vaccine. It also strikes me that I haven't seen Kevin out on his front stoop in the last month. There is a small part of me wondering if Kevin has perished from rabies.

I walk across the road and knock on the door. No answer. I knock again. Maybe they're out back. I walk up the driveway. The alleged "Pharmaceutical Rep" is talking on his phone with his back to me. 

"Excuse me?" I say. He doesn't hear me. "Excuse me?" Still nothing.

Then, I see Kevin. He is neither foaming at the mouth, nor staggering wildly. He's just walking by the deck, looking pretty unconcerned with the world at large. He doesn't see me. I don't want to stress him out, so I back down the driveway. Very pleased that I won't have rabies.

***

20 minutes later... You know how sometimes a thought just gets stuck in your head? I suspect that I'll be wanting to catch a glimpse of Kevin in another month's time.

***

2 weeks later... I've seen Kevin outside again  - pleased to report that he is still not foaming at the mouth. 

 

Full Contact Hide and Seek

"We're going to play a game when we get home," Rissa says, in the midst of our after-dinner  walk.

"Are we?" I query.

"Oh, yeah," she says.

David immediately concurs.

"What kind of game?" I ask.

"Hide and seek? Sardines?" she jokes.

"I could get on board with Hide and Seek," I admit. I haven't played it since Rissa was little and she would hide behind the curtains, giggling so much that the fabric would shake.

David is looking pretty excited, but he manages to tone down a manic grin. "Hide and Seek would be okay," he says nonchalantly.

Once we're home, the three of us stand in the kitchen, ready to get down to it.

"Okay, is it Sardines or Hide and Seek?" Rissa asks.

Me, personally, I never played Sardines. With only three people, I imagine it's not as entertaining as, say, with 6 or more. "I'm feeling more Hide and Seekish," I say.

David rubs his hands together, already getting into the spirit. "Ground rules? Are we using the yard as well?"

"No!" Rissa and I say simultaneously. "Inside only!"

"Agreed." David now resembles Vizzini from The Princess Bride. "Who's it first?"

"I'll be it," I volunteer. "How much time do I have?"

"A minute?" Rissa suggests.

"Sounds good."

"You go outside," David says. "Face away from the house and count out a minute, and we'll hide!" He has turned into a 10-year-old.

I head out to the back yard and start my count. "One thousand and one, one thousand and two, one thousand and three..." By the time I get to 31, I figure that I've given them way too much time already, so I skip the 'one thousand and' part and just revert to counting double digits out loud. I reach 60 and turn to open the door. "READY OR NOT, HERE I COME!!" I yell. My base age is now about eight.

I look around the main floor. Under the sofa, in the laundry closet, behind the chair and a half in the living room. No sign of anyone. I head upstairs. I peek in the bathroom - no one's in the deep soaker tub. All the while, I'm trying to figure out where I will hide for the next two rounds. I go into Rissa's room. I check the left closet both sides... nobody. I check the right closet, left side... nobody... I open the right side and move some of Rissa's clothes...

"Crap!" says Rissa. "I can't believe you found me so quickly!" She's bummed. 

"I mean, really, there are only so many places that we can hide in this house." I commiserate.

We head to my room and check out the closet and under the bed. No David. We check under Rissa's bed. No David. We head back downstairs and check in the laundry closet again. No David. No David under the kitchen table, or under the sofa or ottoman. He's 6 feet tall, and inflexible - he can't just hide anywhere. We both look at the slanted door that leads to the basement. The gravel-and-dirt-floored-may-as well-be-a-dungeon... basement. With cobwebs and musty humidity. I open the door and see dirt on the basement stairs.

"Oh, for the love of... The basement is disintegrating," I say. I want to close the door immediately so that I don't have to deal with the crumbling "retaining wall" that is shored up by what now looks like the bow of a small dinghy, but originally would have been plumb and square timber. Both the cats flash past me and begin exploring the tiny crawl space under the living room. I trudge down and sweep off the stairs, contemplating how much it will cost to shore up the crumbling foundation-esque parts of the basement. Fuck. So much for wiggle room on the credit line.

I peer behind shelving units. I look up into the crawl space under the kitchen. The mid-summer smell from the basement is pungent. I emit shudder/gag noises as I walk through a particularly wide cobweb.

"Is he down there?" asks Rissa.

"I'm not seeing him." I peer around once more and brush off the dirt on my feet and head back upstairs. We go through the entire house again, not finding him. When we start positing that he might be in the dishwasher, I realize that I may have to OLLY OLLY OXEN FREE his ass. 

My innate competitiveness does not want give up yet. I'll have to check out the basement again. I open the door. David is standing at the bottom of the stairs - grinning madly.

"Where were you?" Rissa and I ask.

"Under the living room," he says smugly, brushing dirt off his body. 

"Of course you were." But then I smile. "On the upside, you're the one who put the dirt all over the stairs, so I don't have to worry about fixing the foundation."

"True." He's fairly dancing with superiority at this point. 

"Okay, you're it now," I say. I'll show him. I'm going to hide someplace so unexpected, that he will NEVER find me. "Give us a couple of minutes."

He heads outside. Rissa runs upstairs and I look at the corner kitchen table. With the table cloth for coverage, if I were to bend myself around the corner bench, I could be pretty hidden. But I have only two minutes. Now, what I should do is move the table out of the way, situate myself in the corner and then pull the table back over me. What I do instead, is attempt to get my 53-year-old ass between the table and the bench - which doesn't fit. I am now wedged between the bench and the table edge and I can't move forward and I can't move backwards. 

I try to use my shoulder to heft the table to give myself some extra space to maneuver, but it's just too heavy to move with one shoulder. I have zero leverage. I kick out. One of the chairs hits the floor. He'll know that I'm there if he sees the chair. He's going to find me immediately. I try to edge towards the corner but my linebacker shoulders are way too big for the space I'm in. I'm trapped. I'm trapped, and time is running out. I start to hyperventilate. Three seconds later my hyperventilation is morphing into something much more panic-driven.

"Help!" I yell. "I'm trapped! HELP!"

"I'm coming!" Rissa yells. 

"HELP ME!!" Logically, I know that I'm not going to die trying to hide myself on the corner bench under our kitchen table, at least not in the time it will take to be un-wedged, but my flight or fight response does not know that. 

"HELP!!"

"Okay! It's okay!" Rissa is racing down the stairs to me. She tries to move the table that remains wedged on my hips and shoulders.

"OW!! OW!!" 

"Sorry!"

By now, David has heard my shrieks of terror and he yanks open the door. "What's happening?"

"I'm TRAPPED!!!"

"Oh." I can picture him trying to work out the geometry of the situation.

"TRAPPED!!" 

He too, tries to pull the table off of me.

"LIFT IT! LIIIIIIIIIIIFT IT!!"

"It's okay, it's okay!!!"

They lift the table and I manage to scramble to safety. In the aftermath of my near-death experience, I am laughing in near hysteria. David and Rissa are just regular laughing. At me. As I rightly deserve. 

Before we finish our three rounds of Hide and Seek, I have bruised most of my right side from my first failed hiding attempt, wet my ass from lying in the soaker tub and put my neck out trying to hide behind the living room curtains. David has scraped his body scrambling into the crawl space under the living room before almost suffocating under forgotten pants in the bottom of our closet. Rissa, a Hide and Seek champion, hid in her closet in relative comfort both hiding rounds, blanketed by her purple terry bathrobe. 

On the upside, the 1/2 hour game provided a full cardio workout for both David and me. Yes, our heart rates were raised mostly in terror and we required nightcaps to calm ourselves down afterwards, but I'm still calling it exercise.

Middle-aged crazy woman

"MOTHERFUCKER!" I exclaim vehemently (and quietly - because I'm in the backyard and our adjacent neighbours have kids and I don't want them to start randomly yelling MOTHERFUCKER, and then attributing it to the middle-aged, crazy woman whose backyard abuts theirs.)

"What?" asks David, looking up from his computer programming on the outdoor sofa

"This," I say, pronouncing the syllable with vitriol, "is not big enough." 

I brandish a white metal cylinder - with lid - that I purchased at Dollarama. It was going to be my "Bug spray and firepit lighter" cylinder. But the fucker is NOT. TALL. ENOUGH. The top will not close. The top isn't even close to closing. My $3.00 purchase that, a half hour before, had produced a gleeful, money-saving grin, is now the wrong size and I am obviously a moron for having purchased it!!

"You are not a moron," says David.

"Did I just say all of that out loud?" I ask.

He gives me an Aardman Animation grin with a side of shoulder shrug.

"Why don't you get yourself a drink and come out and sit in the fresh air?" he suggests. "I'll grab the smaller bug spray that will fit in this lovely new hiding container."

I stomp back inside and prepare to make myself a Caesar with the litre of Clamato that I just purchased from Dollarama along with the aforementioned failed container. I've never made a Caesar before. I'm pretty sure that there's Clamato and vodka. Which, thank the Gods, I have. I can finish off the bottle of vodka... in the freezer so that I don't have to open the new one... I open the freezer door. MOTHERFUCKER!! We already finished that vodka. When? When did we finish it? How much vodka have we been drinking? I dig into my internal calendar and think about the vodka... MOSCOW MULES! David made Moscow Mules the other night and he pours heavy. That's why the old bottle is finished.

Well, that, and the fact that we've been drinking like fishes since the beginning of the pandemic. About 6 weeks ago, I decided that I would no longer drink on weekdays because the whole "nightcap" situation was getting out of hand. This week I fell off my Radio Flyer wagon. This week I lost my mind. I've been weepy. I've been irrationally angry. I've French-kissed the depths of despair in the back of a Plymouth Duster. If I was still having my period, I would say that I have PMS, but I'm in menopause now and the lifter hills and inclined dive loops of that particular roller coaster have mostly levelled out for me.

Except for this week. This week, I have failed at EVERY. FUCKING. THING. Except for over-dramatization and hyperbole. 

I've been doing a lot of shoulders back and deep breathing this week. I've been compartmentalizing impending panic attacks. I put them way, way back... in the back of my bedroom closet, behind the filing box of old correspondence, behind the superfluous Christmas pillows, behind the clothes rail, behind the curtain, past the bed, behind the bedroom door, past the "loft space," up the stairs from the kitchen... deeeeep into my cranium, where they stop me from hyperventilating most of the time.

I went for a walk today, and when I got home, I wasn't sure where I had walked. I'd walked myself into a state of hypnosis or early onset dementia. Did I walk across the bridge? I'm not sure. Did I see people on the boardwalk? Was I even ON the boardwalk? Yes, I must have been, because I walked past the West Beach. Didn't I?

Now, to be fair, I was using my wireless ear buds for the very first time today, whilst listening to Marc Maron's WTF, so I was definitely distracted by his interview with Tom Jones - which I highly recommend. Maybe that's all it was. That's why I can't remember 25 minutes of my walking route. I know where I started and I remember different points along the way, and, given that there are only a few alternatives to get from Point A to Point B, I must have taken one of them, which would definitely have me walking along the boardwalk. 

And maybe, just maybe, my freaking out should be completely expected given that the mental exhaustion of living through a pandemic takes its toll on everyone. Even those of us who are fortunate enough to love our spouses and children, and love spending extra time with them... But all I really want is to be able to have play dates with people other than them now. I want to hug a person I haven't had sex with or given birth to. (I should have maybe phrased that with more specificity.) That's what it comes down to. And for some reason, this week, on the cusp of returning normalcy in Ontario, all my compartmentalizing has caught up with me. 

Which means it's time for that drink... and perhaps instead of meeting any number of self-defined deadlines - a finished chapter, a completed outline or brand new song lyrics - I just drink that fucking drink and sit back with a Regency Romance with a side of historical smut for the added endorphin rush. Then, tomorrow, I can reboot. Because if life, right now, still isn't normal? Why should I expect to be?

Ménage à Moi Miscommunication

I have been married for almost 23 years. Of those almost 23 years, 22.852 of them have been unreservedly, unabashedly, unquestionably happy. Relationships cannot possibly be all sunshine and roses all of the time. Once you've said your "I do's", you do not forever exist in a state of "Happily Ever After," no matter how fucking close you might come.  In spite of what observers might think, David and I, after almost 23 years of mostly wedded bliss, still come up against unexpected conflict.

Witness: Last night David and I were both reading in the living room. I got in into my head that I wanted to have some sexy time once we reached the bedroom. Given that David had just finished a LOOONG week of teaching virtual high school to disaffected teenagers, I reckoned that he might not be up for a full on bouncy-bouncy adventure, so I threw him a soft-ball.

"When we go upstairs," I said, in my most seductive tone, "I'm going to have a ménage à moi -  FOR YOU."

When I said "FOR YOU," I meant that I was going to give more than the ol' college try. I was going to make the whole situation a feast for his senses - visual, auditory, tactile, smell... what's the fifth one? TASTE!! I could have put some taste in there as well, if I'd been specific about how he could become involved. I anticipated that, shortly after the show began, his mental exhaustion would be circumvented by a visceral bodily response. However, outside of my own head, I did not specify my expectations for the main event. 

So... when I clad myself in a low-cut, figure forming, above-the-knee nightie (sans granny panties), and grabbed my... Magic Scepter, I anticipated that David would, if not immediately, then very soon after, become ENGAGED in the afore-mentioned enterprise, and would add a hand, to help a girl out, as it were. 

David didn't get the memo. And although he did have his left hand on my knee, as a warm reminder of  another person in the bed, his other hand held his phone, whereupon he was reading his latest Sci-Fi novel. This, I noticed, in the midst of the MAIN EVENT. Which, when I noticed, made it a bit more difficult for me to... land a punch. And when I finally did win on a TKO, I immediately burst into tears, on account of the fact that he'd been reading his book during, what was supposed to have been (if only in my own brain), a seduction of the senses... FOR HIM.

In our wedding vows we promised to talk to each other, especially when it was difficult. We also promised to listen to each other, especially when it was difficult. 

And as much as I knew that it would be painful to tell him that... orbiting Venus... beside him as he read - on his phone - made me feel like shit, I knew that I had to, or we'd run into this issue again. So I laid it all out there. And when we talked, he told me that he'd thought that I'd wanted 'alone' time, which meant, to him, that he shouldn't really be involved,  when, what I wanted more than anything? Was to have him INvolved. 

He abjectly apologized. I abjectly apologized. And then I promised that, from now on, I would let him in on any and all plans for self-pleasure, because even after almost 23 years, no matter how much I might want him to? He still can't read my mind. 

So next time, I'm just gonna say, "Hey there handsome! I'm heading upstairs to play some... pelvic guitar, how'd you like to accompany me with some chest harmonica?"

ALL THE BAD WORDS

WARNING: There are bad words in this post.

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"SHIT, PISS, FUCK, MOTHER FUCKER!!!" I yell, nausea washing over me. 

I have spent the last 60 minutes painstakingly placing, pinning, and subsequently sewing together the edges of outdoor fabric to a recycled zipper only to  just now discover that the ends of the zipper do not match up. By about three inches. How the fuck is that even possible? Zippers have two sides that are of equal FUCKING length!! While I angrily attempt to close the zipper, the zipper pull... comes off in my hand. I broke the zipper. The zipper pull in my hand mocks me mercilessly. I storm down the stairs in a fit of failure.

David, who has heard my barbaric YAWP, is prepared. "Hey, love," he commiserates, his voice soft and supporting, without even knowing yet why he is offering his spousal commiseration. 

"I GIVE UP!!" I yowl, flopping down on the living room floor, desperately trying to ground myself as I drag my fingers through the carpet fibers.

"What happened?" he asks, propping himself over me, availing himself of an unexpected arm workout in this endeavor.

"THE ZIPPER DOESN"T MATCH UP!!" I wail.

"The zipper?" he queries.

"THE FUCKING ZIPPER DOESN'T MATCH UP!!!" I let out a bark of near-hysterical laughter, as I jam the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. "The zipper, which I have spent FOREVER lining up doesn't match, which is fucking impossible, because it's a ZIPPER with two equally matched sides  AND..." This is where I begin to cackle maniacally... "I yanked the zipper pull off!! I YANKED IT OFF OF THE FUCKING ZIPPER!!!" I show him the zipper pull. "It won't go back on!!!"

"Oh," says David, still braced in a plank above me. "That sounds bad."

"Yeah," I say. "I've spent 4 hours so far seam ripping the old cushions, cutting new fabric and sewing Turkish corners!! I should have just bought new cushions."

We purchased our outdoor sofa in 2008. 13 years on, to save a buck or 800, I decide that I will sew new covers for the existing cushions. Did you know that good outdoor sofa cushions - JUST THE CUSHIONS - cost as much as an actual fucking sofa?!? I mean, for the price of purchasing brand new cushions for our existing outdoor sofa, I could buy a brand new loveseat and two chairs WITH their cushions!

Defiantly waging war against consumerism, I purchased bright red discount outdoor fabric last fall in preparation for recovering the cushions. It costs me a quarter of the price of brand new cushions. Over the past week I have begun my adventures in reupholstering. 

I'm not an upholstery virgin, I have "box cushioned" a 1/2 dozen times since I've owned grown up furniture. I have the old piping, the old cushion covers and the old zippers. No actual instructions for these particular covers which aren't technically box cushions, but I'm sure that my dormant sewing intuition will soon kick into high gear.

I am lucid enough to recognize that I might need to refresh my skill set. I watch some quick and dirty YouTube videos on "Turkish Cushions," "Piping for seat cushions," "Zippers for seat cushions." I extrapolate, I bob, I weave... I feel almost confident about possible outcomes. Turns out that wrestling with a 36" zipper while herding extra stiff outdoor fabric through a non-commercial sewing machine is not my forte. Hence my vitriolic outburst.

David walks me up the stairs and offers an extra set of problem-solving eyes as we face the fallout from my valiant first effort. Having him there alleviates my urge to take all the fabric and cushions and throw them out the window while speaking in tongues. By some miracle, I manage to get the zipper pull back onto the zipper. That there? A big fucking win for me. After a quarter of an hour, it seems like I've managed to figure out a path forward which involves me ripping out the stitching for half of the zipper and refolding my Turkish corners. I no longer want to sob uncontrollably. 

"You okay?" David asks.

"Y... eah... I think so."

"Do you need a beverage of some sort?"

"Yes please."

"Whiskey?"

"Yes please. TALL."

I re-tuck, I re-pin, I re-sew. It looks mostly like it should. I stuff the old cushion into the new cover and notice that the fit is... if I'm using my indoor voice, imprecise.  For it to look good, I will have to rip out the front piping... again. My face scrunches up. My inner banshee demands to be free. I force my shoulders down. I take a calming breath. And another. I eschew foul language. 

I walk calmly downstairs and message a friend who sews for the theatre. I offer her heaps of money to finish the project. She hasn't responded yet. But if she doesn't, I'm going to donate the rest of the material to our local theatre and I am buying some fucking replacement cushions. Life is too fucking short. I don't want "Death by sewing aneurysm" in my obituary.

I've ordered HOW much from Amazon?!?

As a grown-ass woman paying down a mortgage/credit line/supporting a child in university, I've managed to curb non-essential spending by online window shopping and pinning the fuck out of colourful things on Pinterest; thereby racking up my virtual endorphins rather than my Visa statement.

I have evolved in the past 30 years. I have learned to differentiate between want vs need and no longer go shopping as an activity to alleviate boredom. I shop because I need to replace winter boots, or my exercise leggings no longer have material on their inner thighs or I need to dye my hair.

Since April of last year, I have placed 121 Amazon orders. ONE. HUNDRED. AND. TWENTY. FUCKING. ONE.  Even if I eliminate maybe 24 of those for friend/family birthdays, Christmas and baby shower gifts, that is still 97 online orders! That's 8.08 orders a month. That's 1.86 orders a week!! I have ordered MORE THAN ONCE A WEEK from Amazon FOR THE PAST YEAR! 

HOLY FUCK. 

And yeah, we're still in the midst of a pandemic and yeah, maybe  a dozen times, I returned an item because it wasn't the right size/colour/it didn't feel/look/sound right. So that might take me down to  85 orders. But that is still 1.61 times a week! What the fuck have I been buying?!? 

FACE MASKS - because putting clay on one's face forces one to sit still for at least 15 minutes and not focus on the news.

POSTURE-CORRECTING BRASSIERS - because I'm looking more and more like Quasimodo with all my time at the computer.

CURLING IRONS - (plural) - because even if I'm not going out in public, there is the odd day when I want to look like I give a damn - even just for me - CAN I NOT LOOK GOOD JUST FOR ME?? - and random hanks of bone straight hair amidst the rest of the curly locks make me look crazy (er).

LOW-CALORIE, GLUTEN-FREE STARCH OPTIONS - because despite 45 - 60 minutes of cardio every single fucking day, my menopausal body does not process food the way it once did and my waist defiantly remains (grabs measuring tape to confirm)... 36 fucking inches!! I have to find a healthy way to lose "very bad visceral body fat encasing my organs" or at least that's what my GP says. "Middle-aged women with waists over 35 inches are at risk for early death due to heart disease, stroke, Type 2 Diabetes..." Which, if I wasn't already hi-key panicked about dying from Covid-19 complications due years of ignorant chemical use as a Molly Maid while in university (I can say with complete confidence that I never read a single label on a single cleaning product before I was at least 25 years of age), this whole waist-to-hip ratio thing is making me anxious as fuck. So we're taking steps to avoid that.

MAGIC WAND 'personal massager' -  because David became worried when my previous one started to smoke.

BEDDING - lots and lots and LOTS of bedding. Because we weren't able to spend Christmas with any of our family, and I got it in my head that festive Christmas bedding would make it all easier. And patterned flannel sheets would obviously alleviate angst too. And then, having new white sheets for everyone's bed just made sense, because we hadn't purchased new sheets in about a decade and the previous sheets were looking like they'd been through trauma. And really? Even with all those 'coping' purchases? I spent less than what many folks would spend at Bed, Bath & Beyond on a single set of 400 ct. Queen Sized sheets. Or at least that's what I realized when a friend told me what he'd spent on sheets.

DVDs - because we have evidently reached the end of Netflix, Amazon Prime, Crave and whatever other media apps we've signed up for during the pandemic. 

BODY LOTIONS - nice smelling, luxurious, infused with fucking essential oils - because anything, and I mean ANYTHING that gets me to calm the fuck down and not obsess and over-empathize with the state of the world is a good thing.

If I could buy edible cannabis products from Amazon, I'm sure I'd be doing that too. And yes, I just checked, and other than some gummies with cbd oil - I'm out of luck there... WAIT!! I'm such light weight, that might be exactly what the Heather ordered.

A fuck of a lot of money was spent through Amazon in the last year. But I'm not sure that it was any more than what we would have spent if we'd had a vacation anywhere. Or done regular summer day trip shit. Or spent a long weekend in New York and binged on plays.

We're all fucking coping. As best we can. And right now? My coping comes from pink clay masks, my new (4 speed) personal massager and new sheets. When I can hug all my people again? I won't need substitute comfort. My endorphin rush will come from actual physical contact. And that? Will be fucking awesome. 

p.s. Our family's position of gainful employment with PAID sick days makes us so fucking fortunate. We have greater freedom and security than many others during this time. I can write a post feigning shock related to over-spending when others don't have that outlet. It's up to families like ours to give more to charities, help our friends, families and neighbours, support small businesses and independent restaurants because, right now, we can. 

My New Superpower

Our weekly pancakes aren't going entirely to plan. We don't have buttermilk on hand, and none of us feel like masking up and braving the No Frills to get it. Granny's recipe is always better with buttermilk.  

"Can't we just use regular milk?" asks Rissa.

"How about we sour the milk. It only takes..." I begin.

"GAH! It will take so long!" she responds.

"Five minutes," I say, rolling my eyes. "We can wait the five minutes." 

"Okay, but we're going to end up with lime-y pancakes."

"I LOVE lime-y pancakes!" David chimes in, ever the optimist.

In spite of our best efforts, this week's pancakes are mostly crap. After mixing the grudgingly soured milk into our regular batter, we get distracted and the first batch is mostly Cajun. The second batch isn't much better, and really? In spite of my Better-Homes-and-Gardens-substitution-mentality, soured milk doesn't cut it anyway. The texture of soured milk pancakes is pretty much hit-and-miss, not like when you use buttermilk. It has to be buttermilk.

"You know what Super Power I'd like to have?" I ask.

"What?" Rissa and David respond simultaneously, as they soak their pancake failures in butter and syrup.

"I'd like to be able to snap my fingers, say 'BUTTERMILK!' and wherever I pointed, buttermilk would appear."

Rissa and David blink.

"That would be your superpower?" asks Rissa.

David coughs to disguise an involuntary snort.

"Uh.... yeah..." I say. "Then we would never again suffer the buttermilk conundrum."

"We have a buttermilk conundrum?" asks David.

"Almost every Sunday when we forget to purchase buttermilk," I say, the DUH, very apparent in my tone.

Through her laughter, Rissa queries, "So you are saying, that your first wish, if say, a genie were granting you wishes, would be to have a power that would specifically give you buttermilk on whim?"

"Yes. Definitely."

David gives me a Scooby Doo eyebrow before saying, "Nothing more broad than that? Like you have the ability to magic literally ANYTHING out of thin air and you are going to limit it to buttermilk?"

I think for a moment. "Maybe my second wish would be for coconut milk, because we seem to run out of that too."

Rissa shoots me a look of such utter disbelief that I wonder if she might be having a stroke. I am about to ask her to smile so that I can check whether her face is drooping when she says, "Ummmmm... any other specifics that you might be hoping for?"

"I might want to be able to do it without having to say 'BUTTERMILK!' Like, just think it, and it appears."

"Of course," David says. "Completely understandable." He is biting his lip. "You could be a new member of The Mystery Men."

Rissa concurs. "Instead of being the Shoveler, you could be the... MILKER??" Through some miracle she does not expel juice through her nose. 

"Mostly," I say - shooting dagger eyes at both my daughter and my husband (who is now almost crying). "I would be thrilled to SNAP! POINT! and then have the milk appear - with, or without, saying 'BUTTERMILK!' Although I'm second guessing the silent magicking now, what if I were to SNAP! POINT! and then buttermilk appeared, but those who see it, don't know it was supposed to be buttermilk?"

"You feel like people seeing this miraculous buttermilk appearance would deny its authenticity if you don't broadcast what it's supposed to be, when you're snapping and pointing?" David raises an eyebrow at me. 

"Wait!" Rissa says. "Wait, wait! What if, depending on which finger you pointed, it could be a different type of milk product?"

"Why limit it to fingers?" David asks. He generally indicates his own nipples. "Chocolate. Strawberry... Think about it."

Rissa continues. "SNAP! POINT! GOAT MILK!! SNAP! POINT! ALMOND MILK!!!"

"Sure, go ahead and mock me," I say.  "But with my new super powers I will be able to make unlimited baked goods and Thai food."

Wrestling with Lola at 3:00 a.m.

Lola is the most erratic of our three cats. She's the one whose pupils dilate to an alarming size as she stares at a point, just over your left shoulder, where a knife-wielding maniac has obviously taken up residence. She goes from 0 to feline parkour in less than a second. And she loves, loves, loves kneading your chest and throat at 3:00 a.m. 

Last night, as Lola was aggressively palpating my jugular with her forepaws and digging her needle sharp back claws into my torso, I physically encouraged her to move towards the end of the bed. I suspect that, in my sleep-drugged need to redistribute said cat, I probably grabbed her under her little cat armpits and shot-putted her from my chest. 

As I was settling back in to sleep, there was an odor. In the midst of my near comatose state, I thought to myself "I just dragged her ass against my pillow." Doing my best to ignore the whiff of cat ass, I turned towards David's side of the bed and eventually went back to sleep. 

This morning? I discovered that in my late-night jouncing of wee Lola - she had panicked. With her ass. Channeling the Archbishop of Canterbury, she basically used her ass as an aspergillum and delicately sprinkled anal gland fluid (dry heave) around the area from which she was evicted. I give thanks to every deity in the universe that she is not a Jackson Pollock fan... and that we had bleach in the house. 

And that's why you don't become a gymnast

Today, I popped a rib by NOT making the bed. I calmly moved towards the bed to begin making it, but then figured, Nah, I'll do this AFTER I exercise. And then, I calmly walked away from the bed. No sudden movements, no being startled, no overly dramatic sneezing - I simply walked away. And then I was stabbed in the back. Repeatedly. By knives. Or ice picks. Or axes. Or by a gang of small pixies wielding knives or ice picks or axes. (I'm now imagining Terry Pratchett's Nac Mac Feegles beating the shit out of my back.)

Rob Anybody, a Nac Mac Feegle 
(art Paul Kidby)

The first time I popped a rib was when Rissa was still in a stroller and I was carting that stroller up and down our front steps in East York. So that means that this shit has been going on for the last 19.5 years. 

At my inaugural chiropractor appt. almost 2 decades ago, the doctor asked, "By any chance were you a gymnast?" as she gave me a sad, the-damage-is-done smile. Apparently I am now TOO flexible. Who knew that my eight years as a recreational gymnast would completely fuck me over in middle-age? Most physio therapists and chiropractors. 

Like most girls who saw Nadia Comaneci in the '76 Olympics, I fell in love with the idea of being a gymnast, but after nearly a decade in recreational gymnastics, my top skills amounted to a back walkover on the balance beam and a back handspring on floor. I couldn't kip on the bars for shit. I was by no means an elite athlete. I can't even imagine the chronic issues that Olympic level athletes deal with, if my hypermobility pulls this kinda crap. 

I pop ribs maybe 3 (or 4 or 5... the most is 6) times a year. By doing such taxing things as bending over to dry my hair, reaching for the shower gel, sneezing. My friend thinks that the gravitational pull of my breasts is the cause. According to her, I might not be moving quickly, but, because my breasts are in their own orbit, other intra-corporeal bodies (ie ribs and ligaments) are pulled out of alignment by my innate breastal gravity. I think that this sounds like a perfectly reasonable justification.

Because this delightful little trait has been kicking in more frequently over the past couple of years, I decided to be proactive and strengthen my back with yoga - you know, so that I can avoid this shit in the future. Apparently, my one month's worth of strength yoga hasn't afforded me its full benefits yet. This may be compounded by the fact that I haven't actually talked to any sort of medical professional about this issue, because... pandemic.  So I don't know whether my version of strengthening my back jibes with what someone who actually knows how bodies work, might think. 

And, as I've been reading today, in between popping muscle relaxants, it sounds like I probably have "Slipping Rib Syndrome." WAIT! WAIT!!! If I add this to my four other health idiosyncrasies (Hashimodo's Disease, Meniere's Disease, Hypoglycemia and Migraines),  I think I've got the Weird-Ass Medical Disorder Bingo!! Boo-freaking-yeah baby!  Bright side!

Is it pore cleansing or waxing your nose?

WARNING: Pores and the things that come out of pores are featured in this post. There is a used Bioré strip pic... and links to videos. You've been warned.

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Those Bioré nose strips? Is that accent aigu real? I mean, is it actually French or is it like Hӓagen-Dazs where they decided to make it sound fancier and European for the cachet of it all? Do we inherently trust the French with our faces?? 

Okay, so I Googled it - it is, in fact, a Japanese company. Why isn't the Japanese-sounding company offering us beautifying facial products?? Is this really just North Americans believing that French-sounding products are better for our faces? Has it just been propaganda? Have we all been propaganda-ed? 

The top 10 cosmetics companies are:  L'Oréal, followed by Gilette, Nivea, Estée Lauder, and Clinique, which make up the top five. They are followed by Guerlain, Shiseido (which IS Japanese), Pantene, Dove, and Garnier. Only three of these companies are truly French: L'Oréal, Guerlain and Garnier. But eight of them fucking sound French, right?

I got sidetracked. The nose strips. The wet-your-nose-let-the-charcoal-coating-dry-peel-off-all-your-blackheads strips. The satisfying perusal of the strip after you've removed it when you see all your pore guck on it. And you feel fresh and clean and like nobody will be focusing on your blackhead laden nose - which they won't, because do you know how close you'd have to actually be to see whether or not they have embedded guck in their pores?  Even discounting our present COVID restrictions - people do NOT get that close to each other, unless they're intimate partners, and frankly, even then, I would hope that you'd be focused on other shit if that was the case. Unless that's your kink, and as long as it's consensual, fill your little boots.

With my middle-aged eyes, I'm unsure whether I'm actually removing clogged pores or if, in addition to aaaaaaaall the other body hair that I am now sprouting, I'm ripping out hair that just so happens to reside on top of my nose. Because why wouldn't that be another thing that happens to women in menopause? But please tell me it's not that. I mean, when I actually find the lone, minute, whiskery white hair on my nose I immediately pluck that fucker out. So it's not like an entire forest of nose hairs would spring forth overnight, right? Maybe I should 5X magnify my nose more regularly.

Or maybe I should just be happy that the gunk that's coming out of my pores is relatively small enough that I can mistake it for a very, very, fine wispy hairs. 

Could be pore guck, could be teeny tiny hairs.

And then of course I had to google comparatives.  My pore gunk (or nose hairs) look positively dainty compared to some of the crap that's coming out of other people's pores. Google it yourself - there are tonnes of make-you-dry-heave images out there.

And now I'm down that rabbit hole. It's the combined fascination / horror / nausea that keeps me clicking links.  I've now discovered these: 

BESTOPE Blackhead Remover Pimple Popper Tool Kit Acne Comedone Zit Blackhead Extractor Tool for Nose Face, Blemish Whitehead Extraction Popping, Stainless Steel with Metal Case

Surprisingly, even with the display of its accoutrement of tools (dry heave), it is relatively innocent and non-graphic. Plus its pseudo-porn-soundtrack is enjoyable.

And this: 

Blackhead Vacuum, AsperX 5.0 Megapixels Visible Blackhead Remover Facial Pore Vacuum, 20X Microscope Blackhead Suction Tool, Rechargeable Suction Facial Pore Cleaner with 6 Replaceable Tips (Upgraded)

It has an internal camera!! WITH 5.0 MEGA-FUCKING-PIXELS!!! So of course I had to find a video where they actually tried it. This is train wreck material. 
  

DANGER WILL ROBINSON!!! DANGER! NO, WILL ROBINSON!!
 

Even for a great ape like me who gets off on this sort of crap, I say this: Watch at your peril.

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Depending on the size of the vacuum aperture (sucker) that you put on, they should maybe be marketing this as a different type of appliance.

Downward Braless Dog

With my head tucked, my oversized Aerie shirt slides up over my face. I feel the butter-soft skin of my tatas against my chin. My line of sight is drawn between my breasts and I can't help but note their ovular shape. I snort. But then I stop, because it takes me out of the 'moment' with my virtual yoga instructor. Where is my breath supposed to be? Is it in my heels? My shoulders??  

My breasts are really soft. I mean, how often does a straight, middle-aged woman get to feel naked breasts upon her face? Well, not my whole face. It's not like they're so woobly that I can feel them on my cheeks (I am, after all, only a D cup), but my chin is totally digging the whole breast experience. I can see why David sounds the way he does when his head rests upon my chest. 

Why did I decide to do yoga in my pajamas?

Shit. Am I INhaling or EXhaling? Feet! My feet are supposed to be between my hands. Folding. I am now folding. And sweeeeeeeeeping up and arching and folding again. And planking and cobra-ing and pushing back into... my breasts upon my chin. I look weird from this angle. I'm like the back end of a goat. But I don't need to be milked. If I were lactating, these breasts would be magnificently firm!!  I snort again.  Steve the cat comes to investigate. He winds his way back and forth under my downward facing dog and head butts my low-hanging fruit.

"Dude... Distracting." He chirps and rolls onto his back, doing his version of corpse pose beneath me. Fuck. I missed the folding. I nudge Steve with my foot as I come back to standing. Arching... folding... planking... But really? All I'm aiming for is to get back to downward dog to celebrate the majestic softness of my boobs. 

Oh yeah. They are so fucking soft.  I want to experience this on a regular basis. How long can I hold downward dog without passing out? My chin is so happy. I sigh. Focus would be an issue. I started yoga up again to center myself and deal with stress. Topless yoga would be counter-productive. But. SOOOOOOOO. Soft. My eyes close and I relax my shoulders. Find my inner...

EGYPTIAN COTTON!!!!

I barely manage to finish my yoga session before I run to my laptop and order Egyptian cotton sheets from Amazon.  They will be here tomorrow. I will be naked in them. And more than my chin will be happy.

I spent HOW much at No Frills??

"That will be $232.31 - would you like to use your $10 reward from your PC points?" says the teenager cashier at No Frills.

"I'm sorry it was HOW much?"

"$232.31." 

"Yes. Yes, I would like to use my $10 in reward points." I say as calmly as I can, while inside my head I am yelling at the top of my lungs:

"HOLY FUCKING SHIT! TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY-TWO FUCKING DOLLARS!?!"

(And just so we're all clear here - I am shopping for two, count 'em TWO people now.)

Last week I made the mistake of shopping at Walmart for groceries - which I don't usually do, because I always spend too much, on account of the fact that I don't know my way around the grocery part of the store and I always see shit that I don't need, but I suddenly desperately want. I had gone for the cheap cans of red and green Thai curry - but had ended up with a quick dry sports bra, a vintage Queen t-shirt, 3 types of gluten free bread products, 2 body washes (on sale), waffle fries (fucking waffle fries?!?), and rice and pasta alternatives, because I might as well stock up so that I didn't have to go back the next week.

While in Walmart, I could feel myself leaning into a panic attack. You know, because all of a sudden you look around and see that everyone in the store is wearing masks and you realize you're trapped in some weird-ass sort of sci-fi version of your life where you haven't been able to see your parents in forever because they're old and you might kill them from the pandemic that's been in Canada for almost a year? That kind of panic attack? The Musac playing over the speakers was All By Myself - not the Celine Dion version, but the original by Eric Carman. Instead of jamming out to it in a delightfully campy air drumming solo à la Bridget Jones's Diary, I found myself fighting the urge to lie in the middle of the vitamin aisle making floor angels while hysterically sobbing.

So this week? No shopping at Walmart. It is No Frills. I will be in and out in 20 minutes. I bring three bags in with me, which is overkill, because there are only eight items on my shopping list (milk, peppers, ground meat, apples, unsweetened chocolate, cheese, sour cream and cottage cheese) - and there is no way that I will have to use all three bags. But I approach the check out lane (63 minutes later) and see that there are WAY more than eights items in my cart - certainly more than three bags will hold, so I ask for a couple more. After paying the $222.31 for the food, I'm in some sort of fugue state as I pack up everything - unsure as to what the fuck I have purchased. I mean, as I'm seeing the items in my actual hands I have no idea what they are and what they've cost. 

On the drive home, all I say is "$222.31, $222.31, $222.31..." like some sort of weird fucking mantra. Even as  the groceries are unpacked on my kitchen counter, I still cannot comprehend what went wrong. Then I look at the receipt, particularly for the higher ticket items.

$7.97 Kitty Litter - wasn't on my list, but... on sale this week! We have three fucking cats, extra fucking kitty litter is a necessity. 

$10.00 Hot chocolate mix - because David loves his hot chocolate and although we are not out yet, by the end of the week we probably will be, depending on how cold the fucking weather is.

$9.47 Decadent Milk Chocolate Chips - see point above, but change "hot chocolate" to "fucking  chocolate chips."

$10.00 Smoked Salmon - but it was for three smaller packs that, yes, are a fucking luxury, but I really like smoked salmon and the per portion price is very fucking reasonable and $10.00 is much cheaper than buying a fucking new pair of shoes.

It goes on and on. And not just higher ticket items. Whipping cream? Why the fuck do I need whipping cream? Because I might make something that will require it. Maybe. Not sure what it will be, but I have read a bunch of fucking recipes this week and I'm sure that one of them had whipping cream in it. Two types of fucking ice cream - one for David and lactose free coconut ice cream for me. Because there is no ice cream in the house and can we not have something sweet as a fucking pick-me-up?!? Licorice tea - which is FUCKING soothing, even if we have six other fucking herbal teas in the cupboard already.

When I add up all the things that were not on my shopping list, but were either just good to have on hand for when I would need them, or sounded like something David might want as a treat or I might like to snack on right when I got home... (Dill Pickle Quaker Fucking Mini Rice Cakes) I realize that I have spent $195.07 more than I needed to today. 

"ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-FIVE DOLLARS AND SEVEN FUCKING CENTS!?!"

What the actual fuck? I mean, I know that we'll eat it all, but almost two hundred dollars more than I needed to spend? What the fuck went wrong? What was I doing? I can tell you what I wasn't fucking doing, I wasn't actually looking at my fucking shopping list while I was at fucking No Frills. And what I also wasn't doing? I wasn't purchasing ONLY the things that were on that fucking list. 

Oh Jesus... I went up and down all the aisles. ALL of them. You don't do that at the grocery store! You get in and you get the fuck out - that is your mission when you shop. It's not a fucking invitation to lose your mind and buy whatever the fuck you want!!  Give me just a second while I bang my head on the table.  (Deep breath. Shoulders back.)

The good news? Now I can whip some fucking cream (that isn't in ANY way lactose-free) to put on my lactose-fucking-free coconut milk ice cream which I can then cover in salted fucking caramel sauce. 

You put your snorkel where?!?

It's the cannabis fudge. That's why we're laughing. (Also, this may have been the first time in his life that David has ever truly been high, because I gave him just a titch more fudge than I ingested - you know, because he's taller and slightly heavier than I am.) We're laughing so hard that our abs are aching. ALL the obliques, ALL the rectuses ALL the intercostals.

"I can't breathe!! I can't breathe!!" I gasp.

David lets forth another guffaw of laughter. "You must be breathing!" He looks at me very seriously. "If you weren't breathing, you'd have passed out." Now, in a whisper, "You'd. be. un. conscious."

This sends me off into paroxysms one more. "STOP! STOP!!

"How ARE you breathing?" he asks.

"Through my vagina."

"Really?" He looks skeptically at my lap.

"I have a snorkel down there."

This confuses his eyebrows. "You have a snork-o-vag?"

"A...???"

"Snork-o... No... that doesn't sound right, does it? Snork-gina!!" He starts laughing madly once more.

"What? What?!?"

"I'm just imagining the cartoon version of that character. BWA-HA-HAAAAAAA!!! THE CLIT WOULD BE THE NOSE!!!!" Another thought hits him. "Wait... wait... VA-JORKEL!!!"

"Va-jorkel??"

"Vagina snorkel. You're welcome."

"VAAAAAAAAJORRRRRRKEL." I have the perfect song in which this word may be utilized most effectively.

♩♬ VA-JORKEL SONGS FOR VA-JORKEL CATS!! ♫
♬♩ VA-JORKEL SONGS FOR VA-JORKEL CATS!! ♩
♩♬ VA-JORKEL SONGS FOR VA-JORKEL CATS!! ♫
♬♩ VA-JORKEL SONGS FOR VA-JORKEL CATS!! ♩

David is amazed and is most certainly contemplating how he can have me canonized. And then, very quietly, he starts to sing.

♬♩ BE-CAUSE VA-JORKELS ARE AND VA-JORKELS DO ♫
♩♬ VA-JORKELS DO AND VA-JORKELS WOULD! ♩
♬♩ VA-JORKELS WOULD AND VA-JORKELS CAN! ♫
♩♬ VA-JORKELS CAN AND VA-JORKELS DO!!! ♩

Okay, number 1? David can sing - which always makes me happy, but even more so now because I am stoned and my ears are in ecstasy at the way the notes are leaving his throat. And B? After singing this particular refrain, he then recites for me the The Naming of Cats, in its entirety, in this deep, sonorous, over-the-top-sexy voice. Right beside my ear.

"How is it that I have never known you could do that?" I ask breathlessly.

David shrugs.

"In 22 and a half  years of marriage, how did I NEVER know that you were THAT kind of musical theatre geek?"

David looks chagrined.

"I'm not complaining," I assure him. "I mean, I wouldn't have a leg to stand on with my own musical theatre geekness... but all these years you could have been whispering T.S. Elliott poetry into my ears...?"

"It's not like I had a CATS costume in my closet or anything," he says.

"Anymore..." I snicker.

"I didn't!! I don't!!"

"But if you did??"

"Mr. Mistoffelees. Obviously. He can light up his own costume."

***

It's only now, reading this back, that the awkwardness of VA-JORKLE is evident. VA-JICLE would have scanned much better in the song's rhythm but is nowhere near as funny to say out loud. 

The Humpback near the Cenotaph

I swear I was not being intentionally disrespectful. I just couldn't take it any more.

Earlier in the day:

"Hoorah! I have received my shipment of Humpback Posture Correctors!!" (There's a sentence every woman wants to utter.) It's been a process folks. After having purchased 6 different styles of posture correctors - each of which was either the wrong fit/size/comfort-level, I finally found these:

In addition to supporting my devolving posture, these babies give a nice added lift to the girls. 

It just may be possible that I'm not thinking logically when I don my Women Chest Brace Up yesterday. I recognize now, that wearing a garment that thrusts one's shoulders back might not be the best course of action when one has displaced an upper rib while drying her hair that morning. 

I am excited though. 

"THIS IS IT!! THIS IS THE DAY THAT I TAKE MY BACK...   BACK!!"

Months of terrible typing posture are going to be rectified. I strap that sucker on and revel in its mild armpit discomfort. By dinner, apart from the near-constant, minor back ache, I have forgotten that I 'm wearing it.

David and I go for our post-dinner perambulation, enjoying the crisp night air. My posture? Spec-fucking-tacular! My shoulder blades? Done. 

A half hour from our house, the comfort-seeking choreography begins. The wiggling of the shoulders, the walking pelvic tilt, the attempts to round out my back stymied by the persistent pull from the 85% Nylon and 15% polyester fibres yanking at my armpit region.

"You okay?" asks David.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. I think that..." (shoulder jiggle, breast shimmy) "maybe I should have taken off my Posture Corset before we left the house."

"Didn't you put a rib out this morning?"

"Yeah."

"Why are you wearing a Posture Corset then?!?"

"I thought it was a good idea at the time?" I say as tried to release my shoulders again.

"How long have you been wearing it."

"Like seven hours?" We are now approaching the cenotaph in our downtown park - lit with billions of lumens to ensure that local hoodlums will shy from it.

"You need to take that off ASAP."

We pass the cenotaph, and head up towards King Street. I get about 20 feet away and I go temporarily insane.

"Nope! Can't! CANNOT DO THIS!!!" I unzip my coat and begin to struggle with my zippered sweater (for extra winter warmth) underneath. The zipper sticks. "ARGH!!!"

"Whoa! Whoa!" says David.

"Can't!! Now I'm trapped! I'm TRAPPED in my sweater AND my Bra X Strap Vest!!! I'm going to DIE here!! I can't see anything!!!"

David fumbles for my zipper in the near-dark.

"Oh for the love of... There is a light source brighter than the sun right behind us!" I walk over into the cenotaph's light and manage to unzip my sweater and pull up the long sleeved shirt beneath it - revealing my bra and posture corrector to the world. I reach for the three massive hooks under my boobs and David quickly steps in front of me to offer some spousal shielding, though frankly at this point, I wouldn't care if our entire town saw me topless, I just need the sucker unhooked.

"Oh thank God. THANK GOD!" I say, ecstatic from the near-orgasmic release of tension in my shoulders. "Thank you, thank you, thank you..." I hug David. "So good. It feels so fucking good."

"Okay. Simmer down there..."

We have decided that the implementation of the Prevent Chest Hunchback should be done in baby steps. Or at least until my rib goes back to where its supposed to live.

MOLES? We don't need no stinking MOLES!

Is mole DNA similar to rabbit DNA? And by "mole" I mean a mole on your face or body, and by rabbit I mean literal fucking rabbits. If you have two moles on your face, do their melanocytes then multiply exponentially like the proverbial rabbit? Is my face now a Ponzi Scheme?

Last year I had one small mole on my forehead, which I totally thought was a zit, but it wasn't, because no matter how hard I tried to pop it, nothing happened. Then another one showed up on my forehead and another, then one on my cheek and then two more on the opposite cheek. And now there are two others that have developed beside my mouth. 

If, over the past year, my one benign mole (because, yeah, I checked that shit out with a dermatologist) has become eight, I'm fairly certain that within a decade I will become the Mole-Faced Woman. The upside of this eventuality is that it can, and should, be monetized. 

Today? My skin melts. I go upstairs to pluck my chin, neck and face hairs (because THAT'S a daily thing now) and my skin has slumped like melted wax. My thought process goes like this:

"WHAT THE FUCK HAS HAPPENED TO MY FACE?!?"

I try to recall all the things that I've done so far over the course of the morning that might contribute to a House of Wax moment upon my person, but it takes me a full 90 seconds of panicked thought before I calm down enough to realize that they are just slinkles (sleep wrinkles). That calm is lost when I realize that those slinkles remain embedded in my skin four fucking hours after I have stopped sleeping on my face AND and I have no recollection of even seeing my face this morning, even though logic says that that shit had to have been there earlier, like WHEN I WOKE UP.   

Do you know that they make pillows for this? To avoid slinkles. They look like the kind of pillow you might wind up on if you have cervical trauma. For $174.00 + tax you can sleep the sleep of the uncomfortable so that your face at least slumps backward while you sleep.

Whenever I mention any of these things to David or Rissa they look at me like I'm nuts.

"Nobody notices this stuff but you."

"Uhhhhhh.... not true. Every other menopausal woman out there notices this shit."

"On themselves maybe, but not on other people. You have to be VERY close to other people like REALLY close to notice what YOU see in a mirror with 5X magnification."

I can't fault this chain of thought. No one other than David and Rissa gets that close to me - especially now, with all the physical distancing and mask wearing. In spite of laser eye surgery, David's eyes don't even really work that well up close and personal and Rissa repeatedly tells me that I am crazy and that I'm beautiful the way I am and I should just accept that fact.   Plus, with me already starting to forget shit? I'm not going to remember what my original face looked like. So the next time I gaze into my 5X magnification mirror, I can just be happy that I own one that helps me locate that mother-fucking white hair on my neck that I've been playing with for the last hour as I've been watching The Crown.

Accept no substitutes

"Mom, Sean Connery died."

"What? Oh no! When?"

"This morning. He was 90."

"Oh... well, that's a good long life, but still very sad."

"Yeah, it is. I know he was your favourite."

"Yes, yes, definitely him, then Daniel Craig."

David pipes up in the background. "Second favourite."

For a moment, I am dumbfounded. "You CAN'T be serious."

"What?" David says, looking confused.

"What's going on there?" my Mom asks on the other end of the phone.

"Sean Connery is your SECOND favourite?!?" I start to stand.

"What's happening?" Mom asks.

"NO! Your Mom's! It's your Dad and then Sean Connery!" David is literally backing away from me.

"Oh, thank God," I say, sitting back down. "I thought you meant that he was YOUR second favourite Bond. That you were going to say some shit about Roger Moore being first, and then I was going to have to punch you in the throat."

"Wow. You are next level with your Connery devotion."

"Heather? Heather?" My Mom is a bit frantic on the phone.

"Sorry Mom." I then catch her up on my David's theory of favourites. 

"Well," she laughs. "He is definitely up there for me."

"This could have been an enormous, terrible, marital revelation for me. I mean, we all know that it goes Sean Connery, Daniel Craig, then the pretty-much-interchangeable Brosnan/Dalton, George Lazenby for giving Bond any sort of emotional grounding and then Roger Moore for camp."

"You'll get no argument from me," says David, hands in the air.  

***

To ignore Connery's incredible acting talent outside of the Bond franchise would be near-heresy. I haven't seen all his movies, but among my favourites are: amateur psychotherapist Mark Rutlege from Marnie, train robber Edward Pierce in The First Great Train Robbery (he did all his own stunts - it's un-fucking-believable!), space Marshal William T. O'Niel from Outland, monk William of Baskerville who gives Umberto Echo's The Name of the Rose incredible heart, immortal warrior Juan Sánchez Villa-Lobos Ramírez from Highlander, his Oscar-winning portrayal of Chicago cop Jim Malone from The Untouchables, crotchety senior archaeologist Henry Jones Sr. in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, Russian submarine Captain Marko Ramius (still with the Scottish accent) from The Hunt for Red October and ex-MI-6 agent John Patrick Mason in The Rock. 

Now I'm going to watch all those again and discover some more of his best. You should too.

https://www.rottentomatoes.com/celebrity/sean_connery

***

After writing this post - it was brought to my attention that Sean Connery made some statements in Playboy in 1965 and then again in a 1987 Barbara Walters interview (defending the original Playboy statement) about how slapping women was sometimes warranted. 

https://www.newsweek.com/amid-tributes-sean-connerys-views-slapping-women-have-been-largely-overlooked-1543819

I really hate when someone I've respected has done shit like this. Yeah, he was born in 1930, yeah, he was a product of his generation with all its attending thoughts about how women could/should be treated, but outside of consensual kink, slapping women isn't and hasn't been a good thing to do for a LONG time. And yeah, in 2006, he recanted his statement, but then said that the original quote in Playboy had been taken out of context. This is not a man who took ownership of a belief that was wrong nor did he admit to the error of his ways. 

I think I broke him

"Have you ever wanted to buy me a special outfit?" I ask David.

"Pardon?" David asks, turning his head towards mine.

We're in bed, reading. He has a puzzle book and a pencil. He's writing in the margins. I'm reading a contemporary romance.

"Like, have you ever wanted to choose something specific for me to wear?"

 "Choose?" His eyebrows are frowning.

"Doesn't have to be clothes. Like a pair of sexy shoes. Or boots! You like boots." I smile and waggle my eyebrows at him. "I'm a size 9."

"No."

"Are you okay? You've gone a little pale."

"What? No, I'm good, I'm good."

"I mean, like if you found a pair of boots that Kalinda Sharma* would wear - would you be, 'I think you'd look good in these...'?" 

"Ummmm..." 

"Or, if you had a favourite outfit of mine that you'd like me to wear, you know, that you really LIKE?"

"NO!" He now looks like he might throw up a little.

"David?"

"Uhhhhh..." If I were interrogating him in a SPEC OPS unit, he would look more comfortable than he does now.

"Hey," I say, now fully turned towards him. "What's going on?"

"The... uh... the thought of me buying you something to wear, that you may or may not like, or picking out a dress for you? It really stresses me out."

"But if it's something that YOU'D like me in? It wouldn't really matter if it wasn't my favourite, if YOU liked how it looked on me. Haven't you ever seen something that you might want me to wear?"

He seems like he might be in a fugue state.

"David?" His eyes have definitely glazed over. "David??" I put my hand on his chest.

"I can barely pick out my OWN clothing!!" he explodes. "I stress over choosing SOCKS in the morning!! That's why I'm so glad when you buy me mix & match clothes so that I don't have to THINK about what I'm wearing!! CLOTHING?!?!?! Buying it, deciding about it, just for ME is STRESSFUL! Trying to choose something for YOU? I... It... I..." 

He is this close to hyperventilation.

"I just thought because I always like it when you get all dressed up. Like if you even shine your shoes for me..."

"Yeah, but you BOUGHT those shoes for me!! I didn't CHOOSE those shoes!!"

"What if you were choosing from the dresses that I already have, or the boots I already have?"

"I trust your judgement!!"

"You don't have a favourite dress that gets you all hot and bothered when I wear it?"

"I DON'T REMEMBER A SINGLE ITEM OF CLOTHING THAT YOU OWN!!!"

"Seriously?"

"SERIOUSLY!!!"

I'm taken aback. I could tell you almost every t-shirt that David has, what his underwear looks like, his dress shirts...

He starts laughing. "Right now, I'm trying to think of your dresses, and literally in my brain is the word GREEN with a question mark beside it!"

I snort. "Seriously?'

"Yes."

"So me saying that you could buy me a sexy pair of boots, that I would actually be wearing for YOU?"

"Scares the shit out of me. I'm on the verge of a panic attack right now." He's nearly hysterical with laughter. It's contagious. Very soon we're finding it difficult to breathe and are almost wetting ourselves.

"Oh love..." I smooth the hair from his forehead. "This was supposed to be like a sexy couples' thing to think of. Not pressure. I was just reading this book when the guy, he picked out an outfit and..."

"And that? That idea? Terrifies me. You... you have great taste in clothes. You always look good. You come downstairs all dressed up and I always think you look good."

"But you, having anything to do with the choosing of that outfit?"

"Not a perk. I will build you anything you want - a deck, a closet, a backyard studio. I will set up every piece of tech in this house, but please, please, please... I am begging you, don't ask me to choose clothing for you." 

"Okay... Okay... You don't have to choose clothing for me." 

"Or shoes!!"

"Or shoes. It's okay, love. It's okay, you don't have to." I hold his face in my hands and kiss him.

"Okay?"

"It's all okay."

His breathing has settled a bit. 

I kiss him again. "I'm just going to brush my teeth."

When I come back, David is looking through my closet.

"There are dresses that have green in them." He looks like he's won the lottery.

"Yes, there are."

"I DO remember some of your dresses."

I smile.

"If you ask me to pick between three dresses, I could maybe choose one."

"Only if you want to, love. Only if you want to."

***

By the by... David is the King of Thoughtfulness. Before we married, he had all of Shakespeare's comedies, in their folio editions, bound into hard covers for me, with every other page blank so that I could make acting notes. When I lost my mind as a working new Mom, I arrived home to a house full of lit candles, a glass of wine, a warm bath and a pair of earplugs to wear that night so that I could get a good night's sleep. One Christmas, he presented me with a calendar, in which he had booked us babysitters for 3 months, so that we could have date nights. My husband thinks of making my dreams come true, pretty much constantly. Just don't ask him to choose out clothing for me. ;-)

*David loves Archie Panjabi's character Kalinda Sharma from The Good Wife - mostly he loves her boots.