And then we were carjacked...

Driving towards Rissa's university residence, we blithely follow the directions offered by the nice young people in their bright orange safety vests.

"Just drive around there folks, and they'll help you out."

I'm a bit confused - we are still relatively distant from her Residence. But we do it, we drive through the parking lot towards the dozen or more colourfully clad students. "Oh look there's a welcoming committee, isn't that..."

Clapping, stomping and whooping, these hoodlums swarm our Honda Civic.

"FIRST YEARS OUT OF THE CAR, FIRST-YEARS-OUT-OF-THE-CAR!! FIRST YEARS OUT OF THE CAR, FIRST-YEARS-OUT-OF-THE-CAR!!"

"What's going on?!?" asks Rissa.

"They are apparently encouraging you to leave the car," David posits.

Our "Welcoming Committee" comes closer, faces at the window, yelling to a decibel level that, moments before, would have seemed impossible.

"FIRST YEARS OUT OF THE CAR, FIRST-YEARS-OUT-OF-THE-CAR!! FIRST YEARS OUT OF THE CAR, FIRST-YEARS-OUT-OF-THE-CAR!!"

"Oh, crap!  Crap, I guess I'd better get out!" Rissa departs the vehicle.

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" The students explode with joy.

"I've got her!" says a young man in face paint and a dozen bandannas wrapped around his limbs. "You just drive up there and the guy in the vest will tell you when it's safe to go."

"When it's safe to go?"

"What's her name?" asks another student.

"Rissa..."

"RISSA!!" she yells as she checks off the name.

"RISSA!!!!!" Everyone else yells.

A sharpie scrawls onto a pre-printed, university-issue, green paper. "Here's her room number, you drive up to the Res. We've got your daughter." She hands us the piece of paper "Don't lose it or you'll never know where she is." She laughs.

They've got our daughter?  What the fuck just happened here?

We drive up to the guy in the vest.

"Is everything..."

"You just drive up there and we'll take care of everything." He smiles reassuringly.

"So she's just..."

"He's got her. She'll get there."

O...kay. We drive towards the Res.

"RIGHT THROUGH HERE FOLKS! RIGHT THROUGH HERE!!" Music is blaring, new packs, larger packs, of university students bounce up and down in excitement.

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! WHAT'S THE NUMBER?!? WHAT'S THE NUMBER?!?"

We show them the green paper.

"IS IT OKAY IF WE UNLOAD YOUR CAR?" a spokesperson yells.

"Uh... yeah, yeah... sure... it's okay."

"POP THE TRUNK!!! ALL RIGHT... LET'S GOOOOOOOOO!!!"

(Perhaps now is a good time to mention that I was recently diagnosed with Endolymphatic Hydrops - an inner ear disorder that affects the fluid in the ear canals. Some of the symptoms make me super sensitive to sound, which, in turn, makes me dizzy and nauseated. Usually this isn't an issue outside, unless it's incredibly loud.)

I stagger out of the Civic. So much yelling. Music SO loud. I grasp blindly for anything to help me regain my balance - finally finding the car's side mirror.

Equilibrium regained... now I can help with the... I do a cartoon double-take to the back of the car. Everything's gone. All Rissa's stuff is GONE - two shopping carts are disappearing into the Res. They took my daughter and now they've taken all her stuff! I start to hyperventilate.

David is commends everyone on their organization and energy. I can't breathe.

"You guys are fantastic!! Can we get a picture?"

A picture? He wants a picture of these people?!?

"ALL RIGHT! YOU FOLKS CAN HEAD OUT NOW."

Head OUT? But we haven't... I haven't...

"PARKING LOT IS LOCATED HERE." The university-issue paper with Rissa's room number is turned over and we are shown a map to parking. "THIS ACTS AS YOUR PARKING PASS. YOU GO PARK NOW!"

We get back in the car. David says, "Wow - that was amazing! They are like a well-oiled..." He looks at my face. "Love...?"

Tears... streaming down my cheeks, I shake my head. "I'm just going to..." I reach into my purse for my emergency ear plugs. "I'm just going to put these in."

We drive away from the Res. I have no idea where Rissa is. I have no idea where her stuff is. I succumb to a few moments of hiccupping sobs before I get my shit together. Eventually, I blow out a calming breath.

"You okay?"

I nod. "They took her. Then they took her stuff. We were car-jacked."

"Oh love..."

"No, it's okay," I say. "It really is okay. It's amazing. You're right they ARE a well-oiled machine. It's  wonderful for all these kids to have such excitement, such joy when they arrive at school. I was just... I was... unprepared for it, is all."

***

The week leading up to this day provides me with the opportunity to do the best acting I've ever done in my life. She's so excited to get going - every day is a new thing that she's thrilled to talk about. All her Frosh Week activities, the messages on her chat groups... each thing has a new superlative outdoing the one before it. She practically vibrates with anticipation. I respond positively to everything.

"It's so great that you're so excited for this!" I feel like I'm going to vomit. "Really? They'll have a carnival? That's great!!" I'm this much closer to death. "Yes, this is going to be the BEST THING EVER. Yay!!" My heart... my heart is... breaking.

***

I manage to stop the tears before we exit the car. Now in a full-fledged hydrops attack, I clutch David's arm so that I don't fall off the world as we walk back to the Res. I watch as other shell-shocked parents listen to the cheers and chanting and see their child's belongings disappear into the Res. We get directed to her floor and are greeted in the stairwell by another dozen excited students, this time chanting:

"PARENTS ON THE MOVE! PARENTS ON THE MOVE!!"

They're clapping and hooting. David has one arm and I'm clinging to the banister with my left hand; even with the earplugs firmly inserted, I'm so dizzy I feel like I could double for Sandy and Danny in the Shake Shack.

As we descend those stairs, the kids eventually notice that this particular parent is not so much "on the move," but instead, looks like she's going to keel over... or vomit... or both. They tone it down. I smile/grimace at them in thanks.

We get to Rissa's dorm, and knock politely. She bounds to the door Tigger-like, grabbing us both in a huge hug. And her smile? It could light up the galaxy. "HI GUYS!!!" She immediately goes back to unpacking her clothes. "I think I'm going to need more hangers. Can we get more hangers? I thought I'd counted them all, but somehow I think I don't have enough."

I rest on her bed and watch for a moment. I watch this person who grew in my body. This person I snuggled with, even last night, as we watched a movie together. This person I love so much, that our  impending departure at the end of the day is already making me feel like my organs will liquify. I  feel the panic creep into my chest and I close my eyes for a moment to regain my equilibrium.

And then I start helping her unpack.

Please see your doctor before attempting any new exercise regimen...

Ah, to have friends who share their cottage life! The bonfires! The smores! The water activities!!

DAY 1

David, 45, who spent his youthful summers at one cottage or other - boating, fishing and excelling at every water sport - is the first in the water - skiing. He gets up on the skis first try, does a quick loop in the bay before dropping a ski to go slalom. A huge grin on his face as he easily crosses over the wake - looking like a fit, fearless, 17 year old version of himself.

Back in the boat he still has a smile - flexing his hands, getting the blood flow back.

"How's your back?" I ask.

"Good!  Good. My back is fine! My arms are a little tired." He grins manically. "My hands have no feeling in them. I have forearm palsy! It's all good!!"

Rissa's turn. Our long-limbed daughter is on the tube with our friends' little girl. Rissa's torso fits on the tube, but her legs dangle in the water.  "HIT IT!" Big smile on her face as we start out. The grin slips as the speed increases, replaced by a determined grimace.  The physical limitation of not actually fitting onto the tube becomes apparent when we hit rough water and watch as she somersaults when her "leg-drag" becomes an issue. We offer suggestions when she drags herself back onto the tube

"Bend your knees!! Keep your feet in the air!!"

"THIS INFORMATION WOULD HAVE BEEN USEFUL EARLIER!!"

My turn. I'm on the same tube with the youngest of our friend's kids - a little boy aged 6, who weighs in at 22% of my body weight. Let us all cogitate on the physics of this weight disparity for a moment. Having learned from Rissa's run, I'm keeping my feet in the air,  I scootch up the tube as far as I can trying to find that distribution of weight sweet spot between sinking us and crushing the small child beside me. As the boat slowly starts out, I'm propped like a enigmatic Sphinx, resting on my elbows very pleased with myself. "I've got this!" My side of the tube is quickly dragged under the surface  and I immediately flip into the lake, inhaling 'fresh' water. I am then tasked with dragging myself back onto the tube. I reach for the handles.

"You good?"

"HIT IT!" yells the child beside me.

"NO!!" I'm channeling my inner seal - imagining that my body is all muscle.

"Now?"

"HIT IT!!"

"NOT YET!" My body is NOT all muscle.

"Now?"

I flex everything in my body (muscle, bone, cartilage, phlegm) and finally manage to hold myself propped in a somewhat balanced position.

"Okay..."

"HIT IT!!!"

I was never that person who could rock the flexed arm hang for Canada Fitness Test. I just didn't have the arm or core strength. I wish that Ms. Rogerson could have seen me as I held my body weight on that tube for the entire length of the ride. Afterwards, my arms ache from my armpits to my knuckles. When I put my pajama top that night, I think I might die.

DAY 2 

David enjoys another stellar ski run - a little longer this time. Upon his return, he looks a wee bit concerned as his arms shake uncontrollably. "You good?" I mouth. He does his best to give me thumbs up, but can't fully extend his thumbs.

Rissa agrees to try her hand at water skiing for the first time. After 4 attempts she's on the skis for a triumphant few seconds.

This is huge for Rissa. As a perfectionist, the fact that she didn't bail after the first attempt is monumental. I congratulate her when she's back in the boat. "Great job kiddo!"

"I've just given myself a Conestoga Lake Enema."

As I'm prepping to ski for the first time in 32 years, I'm feeling optimistic. I was, after all, a gymnast.

"Even if I CAN get up immediately," I whisper to David. "I won't. I don't want to show Rissa up."

On my first attempt, as I'm pushing to standing, I feel something strain in my left ass cheek. My flight or fight response is telling me to swim away. And yet, I pooh-pooh my instincts and get myself set for another attempt. As the boat pulls away the second time, I feel the strain in my ass morph into a more 'tear' like sensation.

"We're done here."

There's still tubing to be had though. David partners up with the the middle child who weighs 22% of his body weight. His shoulders are pretty much as wide as the tube and he looks mystified as to how he will be able to hold on. At one point when they hit a rough patch he manages to pull her body out of the air and back down to the tube.

"How was that?" I ask. David's face is a little ashen.

"Every time we bounced I was sacked."

"You were...?"

He looks down to his crotch. "Sacked."

"Oh hon." I gently pat his thigh. He winces.

Rissa decides to use the inner tube the next time. She wedges her ass into its centre.  "If this sucker flips over, you have to come in and save me right away," she says. "I will not be able to extricate myself without help."

Before we reach warp speed, she has a brilliant smile on her face and she balletically points her feet - preening. As the speed increases, her smile fades. On the edge of the tube, her flailing legs have a distinctly Muppet-like quality to them.

"You good," I ask, upon her return to the boat.

"Conestoga Lake enema #2."

***

Later, as we pull into our driveway at home, David takes a steadying breath before he exits the car. Rissa lets out a strangled cry as she opens the car door and they both help me leave the vehicle.

"Where does it hurt?" I ask David.

"My entire right side from knee to nipple. And my forearms."

"Riss?"

"Mostly forearms. Plus two lake enemas is two too many. I've never had that much water in my body ever."

They turn to me, each holding a side as I limp to the door, waiting for my prognosis.  "I broke my ass."

We all moan as we shut the front door.

"Next year? We train for 2 months beforehand. Agreed?" We attempt to raise our arms to shake on it, but can't.

When Cats ATTACK!

THE CHARACTERS
Steve  - An orange Tom cat - goofy, playful, more than a little             bit dumb

Lola   - A very petite black cat - nervous, silly, terrified if you           pick her up.

Minuit - A rotund, older black cat - crotchety, belligerent, sounds           like Edward G. Robinson

Heather & David - unsuspecting humans

***

INT. KITCHEN

STEVE

Hey guys! Guys! there's a cat in 

our back yard. Hey GUYS!!

LOLA

 Hmmmm?
(returns to licking her stomach bald)

MINUIT

 "M...YEAH."

STEVE

Seriously, guys! Super cute cat in
the backyard - she's black and white
and kind of stripey...

LOLA sneaks a peek over STEVE'S shoulder at the window. She sees the outdoor cat, then looks at STEVE

LOLA
WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!?

STEVE

 Hunh?

LOLA (hissing) 

WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!?
HOW DID YOU GET IN MY HOUSE?!?

STEVE

Lola, it's me - Steve - your brother.

LOLA
(growling and hissing at Steve)
GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!! 

HOME INVASION!!!  THERE'S A HOME 

INVASION HAPPENING RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!!!

LOLA hits STEVE on the head several times and runs away.

MINUIT

(now growling and hissing at Lola)

WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!?

STEVE

Hey guys?  Guys?

MINUIT & LOLA

HOME INVADER!!!!

Lola runs up the stairs, followed closely by a snarling, unexpectedly-nimble Minuit.

INT. HUMAN'S BEDROOM

MINUIT 

WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!?

LOLA

I'm your sister!

MINUIT

I'VE NEVER SEEN YOU IN MY 

FUCKING LIFE!!!

LOLA
 (hiding under the bed)

Minuit, I'm your sister! 

MINUIT

GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HOUSE!! 

GET OUT!!!

HEATHER & DAVID

 (startled out of deep sleep)
What the fuck?

MINUIT

HOME INVADER!!!

LOLA

YOU'RE THE FUCKING HOME INVADER!!! 

STEVE

Hey guys! Guys? GUYS. It's all good.
We're good here.

MINUIT & LOLA

HOME INVADER!!!!

HEATHER

Minuit - STOP IT!!! Lola - get out from 

under the bed - jump up on something high. She can't

 follow you if you're up on something high. 

Minuit! It's Lola. Steve, just stay 

out of their way.

Snarling and hissing, all three cats leave the room.

DAVID
What just happened?

INT. CAT THERAPIST'S OFFICE

STEVE

It was like I was Captain America and they 

were both Bucky. They didn't know me. They 

could see me, but they didn't know me.

Today's period brought to you by Peri-Menopause!

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The perils of activewear (ou les orteils de chameau)

I finally take the leap. After years of sewing and resewing, I toss my decade-old leggings with their worn, next-to-nonexistent inner thigh seams into the garbage. And just to be sure that I won't fish them out again when that bout of clothing nostalgia hits, I cover them in more garbage. Which means that I go from seven pairs of exercise pants down to... one.  A single pair of leggings for my weekly exercise needs.

Sure, there are probably people out there who hand wash their leggings everyday, but I ain't one of them. After sweating my ass off in Lycra-infused fabrics, the last thing I want to be doing is soaking and then squeezing Woolite through that sweaty-ass activewear in the kitchen sink.  Legging replenishment was now vital.

My daughter? She invests in Lulu Lemon leggings. She hoards birthday and Christmas money along with her gift cards and then makes a yearly pilgrimage to the White Omega-esque Icon (whatever the hell that is) so that she may add to her legging collection.  I can't do that. I just can't. Yes, they are well-made leggings, yes, they make most people's asses look fantastic, but they are $118.00! For a pair of fucking leggings. I firmly believe that leggings should be $20 or less, which is probably why all my inner thigh seams disintegrate. Now, if I were to do the math - Lulu Lemon leggings might actually be economical. Spending $118 on a pair of leggings which could potentially last for 10 years, at one wearing per week, 520 wearings... that's $118 divided by 520 that's only 22 cents per wearing - fairly reasonable, but to lay out $800 on leggings in one go? Sheer madness.

Instead, I go to Old Navy where they have leggings for $35 each, which still makes me gag at the cost but at least my ass would be covered for much, much less. So I squeeze that ass into a couple of different legging styles in the Old Navy change room, marvel at the fact that they retain their shape on and off and bring them home at a cost of only $237, which means I'll be wearing each pair at only a cost of 6 cents per wearing.  Margonomics ladies and germs. My old roommate, Margo, who has convinced me many, many times to buy clothing based on what I'd be willing to pay to wear it once.  "Yes, that designer velvet vest/shirt combo might be $278, but if you wear it 10 times that's only $27.80 per wearing. If you wear it 20 times? Only $13.90 per wearing." HUZZAH!!

I get them home, take off the tags and strip them of their sizing stickers. Then it's time to christen them in an exercise setting. I pull them on sans underwear, because they all have cotton gussets and why have to wash an extra pair of underwear if you don't have to?  My Go Dry Active Fitted leggings are snug. Snugger than they had felt in the change room. Pulling them on is more similar to wedging your way into a pair of tights, but after doing a little bit of the pantyhose dance, they are on.

I am now clad in fully formed leggings, not an open inner thigh seam to be seen anywhere. I know, because I have to look down and admire the hole-less leggings. I do a bit of a presentation in front of the mirror to enjoy my new purchases when I can't help but notice that I am sporting a very pronounced camel toe. The Go Dry Fitted quality to the leggings is proudly offering up my labia for the world at large. My womanly bits are plumped out as if they've just had a collagen treatment before Awards season.

I tug the crotch down a bit to make myself a little less porn.  Better, but still humped quadruped-y. I head downstairs. David is working on his computer as I enter the room.

"These," I announce, "are my new holeless leggings!" I do a little twirl. "What do you think?"

"Very nice," says David, briefly glancing up.

"They okay?" I ask.

He raises his head once more and actually looks this time. "They are..." His gaze zeroes in on the camel zone. "They're ah... They're... ah... form-fitting." He clears his throat.

"Oh," I say nonchalantly. "You mean this?" I tilt my hips forward.

That's when Rissa comes in. "What are you doing?"

"Just showing off my new..."

"Holy camel-toe Batman!"

"RIGHT?!? How am I supposed to wear these?"

"Are you wearing underwear?" Rissa asks, peering at me as discreetly as a daughter whose checking out her mother's junk can.

"No! They have a gusset-thingie, I shouldn't have to wear underwear."

"Uh... Mama? You have to wear underwear with those."

"What? Is this not a good look?" I hike up the waistband a little higher, to add to the visual joke, nearly doing myself an injury. "Oyeeeesh!"

"Simmer down there," from Rissa.

David still seems captivated.

"Maybe this is the look that they're hoping for?' I suggest.

"No," says Rissa. "No it isn't. Go put some underwear on!"

"But these are skin-tight, how can I...?"

"A thong! Put on a thong!" She points to the stairs and doesn't drop eye contact until I move.

"Fine. Fine."  I trudge back upstairs and struggle to pull off the left leg of the leggings wondering if I can maneuver my way into a cotton thong, without having to pull down the right leg completely.  I let out a small shout of triumph and I realize that through the power of transdimensional physics I totally can, "WHOO-HOO!!!"

"You all right up there?" yells David.

"Oh yeah! I have mad dressing skills!" I shimmy back into the other leg and check out my junk in the mirror before heading downstairs once more.

"All good?" I ask, presenting my pelvis again.

David and Rissa check me out.

"You're good," says David, sounding slightly disappointed.  Rissa shoots him a look.

"You're fine. Very Rated G. Good job."

Do you qualify for our discount today?

"Do you qualify for our discount today?"

"What discount?" I asked. Even though, from the moment the word 'discount' left her lips, in the back of my head, I knew what she was going to say. But in that 1/4 of a second it took her to reply, I found myself silently begging...  Please don't say Senior, please don't say Senior,  please don't say Senior, please don't say Senior, please GOD don't say Senior.

"Our Senior Discount."

There it was. January 18, 2018. I was mistaken for someone 65 years of age. I am 49 and a half. My birthday's in July.

Instead of laughing out loud at the absurdity of it, I woodenly said "No," while vainly reeling from shock. As I swiped my debit card I justified the mistake. She's young(er), it was because I had asked for iron pills, she saw me limp up after my dance rehearsal as my arthritic hips gave me grief, she doesn't know that asking a middle-aged woman if she qualifies for the Senior Discount is the equivalent to asking a woman who carries a few extra pounds if she's pregnant.

Just a number. It's just a number. It's a number over a decade more than my actual number... but it's just a number. I drove home, my self-pity holding me in a near-hypnotic daze.

I walked into the house. David and Rissa shouted cheerful "Hellos."

"Would you please look up what the Shoppers Drug Mart Senior Discount age is?" I asked, my confidence pathetically crawling along on the floor beside me.  Just a number, it's just a number.

"Sure," said David. "Why are we looking up..."

"Because the girl at the Pharmacy counter asked if I qualified for the Senior Discount!"

There were quickly stifled snorts of laughter from the peanut gallery.

"Not cool guys.  Not. Cool."

When I entered the living room, David and Rissa were each racing on their laptops to find the information. "65 years," David winced. "But some stores, might lower it to 55"

"I am 49 fucking years old! At the least she thought I was 5.5 years older than I am and at the most 15.5 YEARS!! Oh my God! Unless she thought I was 70!! I was having such a good week!"

And then it struck me. "When I went up to the counter, I was wearing my fucking pink sock monkey hat!!"

"This same hat, 3 years ago, got me carded at the LCBO!! Which means that in the past 3 years I have apparently aged 40 years, because they ask anyone who looks 25 years or younger for their ID at the LCBO.  Bring me my hat - this needs to be documented."

"Oh Mama," said Rissa. "You don't look 65."

"It's not that I want to be mistaken for 35," I grumped, slamming the hat back on my head. "I don't even mind being mistaken for my actual age. I don't mind being 49. I LIKE being 49! I'm kicking ass at 49!! But Sixty-fucking-five?!?"

"You totally should have taken the discount," said Rissa.

"If I hadn't been so gutted, I would have," I said, as David grabbed his phone to take my picture.

"You do not look 65," said David. "You do not look 55. You don't look 49." He kissed me before shooting the photo above. "You are a stunning woman who put all other woman to shame. A Goddess. My Goddess."

Next time? I'm strutting up to that Pharmacy counter in all my Goddess glory and I'm taking the fucking discount.

Careful what you say over pancakes.

David, Rissa and I are enjoying our weekly Sunday pancake breakfast.

"These are great!" says Rissa. "The texture is magnificent!"

We've been trying to perfect gluten-free pancakes for the past several years. It's been hit or miss.

"Yeah," says David, chewing on his maple syrup-soaked pancake. "These are the ones. We've done it! Which is great, because these breakfasts are soon going to be a thing of the past."

I swallow my bite of pancake. My throat tightens. Moisture fill my eyes.

Rissa looks at my face. "Dude!" she says to David. "What did you just do?"

If someone were filming this moment, there would be a well-timed shot of a single tear sliding down my cheek.  Suddenly Rissa is no longer living at home with us. She's at university. She's graduated university. She's living in a different city. She's married and has kids but we only see her twice a year, because she's so busy and has so many commitments. "No more family breakfasts?"

David's eyes are wide. "No! I mean..." He shoots Rissa a panicked look. She shakes her and gives him a "you're the one who said this" eyebrow raise. He reaches over and takes my hand.  "No, we'll still have lots of Sunday breakfasts."

"No," I say. "We won't, actually. You're right. I've got The Cat's in the Cradle playing through my head. I know that it's not really completely appropriate to this situation, but the... end... of the song... that kid who now doesn't have time for his Dad...?" There is more than a single tear now.

"Awwww... Mama," says Rissa. "It's okay. We'll still do Sunday breakfasts."

"But not every Sunday! Not if we're living in different cities! And I know that life is like that. I know that. And I know that we don't see Mor-Mor and Far-Far all that often because we live far from them, but it's different because they had two kids and weren't as hands on and really didn't care when I left home, hell they wanted me to leave home, were wondering why I hadn't yet, but we really like you and like spending time with you and..." I can't continue speaking.

Rissa's taken my other hand. "Mama. It's okay. I promise we'll still have breakfasts. They won't be all the time, but we'll still have them. Just like we have them when we're at Mor-Mor and Far-Far's."

"Yeah?" I sniff, before wiping my eyes with my pajama sleeve.

"Yeah." She turns to David. "You can't just say shit like that. I mean, seriously! She's fragile!"

Turns out? I'm that Mom. If we had a problem child going through her teenage years in a funk of eye rolling with a side of whiny sarcasm, peppered with irrational outbursts, we'd be opening the door for her, we'd be packing her bags.

This is what you get for having a functional relationship with your daughter. Spontaneous fits of weeping over gluten-free pancakes.

YouTube University

"Do you think there are videos on YouTube on how to do minor surgery?" I ask David.

"No," David says with a note of finality in his voice.

"No?"

"No, you may not do minor surgery on yourself."

"Don't be silly. I wouldn't do minor surgery on myself."

David's eyebrows rise as high as they possibly can on his forehead. "No?"

"No."

"Good," he says, obviously relieved.

"Of course I wouldn't do that. Well, really, couldn't do it, not well at least."

David closes his eyes and shakes his head.

I know that with logic, I can make a good argument. "You, though, YOU could totally learn how to do minor surgery and do it on me. It could be like those scenes in Travelers when David does home spinal taps for Marcy."

"No."

"It just doesn't make sense for me to do it."

"It doesn't make sense that you perform minor surgery on yourself?!?"

"Well not in this area, it doesn't," I explain patiently.

"What area? What could you possibly want to remove from your body?"

"My armpit pudge. Nay, verily, my armpit boobs," I say. "I have had armpit boobs ever since I've had breasts. And no matter how much I exercise, no matter how healthfully I eat, no matter how many pounds I lose..." I poke my left armpit boob.   "I still..."  I poke my right armpit boob. "Have..." I cross my body and poke both of them.  "Armpit boobs."

I am apparently speaking in a foreign language. There is no comprehension on David's face. I'm sure that I can get through to him.

"And I know that all it would take is a little 'zip-zop' underneath my pits, a little detail nozzle suck with the Shop Vac and BOOM! They'd be gone."

David opens his mouth to speak. He closes it. He opens it again. "What can I say to dissuade you of your commitment to this plan? Hey! Remember when you were learning to decorate gingerbread houses from YouTube videos? Can we go back to that? Please?"

The Squirrel Nurser

Steve and Lola are looking out the kitchen's east window. Staccato tails twitch back and forth in tandem - something is definitely up. I figure it's our resident chipmunk taunting them from below the window.

"What's going on guys?" I ask, giving them both a scritch behind their ears before looking down.

My hand cames up to my mouth. Not a taunting chipmunk. A dead squirrel. A dead little squirrel. Flat upon our gravel driveway.

"Oh no," I say.

"What? What is it?" David asks from the loveseat.

"There's a dead squirrel outside."

"Oh."

We allow a silent moment of commiseration to make its way through the room. I look back out the window.

"WOAH!"

"What?"

"Not dead. It's not dead!" I watch as the supposedly flattened squirrel struggles up before lurching to drag itself under our Honda Civic.  "Oh, buddy. Not there. Don't go under the car. It's not going to be safe under the car."

"Leave it be," says David. "Heather, do not touch that squirrel." (One episode with feral kittens and subsequent rabies shots and I'm no longer given a lot of leeway with wild animals.)

"I won't. Its mother might be around."

I wait. I wait an entire 17 minutes before I go out and lie on the driveway, feeling the gravel leave its imprint on my stomach. Squinting, I can see the squirrel tucked in by the front right tire. It is still, not making a sound. If it is dead I'm going to have to move it so that we don't inadvertently squish its little squirrelly corpse. I shudder at the thought.  I look around. No mother squirrel anywhere.  Our driveway is not close to any real foliage - no overhanging branches - just three car lengths of gravel. 100 feet to the south, the bottom of the yard has trees and then 100 feet to the north there are more trees.

I go back inside.  I sit. I try to read.  I play Scrabble on Facebook, comment on some posts before I walk nonchalantly towards the dishtowel drawer.

"Don't you even think about it," says David.

"If it is dead, I don't want it to get squished."

"If it's alive, you're going to get bitten."

Temporarily deaf, I grab a tea towel and head back outside. The squirrel has crawled out from under the car and is again lying flat on the driveway. It doesn't even twitch as I approach.  Using the dishtowel as a makeshift glove I scoop up the squirrel. It barely struggles. I cradle the towel against my chest. This is bad. Wild animals don't like to be touched - it's letting me touch it. This sucker is going to die and I'm going to see it happen.

"Uhhhhh... David? Can you, uh... would you grab another towel and maybe the cushions from the storage unit?"

David sticks his head outside, takes one look and rolls his eyes. He then disappears for a moment before coming back with a hand towel from the 1/2 bath.  He's shaking his head as he pulls the outdoor cushions out and places them on the outdoor sofa. I very gently wrap the second towel around the first one and lower myself onto the sofa. The squirrel doesn't move. I open the tea towel and look down.

I touch a finger to its head. Nothing. I contemplate asking David for a miniature hand mirror so that I can check that it's still breathing, when it shifts slightly. Still alive.

"Would you grab me a syringe with some water?" I ask. The squirrel opens its eyes, giving me a paralyzed look of horror. "It's okay buddy. We're just going to get you some water so that you don't become squirrel jerky." My suggestion doesn't seem to impress the critter. 

"If I were a syringe, where would I be?" David asks. 

"Maybe in the first aid kit?  Oh, or maybe above the stove where the pet pill crusher is."

He returns with the syringe.

The squirrel lets me drop water into its mouth before burrowing down into the tea towel, nuzzling into my cleavage and closing its eyes. I look down at him and I swear to God, my boobs start to tingle. 

"Oh, good God," I say.

"What?"

"You know how when I see a nursing Mom, my boobs get all tingly and I feel like I might actually have milk?"

"You're not."

"I am."

David winces. "Uhhhhh... You, uhhhh... You're not..."

"Dude, I'm not going to try and nurse a baby squirrel. I'm just saying that my boobs are going all maternal on me. Besides, if we're being 100% frank here, this sucker wouldn't get 1/8 of my nipple in its mouth. Plus... squirrel teeth."

"Just when I think you won't go past a line..."

I enjoy a squirrel nap in our backyard before Rissa and her boyfriend name the wee rodent Edwin Von Lichtenstein. We foster Edwin for the weekend before David transports him to a Wildlife Centre where he is placed with other adolescent squirrels. This was his last feeding before we said goodbye. Godspeed Edwin.

Anorexic Caterpillars

Rissa is taking up all the space in front of the bathroom sink - arranging her eyebrows.

"Excuse me hon," I politely request - reaching for the taps so that I can wash my hands.

"Sorry..." She scoots out of the way, allowing me full tap access, before returning to the mirror with tweezers in hand.

Moments later, I remember having caught a whiff of my armpits as I left the bed. They really need a good wash... with soap.

"Excuse me," I repeat, reaching for the soap at the edge of the sink.

"Sorry..." She twists her body to allow me entry to the water once more, while somehow managing to maintain full facial focus in the mirror.

As I dry my pits and hands, she moves back to glue herself against the vanity - sheer concentration on her face as she landscapes the browal region.

I'm not going to ask a third time, it would just be mean. I reach under her for the toothpaste and toothbrush and covertly turn on the water.

"Sorry, sorry," she says, stepping back again, giving me full use of the sink so that I can spit. "I just can't see if I'm farther away from the mirror and if I have my glasses on then I can't control the tweezing /slash/ makeup process." She has now grabbed her eyebrow pencil and is applying it with determined precision.

"Ahhhhh... Totally makes sense when you put it that way. I do find it strange though that the only makeup you apply is to your eyebrows."

"It's all because before I grew them out* I used to have anorexic caterpillars for eyebrows," she says, now pulling clear eyebrow gel from its tube. "With really LARGE heads."

I snort.

"It's true! Remember? They used be all anemic and anorexic... Like caterpillars trying to fit into a dress from three years ago, but finding out it's way too tight and they end up looking like this..."





















*To encourage her anorexic caterpillars to have a healthy BMI - Rissa spent our European vacation last year growing them out over a three week period - where only strangers could watch the process.

VERY deep thoughts.

"You look like you're having deep, introspective thoughts," says David. We sit with Rissa, waiting for her first university tour.

"Hmmmm...?" I am, indeed, lost in thought - imagining a future where my daughter is not a daily presence.

"You're looking very deep," David continues.

I snort.

"What?"

"All I can think now is that I'm DEEEEEEEEEP."

"Yeah...?"

"Like I have a very cavernous vagina."

"Argh..." Rissa shakes her head.

"Like a...?!?"

"I have hidden depths!  My vagina is so deep, it's contemplative. Great pub name - The Contemplative Vagina. There'd be lots of deep pinks and roses. "

"Uhhhh...." David guppies.

"My vagina philosophizes."

"No it does not, and you may not share its philosophy with anyone on the tour!" states Rissa.

"How deep is my love, how deep is my love..."

Go to 0:49 to get to the punch line.

Husband and daughter might give themselves brain aneurysms from eye rolls at this point.

"I really need to know... but ...how can one really measure a cavernous vagina?"

Rissa is now banging her head on the back of her Adirondack chair.

"Compass!"

"Ouch," says Rissa. "You'd need to take off the pointy bits."

"And a protractor for the angle.  To get a full picture. It'd be useful in women's studies. WE COULD CHART THE G-SPOT!"

"No we cannot," from Rissa.

"Next time I'm at airport security I'm going to volunteer for the full body scan and request a print out of the results."

The Destruction of Generation Z.

It might take a village to raise a child, but God forbid if you actually attempt it in North America. 

Parenting in the new Millennium seems to have taken on the Three Monkeys approach: See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. 

Parents have become myopic helicopters hovering over their children's playgrounds, test scores and job interviews. The result? You can't swing a selfie-stick without hitting an entitled, self-serving Millennial or Gen Zer who is in no way ready for the real world. Basically our generation is fucking over our children's generation  - all in the name of supportive parental love.

I never thought I'd become that vintage dinosaur.  "Back in the day..." if any of my parents' friends saw me fucking up, I'd get called out on it and after I took that deserved tongue lashing, I'd get to tell my parents what I'd done. Now? Our village is more apt to speak up about strangers' kids than friends' kids. When a child's safety is in question? Folks mobilize. That kid left in the backseat - the child teetering on the edge of the sea wall? Emergency Services are called and the parents are virally shamed. But with friends' kids? When their kid is behaving abominably, when they themselves are sucking at their job? Surreptitious, eye-rolling silence.  You don't mess with other people's parenting. It's the unspoken rule. "Darling, it just isn't done." 

Why not? Why can't we tell our best friend that their kid is a whiny asshole? In the nicest way possible, of course. Why aren't we speaking up? Why do we not call out our friends' bad parenting choices - when they allow their 7 year old to take them hostage because they don't want to cause a public scene? When they do their kid's homework so that little Morgan gets her 'A.'

Isn't it our job as parents to raise contributing and functional members of society? Can't we help each other do that? We're not supposed to be their best friends, we're supposed to teach them not to be dicks. For every autonomous young adult, it seems as if there are three more absolute dicks beside them. 

So, no, your kid doesn't get a ribbon just for showing up. Mediocrity isn't something that should be celebrated. Having a cell phone active in class is not a requirement. Your kid is in school, learning - if it's an emergency the office will contact her! Didn't you see Ferris Bueller's Day Off? Please don't call to negotiate with potential bosses when your kid fails at a job interview. You're ensuring that they will NEVER be considered for employment. Don't text your 19 year old every five minutes while they are at their summer job - they are fully capable of putting in a full day's work without communicating with you.

Kids need to fail to thrive. They really do. Failure will help them learn. They need to be able to regroup on their own. Allow them the opportunity to make mistakes in safe ways, like not studying for a quiz and roiling in the "12% OF MY FINAL GRADE!" panic when they get that D+. Sure, you can proofread their essay, but don't rewrite it for them. They can do it. I promise you. Kids are resilient. They're smart. They can multi-task, plan and figure shit out. They're the future -  please, for the love of all that's holy in the universe - don't fuck it up for all of us.

The tilted tata - using transformational positioning to achieve a youthful bosom

"Do you think we can take tasteful pictures of my breasts?"

David perks up. "Most certainly."

"For public consumption?"

"Pardon?"

"You know, for my blog..."

"Ummmmm..." His mouth opens and closes. "Don't get me wrong.  I am ALL for your breasts being on display. But... why do you want to have tasteful breast pictures on your blog?"

"I want to discuss breast balance with visual aids."

"Ahhhh... Might I say again... I am all for your breasts and your right to proudly display them in the public domain... I just worry that if you have pictures of your breasts on your blog that you will then get blocked because of nudity... frankly, because of nipples. Breast health sites get blocked because of the nipples."

"Well that's ridiculous.  They're just nipples. On breasts. Which 50% of the adult population has."

"And I reiterate, I am all for them being out there."

"It's not like I'm filming myself having sex - I'm not going to be playing with my breasts in the pictures."

David had not anticipated this escalation. "Uhhhhh...."

"I just want pictures. I want to compare the breast balance."

"Balance?"

"Yes, comparative balance.  When lying on your back, most middle-aged breasts C cup or higher, pretty much slide into your armpits. I have discovered that there is a particular ribcage roll combined with torso tilt that gives the appearance of youthful firmness so that your breast - because it only works for one breast at a time - resembles a vintage jello mold."

"Is that what you're doing when you say 'Look at this! Look at this!' in bed?" David asks.

"Most of the time, yeah."

"I think for this particular post to work, and by that I mean so that you don't get blocked and you don't get a bunch of whack - pardon the pun - jobs stalking you, you'll have to take euphemistic pictures."

My eyes light up.  "That I can do."

As I'm gathering up my visual aids, David comes back into the room with his phone in hand.  "I found a level app that should help, lie down on the carpet."

That right there? That's why our marriage works.

With this app placed on my chest, we discovered that a
16 degree ribcage roll  with 3 degree torso tilt helps
 my breast achieve faux firmness. The level that
resembles a breast? An unexpected bonus.

And that's why you need to know your prices...

If I'm walking funny today, it's because I've been well and truly fucked. $13.38 folks.  I spent $13.38 on 1.365 kg of gluten free flour.* I thought I was doing the right thing, I really did. I thought that buying all purpose, gluten free flour at the Bulk Barn had to be cheaper than getting the Robin Hood all purpose gluten free flour at No Frills. It's BULK for fuck's sake!

Yes, I should have known better.  I've been burned by the Bulk Barn before. I've come out with a handful of pecans and a bill for $17.72, I've spent $25 to decorate a $5.25 gingerbread house. 

Used to be that I'd buy 5 different types of gluten free flours/starches at the Bulk Barn and mix 'em all up at home in my big-ass mixing bowl - rice/corn/sorghum/potato/tapioca residue coating my already pasty white body.  After filling glass jars with my newly amalgamated all-purpose flour, I'd jump into the shower - a gluten free, sticky mess. But lately, I've been lazy. Like teenaged sloth lazy. I've been buying the Robin Hood flour at No Frills during my regular shop for an astonishing $6.49 for 907 g.  

"Highway robbery!!" I would say to myself every time it landed in my shopping cart. Though the ease, and frankly, cleanliness, of not having to mix the flours on a Sunday morning before a batch of homemade pancakes was totally worth it. It'd given up my bulk mix dreams.

But last night, I had to go to the Bulk Barn anyway. You know, for macaroni cheese sauce and apparently... popcorn salt, because it caught my eye and I'm in a constant state of salt craving.  Before I knew it, I was sashaying down that gluten free aisle.  I'll just look, I thought. I'll comparison shop. Trouble is, because my middle-aged/peri-menopausal brain can no longer retain information, I couldn't remember the Robin Hood cost per 100 grams (even though I specifically looked at it on Monday at the grocery store), nor could I actually remember how many grams were in Robin's relatively tiny bag.

Turns out? Big Baking has beat Bulk. That Robin Hood bag of gluten free flour with xanthan gum already mixed in? It's 20 cents cheaper per 100g than buying bulk flours at the Bulk Barn. I would have actually SAVED money, had I spent that money at the grocery store.

Paying through the nose for specialty ingredients and then paying an extra fucking $2.76 at a place that is supposed to save a gal money?!?

*calming breath*

Okay. It's only $2.76 more. Put into my evidently hormonal perspective, it's less than a Fleur de Sel Lindt bar on sale at Shopper's Drugmart. I'm still saving money by baking from scratch even with Bulk Barn's exorbitantly priced, ready-made flour melange. That flour in my cupboard will be able to make at least four pancake breakfasts, several dozen cookies and assorted other baked goods - which if I were to purchase already baked, gluten-free goods, would be 2 boxes of Wow's Key Lime cookies. Don't even get me started on what a pre-made loaf of bread 1/3 the size of a regular  loaf of bread will cost you, I just got my blood pressure down.

*For those who believe that gluten free is just a fad/scam and doesn't really have an effect on people and I could be saving many dollars simply by not using gluten free flour in the first place?  Watch me eat a hotdog in a white bun.  I'll be high after 3.5 minutes. It will last about 1/2 an hour and then I start crying. It's a favourite thing for my boss to watch at company BBQs.