#Taxespayforthisshit

It may be my inner Scandinavian talking, but if the government of Ontario needs more money for Education and Healthcare? I'm prepared to pay a little bit more in taxes to help. Because I'm pretty sure that's what taxes are actually supposed to do. Pay for MRIs and ensure lower class sizes and shorter wait times in ERs and all that other "common good" shit.

Hey! I know! Seeing as Ontario is in a $13.5 billion deficit - if the 7.5 million people in the workforce all paid $1,800 more in taxes - we'd be out of debt. In one tax season. It can't be that easy, can it? This can't possibly be like CPA Murray Blum (Charles Grodin) going in to visit President look-alike Dave Kovic (Kevin Kline) in Dave to find $650,000,000 for social programs in the Federal budget and he does. Can it?

Sure, it's not PC to suggest that we should actually raise taxes, but what if we ACTUALLY did? And what if education and health care then ACTUALLY improved? And what if we then had educated and healthy Ontarians as far as the eye could see? And we'd all be like, "That's right you non-tax-paying sons of bitches! Our higher taxes made us smarter AND healthier!!"

I recognize that not everyone can afford to pay that much more in taxes, but maybe those who can pay a little bit more, say with the tax refund they get back from the Feds, could offer to DO that, which would in turn, make it feasible for those with less of a tax refund to pay a little bit less in their taxes.

And if we maybe acknowledge the fact that PAYING taxes allows us ACCESS to public education and health care and if we maybe didn't expect all those services for FREE - we the people wouldn't have to rant so much on social media and stage walk outs and protest at Queen Park.

But that might just be me. #taxespayforthisshit

Watch out for the permanent intergalactic concrete.

Did you know that to get new countertops you have to purchase entirely new base cabinets upon which you can place said countertops? It doesn't seem logical to me. I mean, when you've got cabinets...

...FUNCTIONING... underneath the countertops, surely I can remove the existing countertops, attach the new ones, et voilà! BRAND NEW KITCHEN!!! 

Now perhaps you are asking yourself why those charming 4 x 4 tile countertops need to be removed in the first place.  Let's go macro for a second...

That's not dirty grout. That is grout that has been cleaned, nay bleached, repeatedly. You could eat off those countertops - they just look like shit. The grout is so old and discoloured that it needs to be painted quarterly in advance of any public gathering that we host. And yeah, after I paint the grout, it doesn't look that bad apart from the cracked tiles. But the fact that you can't fucking wipe crumbs off the counters because they get stuck in the multiple layers of grout paint over top of the grout has made me mental ever since we bought the house.

Smooth countertops. That's all I want. I want to be able to actually wipe them - not have to use a Shop-Vac on them. I want countertops that are not only clean, but that look clean. And I have wanted this for the past 5 years. So this is the year. This is the year that we update our kitchen by changing those fucking countertops. 

This is our plan. Unbeknownst to us, this plan of action only works if your countertops aren't tile. 

Oh sure, you might think that you'll be able to salvage the existing cabinets and you... are adorable. Because when it comes down to removing those countertops, you realize that the fuckers who installed the tile countertops, screwed the backing board from the top down and the only way to get to those screws, is to remove the tiles, which is pretty fucking much impossible because they've been adhered using what must be permanent intergalactic concrete. 

But you try. You sure do try to pry those rat bastards away from their backing board. You chisel, you hammer, you pry bar, you thank God you are wearing safety goggles when tiny shards of tile ping off the goggles instead of piercing your corneas.

Can you get a full tile off? NO, you cannot. Can you get to any screws? One. You can get to a single fucking screw. Can you unscrew it? NO. It is filled in with permanent intergalactic concrete. 

This is when you realize that the only way you'll be able to remove those countertops is if you buy special diamond-encrusted blades for three types of saws (jig, circular and sabre) to cut through the tile, its permanent intergalactic concrete adhered backing board, the screws attaching the board to the top of the cabinet and the top of the cabinet. Somewhere in the midst of this adventure, you also come to the realization that it is ridiculous to think that 'salvage' has ever been an option, when the 'cabinets' are held together like this:

This is my kitchen cabinet to the left of my stove.
This is what we found when we took out the drawers
and pried off the molding.

What even IS this? Why are there 1x6s
on end between the two 'cabinets'? Are these shims?

There are no tops to these cabinets. There are no bottoms to these cabinets. They have been built in place using spare wood to make 'sides' with enough nails to make crucifiers jealous.

In our excavation I found a weapon I can use
when I fight in Game of Thrones.

So you use your diamond encrusted blades and cut through those tile countertops... like hot knives through very, very, very hard, screaming butter. Without the countertops the cabinets below pretty much give up and collapse. In a few short hours, 7 base cabinets are decimated. You move them all into the backyard, where they shall sit under the pergola until spring arrives. 

And then you sit down, with a large scotch and your laptop, and you order new cabinets from IKEA. 

Baby It's Banned Outside...

Baby, It's Cold Outside won't be played on some radio stations, including CBC - CBC News

Is Baby It's Cold Outside an ode to rape that deserves its sudden banishment from Canadian radio? - National Post

'Baby, It's Cold Outside' Banned From Canadian Radio Stations, Too - HuffPost Canada

December 2018 - "Baby It's Cold Outside" is being banned from the radio waves left, right and centre - okay probably not from the right, but left and centre most definitely. Frank Loesser crafted his 1944 call & response song as a fun party piece to perform with his wife who thought the song was a gas to sing and was distraught when Loesser sold its rights to be used in the film Neptune's Daughter. If you've been living under a rock and don't know the plot... a "Wolf" (usually voiced by a male singer), tries to convince a "Mouse" (usually voiced  by a female singer) to stay the night or at the very least get to 1st base and maybe steal 2nd. (See lyrics at the bottom of this post.)

Yeah, when taken in a modern context, a couple of phrases read questionably. "Say what's in this drink?" and the 'aggressor's' continued pushing after she says "The answer is no," take on a whole new flavour in the MeToo era. Thing is? I can almost guarantee that Loesser didn't write this song about slipping the girl a Mickey Finn and wasn't intent on promoting date rape. When you contextualize the song given the time period, it is truly less about a guy strong-arming a girl into putting out, and WAY more about a girl worried about how her reputation will fare if she does. When sung well, (apart from the juxtaposition of those two lines) by a couple who obviously have the hots for one another (either with a man in the so-called 'power' position or with the woman in that role), the song should read as clever and flirtatious.

That said, last night when I watched Ricardo Montalban man-handle Esther Williams in this clip  from Neptune's Daughter, it creeped me the hell out. The pair don't really have any chemistry and I can almost feel the bruises on ol' Esther's arms after the choreography. But keep watching, because seeing Betty Garrett and Red Skelton do the role reversal is incredibly charming and very slap-stick. Double standard? Yep, you betcha.

I would love to say that sexual mores have changed a lot over the past 74 years. They haven't. Women continue to be shamed for proclaiming any sexual inclination, unmarried or otherwise. The song is rife with sexism - but the overtone of persuasive sexual advances is much less offensive to me than the expectations of female behaviour.  Why does she care what her mother, father, sister, brother, maiden aunt and neighbours think? What business is it of theirs if she is having consensual sex with someone?

All the mouse's waffling in the song - and there is soooooo much of it - seems to come from a fear of owning the fact that she wants to stay: "Well maybe just a half a drink more," "I ought to say, no, no, no..." "At least I'm gonna say that I tried," "Well maybe just a cigarette more." When one reads into every nuance of this ditty (and that's what we're supposed to be doing now), it becomes fairly apparent that somewhere between verses 3 and 4 the couple has had sex or at least a near facsimile thereof. She's asking for a comb to fix her state of disarray. I don't know about anyone else, but when I'm truly rumpled, it's from more than 1st base. I might have wrestled a bit before hand, 'cause I get off on that. And maybe this girl does too.

Apart from those two problematic lines, I dig the song.

But maybe I shouldn't. If this 1944 holiday song was filled with allusions to minstrel shows or outdated referrals to northern peoples - we wouldn't be having this discussion. The song would already be banned. But because it's garden variety sexism and sexism continues to cloud the lens through which we view the world, maybe I'm only a slightly more 'woke' version of women the generation before me who say "Aw c'mon - boys will be boys." Should I be more offended? By allowing this duet to play on public radio will it continue a pattern of sexual coercion and shame?

What I want is to have a dance company take multiple versions of the song and choreograph them to show the difference between flirtation and assault. I want a dozen covers showing exactly how charming and how uncomfortable it can be.

They can start with Pearl Bailey and Hot Lips Page's version.  It's just about perfect and Pearl is definitely the driver - in the Mouse role.

I really can't stay (Baby it's cold outside)
I gotta go away (Baby it's cold outside)
This evening has been (Been hoping that you'd dropped in)
So very nice (I'll hold your hands they're just like ice)
My mother will start to worry (Beautiful what's your hurry?)
My father will be pacing the floor (Listen to the fireplace roar)
So really I'd better scurry (Beautiful please don't hurry)
Well maybe just a half a drink more (I'll put some records on while I pour)

The neighbors might think (Baby it's bad out there)
Say what's in this drink? (No cabs to be had out there)
I wish I knew how (Your eyes are like starlight now)
To break this spell (I'll take your hat, your hair looks swell) (Why thank you)
I ought to say no, no, no sir (Mind if move in closer?)
At least I'm gonna say that I tried (What's the sense of hurtin' my pride?)
I really can't stay (Baby don't hold out)
Baby it's cold outside

I simply must go (Baby it's cold outside)
The answer is no (But baby it's cold outside)
The welcome has been (How lucky that you dropped in)
So nice and warm (Look out the window at that storm)
My sister will be suspicious (Gosh your lips look delicious!)
My brother will be there at the door (Waves upon a tropical shore)
My maiden aunt's mind is vicious (Gosh your lips are delicious!)
Well maybe just a cigarette more (Never such a blizzard before) (And I don't even smoke)

I've got to get home (Baby you'll freeze out there)
Say lend me a comb? (It's up to your knees out there!)
You've really been grand, (I feel when I touch your hand)
But don't you see? (How can you do this thing to me?)
There's bound to be talk tomorrow (Think of my life long sorrow!)
At least there will be plenty implied (If you caught pneumonia and died!)
I really can't stay (Get over that old out)
Baby it's cold
Baby it's cold outside!

FRANK LOESSER 1944

Big Apple Blindness

I feel it happening almost as soon as I step outside of the conference. By the time I make my way to the top of Columbus Circle I know it's a goner. It's gotta be the cold air. My thighs have gone cold with the breezy NY air. My left thigh still has some warmth, but my right? Not so much.

My silicone-topped, stay-up stocking is slowly sliding down my thigh. I mince my way along to the benches adjacent to the entrance to Central Park and surreptitiously hike up the right stocking to its original resting place. I give myself a virtual high-five and begin walking to the Plaza where I have arranged to meet my friend Narda.

Five steps into my journey, my thigh and the stocking decide to part ways.  Victim to the unexpected meteorological changes, the stocking's lacy band slowly unfurls before resting delicately at the top of my ankle boot. My steps slow, but they do not stop.

My entire right leg is now visible. My pasty-white leg a beacon for all those walking on 59th Street. Then I start to laugh. I remember a story that my mother told me about a trip she'd taken to see the Parliament Buildings in Ottawa when she was 16. While she was walking on Rideau Street, one of her stockings had come loose from her garter belt, leaving her leg open to the elements.  She and her friends popped into a department store - probably the Bay - and attempted to rectify the situation in the elevator but found it too crowded and had to seek out the bathroom.  Like mother like daughter.

I put my shoulders back, lift my chin and just keep walking.

No problem Heather. This is not a problem. You're just an eccentric lady out for a walk... laughing in fits and starts as you make your way to the Plaza.  No one in NY looks down - there's too much to see around and up. So you just keep on smiling and keep on walking... 

Cheeks hurting from my manic grin - I make my way to the Plaza. And nobody paid attention. Not even the doorman for the Plaza apartments who can't help but see me as I crouch down to shove the lacy stocking top into my boot.

Narda and I meet up and head into Central Park, at which point I make a bee-line to a fence against which I can prop myself to take off my socks and stockings. I stash the defunct lingerie in my conference bag and then put my socks back on before zipping up my ankle boots once more.

"All right, let's move! Gotta walk to keep warm!"

I give Narda a quick and dirty tour of the Southern end of the park before we make our way to Macy's on 34th Street, where Narda purchases fun socks and I purchase some tights.

I of course forget to put the tights on while we're in Macy's proper. It isn't until we're in the vestibule at the main entrance with its LED ceiling and walls bathed in Christmas reds and greens and holidays scenes, when I remember that it is now cold outside and my chiffon dress will not offer much warmth especially now that the sun has gone down.

"We can go back in and find a bathroom," suggests Narda.

"Nah... I'm good here." I scoot off to the side and nonchalantly pull off my boots and socks.

Narda shakes her head.

"I'm telling you - this is NY - nobody notices anything outside their own sphere." I take my new tights out of their packaging. Crowds of people are heading through the vestibule - no one has yet to notice my bare feet.

"Uh-huh..." Narda rolls her eyes at me.

"Seriously." I lean against the wall and bend over, pull on the feet of my new tights and prep for a clandestine tight raise.

"Uh... miss? You probably don't want to be doing that here."

I look to my left, there is a hairy hipster in a plaid jacket looking very disappointed in me.

"That's the entrance panel to the store front windows. People need to get in and out right where you're leaning."

"Oh, I'll be done in just a moment."

Dude looks at me and then pointedly looks at the entrance panel.

"Oh. Right. By someone you actually mean YOU. Oh... YOU'RE doing the windows!  Very cool! Sorry about that."  Tights up to my calves, I bounce out of his way.

Stolen from a Guardian article about tights. 

Narda snorts. "Only you Heather. Only you."

"Not a problem. Window dude is now in there. He won't come out for a while. Nobody is paying attention, you shield me..."

I bend down to grab the waistband of the tights. Instantly, all the LED lights in the vestibule turn brilliant white.  No longer bathed in Christmas reds and greens - there is a blinding white LED light show of a festive snow storm bouncing off every surface in the space. The area around me is glowing - there may as well be a sign with flashing arrow pointing:

CRAZY LADY WITH HER ASS ON DISPLAY!!

Narda and I are almost sick we're laughing so hard. And not a single person noticed.

Welcome to 50!

Dear Heather:

"We are writing to invite you to get checked for colon (bowel) cancer." I'm sorry, you're...? reads the sentence again... You're inviting me to WHAT??  

"After age 50, your risk of getting this disease goes up."  How much?  How MUCH does it go up?? Could I get actual percentages here? Into what level of panic should I descend? And why have you BOLDED this text in your letter?!?

"The good news is that you can take steps to protect your health by doing an easy test called the fecal occult blood test (FOBT)." Fecal Occult Blood Test? OCCULT?!? Am I taking my poo and smearing it into a pentagram on the floor while I call up various demons from the Netherworld?

"The FOBT is a safe and painless cancer screening test that checks your stool (poop) for tiny drops of blood, which can be caused by colon cancer. You can do the test in the comfort and privacy of your own home, and it only takes a few minutes a day on three different days to complete." Wait? Have enough people sent in three pieces of wood from actual stools that Cancer Care Ontario had to define what "stool" is?

"Get your free FOBT from your family doctor or nurse practitioner!" 

Of course I had to Google it. There's a handy-dandy video!

Another perk of turning 50? My friend Kelly got me this great book!

I immediately open it, eager to discover new things. Its pages are completely empty. "HAH! This is amazing! It's a sex journal!"

"What? No! It's a gag book! It's empty! No sex after 50!" says Kelly.

"Gag book? You mean I'm not supposed to write all my post 50 sexcapades in here? I could invest in a fabulous sex pen!"

Tomato-Tomahto.

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.

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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."