Demon on my Chest

So you know when you feel like this?? 
The Nightmare, Fuseli 1781

A toddler stuck his fingers in my mouth last weekend and I am now fucked.  Because why?  Because an adult's immune system sucks.  Kids?  Kids can be infected with a freaking alien plague, take some Dimetapp and be fine.

"Mummy I'm good to go.  If I stayed home, I'd miss recess/hockey/dance/horse back riding!  Time is a wastin'!"

"You have a fever of 103!"

"I feel nothing - let's go!!!" *

We all have our signals - that first feeling where you know, you just know that you're fucked with whatever illness has insidiously infiltrated your person.  Me?  My legs ache.  David, it's his throat.  Rissa, she starts sniffling.

So yesterday, when my legs felt a little off, it was just a matter of time before I was caught in the toddler virus vortex.  The entire back of my body hurts.  The back of my eyeballs, head, lungs, ass, legs, arms, throat, tongue, shoulders...  uterus...    I'm pretty sure that I can feel the tonsils and adenoids that I had removed when I was 11.

I have things to do today.  I have a whole list of shit that needs to be done.  It's a week until Christmas!!!  I had a day planned with pre-holiday tasks that began with doing (and this is just how dumb I am) my 42 minutes of exercise.  Yes, I am THAT dumb - I am still considering exercising - even though I know that you're supposed to rest when you're sick.  Thing is?  I'm worried that I won't be able to sleep tonight if I don't exercise.  Jogging would be overly ambitious, I'm 'with it' enough to recognize that.  But walking?  Not at my regular pace (that would be silly), but at a completely reasonable lower speed that might trick my body into thinking that it actually did expend energy?  That is doable.  Except that I can't tell David that I did it.  His last words before he left the house today were "Get some rest." Accompanied by a meaningful 'you will be in so much trouble if you don't' look.

So here I sit, clad in David's extra-large bathrobe, the personification of pathetic, trying to figure out if there's a way to get away with being stupid, instead of watching Buffy and/or Firefly all day.  Oh God, I really AM sick.  The virus has hit my brain too!!

Snuggling in one's partner's robe can mask a lot.

*Please for the love of all deities - DON'T send your child to school when they have a fever!  They are NOT well, even if they think they are.  Don't be the parent of Typhoid Frickin' Mary and start a flu/cold epidemic because it was inconvenient for you to take a day to look after your kid. 

Too sad to be funny

So you know how I posted about Jeff Buckley's cover of Hallelujah?  I didn't reckon it would shuffle onto our playlist last night as we were driving home from Toronto, nor did I think that it would make me cry for a completely different and soul-shattering reason than at the beginning of the day. 

I'm just hoping that all the cool people in Heaven are taking each and everyone of those victims into their arms.  I know my friend Shannon will be doing it along with my Gran, Granny, Kay, Grandad and Vivian.  Maybe even Jeff Buckley himself will sing for them.

Hold your kids close.

Best Cover of Hallelujah - EVER

from jeffbuckley.com

I'm crying now.  I'm crying because I didn't know until just moments ago, that Jeff Buckley died in 1997.  What the?  He died 15 years ago?!? And what do you mean you don't know who Jeff Buckley is?   Well, Jeff Buckley has the title of this blog post - that's who he is.  The best cover of Leonard Cohen's  Hallelujah EVER.  The first time I heard his version was on an episode of The West Wing in 2002.  It was so freaking beautiful and affecting that I found myself reaching blindly for David's hand as I started to sob uncontrollably.  This morning, I was all excited to learn more about him and he's freaking dead!  Had he lived, he'd be 2 years older than I am now.

I'm crying because I was so happy to be reminded of how brilliant he is and only just now found out that I should be saying was.   I was completely clueless that he had already shuffled off this mortal coil.  I'm crying because he'll never record another song and that sucks like a freaking black hole.  I feel cut off at the knees.

Those 'hit you upside the head' emotions...  Most of the time you cover them up, push them down... you don't delve.  It's too painful.  Go ahead,  brand me a 'sensitive soul.' I freely admit it.  Tears coat my throat if I really think about John Lennon when I hear Imagine on the radio.  I get overcome by the song and then I remember that he's dead and if I don't fill my chest with ice, it's as if I just heard that he was shot.

Eva Cassidy's cover of Over the Rainbow can send me off the deep end. When Brandon Lee died - I remember feeling devastated.  And you're probably thinking to yourself, Brandon Lee?  What the...?  Like Bruce Lee's kid?  Yep.  Bruce Lee's kid.  And I don't know why it hurt.  Maybe because he was young and had a life of promise.   I could see it there... just there... just beyond The Crow and then... nothing.  Dead.

So this morning I honour Jeff Buckley.  Those of you who haven't experienced him, listen to the song yourself.  I defy you not to be moved.

Downton Abbey Style!

Jim Carter & Phyllis Logan from Masterpiece's Downton Abbey

So you know how, when you're hosting a big shindig and you pretty much become relegated to the roles of Butler and/or Head Housekeeper?  Well I have to say that David plays a mean Carson to my Mrs. Hughes and we rocked the crap out of open-house entertaining last Saturday at our Annual Holiday Tea.

"Hi!!  So great to see you!"  kiss/hug/chuck upon shoulder - gracious acceptance of fetching holiday ornament/wine/liqueur/truffles/trays of treats.

"What can I get you to drink?  We have warm cider...."

"Oh, cider would be lovely!"

"We also have mulled wine this year...."

"Mulled wine?!?  Why I've never had mulled wine, I'll have some of that..."

"You just come right on in here, while I get you that drink!!" 

First sip of mulled wine hits the palate... "My, that's got a wee bit of a kick to it!"

"How is (fill in name of non-attending spouse/child/parent) doing?"

"Great!!  Great!!!  S/he/they just finished a (blank)."

"That's amazing!  I was going to ask about the (blank)!"

Doorbell!

"Please make yourself at home.  And eat!!  Eat!!  Rissa's labeled all the food types on the table!*  I'll just grab the door."

This basic conversation repeats in an endless loop from 2:30 to 7:30 p.m.  I poured out as many as 6 mugs of mulled wine for myself, but drank only one over the course of the day as I kept putting them down when I was answering the door or replenishing the Nanaimo Bars/Norwegian Sugar Balls/Gingerbread.

"Hey folks!!  There's chili!!! There is a ginormous pot of chili in a slow cooker on the counter!!! Help yourselves!!"

"Put the cat down!"

"How old is he now?" gazing upon adorable toddling child.

"Ten months!"

"Already?!?"

"Who wanted the Butterscotch Schnapps in their cider??"

"Mummy, the baby is totally falling asleep in my arms!"

For David and me it is the opportunity to open our home to all our friends and family while spending pretty much no quality time with anyone - apart from the first two guests who show.  It's kind of like your wedding day.  Filled to the brim with people you love, but all a blur... For Rissa - it's the greatest game of MANHUNT ever played.  We had 15 children between the ages of 4 and 14 racing through the house - cracking the caulking on the crown mouldings with their combined weight and ear-splitting shrieks of holiday joy. 

But, by the end of the day - when I count off the 75 or so folks who made it out and seemed to have a good time - it's always worth it.  It's our tradition.  And (but wait there's more!) our wine rack is now totally stocked!  We won't have to pay for a bottle of wine over the holidays!!

Day turns to evening and then to night.  The three of us (plus various cats) snuggle down on the sofa in the family room - the fireplace ablaze, the TV bright and we watch Babe and smile and sniff - because Farmer Hoggett had it right... "That'll do Pig...  That'll do."



*A few years back, I got these nifty little ceramic placecards to put in front of food trays, which you can write on with dry-erase markers.  I presented them to Rissa last week.

"What are they Mummy?"

"They are to label the dishes on the buffet table."

Nearly leaping out of her skin she's so excited!!!  "You mean I can label specific treats and desserts?!?"

"You can indeed!  All you need is a dry-erase marker!"

"Could I get extra-special new dry-erase markers - you know just for the Holiday Tea?!?"

"Whatever decorates your gingerbread house kid."

Musical Theatre Geeks of the world unite!

WARNING:  ADULT LANGUAGE IN THIS POST

I might have developed this... uh....little... small... (wee really)... obsession with Tim Minchin.  Nothing warranting  Mr. Minchin seeking out a restraining order or anything.  It's totally the Bloggess's fault.  In September of this year, she mentioned him in one of her posts.  I watched some clips on You Tube and fell hard for this comic musical genius.

 

I'm talking Donny Osmond/Shaun Cassidy hard.*   I want a poster of him for my bedroom ceiling. I'm this close to imagining what kind of eyes our babies would have.  Imagine scribblers filled with Mrs. Heather Minchin in curly letters, embellished with illuminated hearts and glitter glue.  

The dude is so freaking cool - it's hard to impart that kind of adoration in a non-sexual/stalker context.  He is the most profanely profound comedian/musician I've ever had the pleasure of experiencing.  Think Louis C.K. as a composer-singer.  Minchin has the goods, and for a guy who doesn't read music he will blow your fucking mind with his piano playing.

(Mr. Minchin - I'm really not a stalker - nothing at ALL close to Kathy Bates in ANY context here - I promise - just your average Canadian Musical Theatre Geek - who salivates just a titch when you squeeze 25 syllables into a musical phrase and can articulate them all.)

Last week we drove 45 minutes to see a simulcast of Jesus Christ Superstar from the UK.   I would have gone to see it anyway as Superstar is my favourite rock opera of all time (the best of Rice and Webber), but when I found out that Tim Minchin was starring as Judas, I lost my mind... in an adorable, not-at-all-threatening, nor indicating any sort of psychotic break, way.

The production itself was fan-fucking-tastic!  (It wasn't perfect, there were some musical direction things that I didn't agree with... DON'T, for the love of Ian Gillan, go for the Big Broadway  Finish ANYWHERE in Superstar.  It doesn't need it.)    The tour was well-staged, well-acted not too dancy-dancy...  Melanie C as Mary Magdalene killed it, Ben Foster did a great job as Jesus, Alex Hanson as Pilate was delicious,  Pete Gallagher's first notes as Ciaphus nearly had me creaming my pants... but Minchin?  Was freaking brilliant as Judas.   I didn't know he had the chops to sing it - as that epiphany hit me, I fell harder and harder for the dude.  Judas's (spoiler alert) death had me in tears - and I wasn't even anywhere close to my period.

Then there's Christmas Day!  Less than a month from getting the chance to see Superstar - Les Mis will be in theatres.  Please, please, please don't let them fuck it up!  Please!  Let it be the perfect thing for my family to do on Christmas Day!!!   Please, please, please!!!  Let me get chills, let me weep, let it be all that a musical theatre geek could hope for!!!**

*(OR for people a decade younger... Michael Jackson/Rick Astley hard.... OR for people two decades younger... Backstreet Boys/NSync hard... if you're any younger than that you probably shouldn't be reading this blog.)

**Spoiler Alert - Les Mis (apart from Anne Hathaway's I Dreamed a Dream and Eddie Redmayne's Empty Chairs at Empty Tables) did NOT live up to its hype.  For the love of all that's holy in musical theatre give us some fucking long shots!

Weight Loss Secrets Revealed!!

WARNING: ADULT LANGUAGE IN THIS POST

Pssssst.... over here!

You won't have to starve yourself!  You won't have to exercise!!!  Watch how these other women lost 20, 40, even as much as 75% of their total body weight! 

Take a couple of tsp of apple cider vinegar before every meal!  Spoonfuls of honey speed the metabolism!  Acacia will increase your lean muscle!

And... it's all bullshit.  Bullshit to sell women useless shit.  'Cause you know what?  There is no quick fix for ANYTHING in life.  You want to lose weight?  You need to exercise and eat sensibly.  You want to eliminate lines around your mouth and your eyes after the fact?  Too frickin' late - you should have stayed out of the sun and never smiled.*  You want to save for your retirement?  Put 10% of your salary into an RRSP every year.

Sure, you can lose 5 lbs a week!  Totally doable!  Wait, wait... why not go at it with gusto and lose 40 lbs in a month?!?  You'll be SO svelte, SO trim... and you will gain ALL the weight back because that sort of rapid weight loss is a freaking fairy tale, despite what most women's magazine covers will tell you.

Woman's World just kills me.   Always a story about weight loss on the front.  Always an incredible sugar/fat/carb filled picture of a recipe that you MUST make.  Miracle weight loss annnnnnnnnnd baked goods.
 

"You look GREAT!!  Have you been doing Atkins?"

"Nope."

"Bernstein?"

"Nope."

"Cabbage Soup?"

"Nope."

"Israeli Army?   Dukan?  Grapefruit??"

"Nope, Nope and NOPE!  I'm doing this amazing plan..."

"Yes?!?"

"It's astounding!  It improves my sleep, I'm less depressed and I have MORE energy!!"

"OH MY GOD.  WHAT IS IT?!?  WHAT IS IT???"

"It's..."  beckon, beckon, surreptitious look, for all those desperate-to-be-thin people who might mob a girl for the information  "...sensible eating and EXERCISE... "

'Cause here's the deal folks.  Recommended weight loss is 2 lbs a week AT MOST.  That's 8 lbs a month - not 20, not 40... And you know why?  Because when you sensibly adapt your eating habits and exercise you drop weight gradually, and your body?  It doesn't think that it's starving and your metabolism won't  be completely fucked.

I'm on the treadmill 6 days a week for at least 40 minutes at a time - some of that time actually jogging - and wonders of wonders!!!  Sure enough, I've lost weight and my flabby thighs are less flabby.  So in fact, NOT a miracle - it's exercise.  And I'm not saying that a person has to jog.  Do excercise that you LIKE for at least 30 minutes a day - otherwise you won't keep doing it.  Back bothers you?  Get a recumbent cycle.  Don't like being on your feet?  Swim at the Y.  You like to dance?  Grab a copy of Just Dance for the Wii. Me?  I like to walk .  I  hop on the treadmill and watch a tv show on my tablet -  that's 42 minutes - then I'm done for the day and I'm so far up the moral high ground that my nose bleeds.

It's not rocket science and it's not magic - it's working at it.  Take it from a gal who is prone to depression herself, working at it will make you healthier and happier.  Yeah, sometimes on a Saturday morning, it's a pain in the ass and you grumble most of your way through it, but you WILL feel better.  I'm not just blowing smoke up your ass and you don't have to pay me for it.  Oh and another thing?  Anyone in their 40s is ALLOWED to have lines on their face!  They're not crow's feet, they're smile lines and what you should really worry about is if you DON'T have them.
 
*Botox or plastic surgery can help with wrinkles and lines.  Sure, you look like a freaking robotic doll, but if it makes you happy and you've got the cash, go for it!  Whatever creams your panties.  However, there is absolutely NO inexpensive 'fine line' cream that you can grab at Shoppers Drug Mart that will turn back the clock.  Do NOT waste your money.

How do snakes have sex?

Asks Rissa.  At bedtime.  Because she's crazy.

"Mummy, how do snakes actually have sex?"

"Pardon?"   Gear shift.  I was mildly confused as the last thing she'd said had been:

"Mummy what if you just started sprouting extra ears all over your head?"

As to the snake sex thing, I really hadn't a clue.  I was pretty much in the dark as to the logistics of reptile mating.*  "Well I imagine the male has a penis and the female has some sort of vagina..."

"Mummy!!!!  What if the male snake IS the penis?"

I think I then made a Scooby Doo sound.

Ruh??

"No seriously Mummy!  It totally could be true!  The male snake would BE the penis and then he would just..."

"Put his entire body inside the female?"

"Maybe....  Although that would probably be a lot for a female snake to take...  Wait!  Wait!  What if all snakes are just males..."

"They aren't."

"But what if they were?"

"So basically, if there were no female snakes, and the male snake IS the penis - what you're saying is that there would be a bunch of penises slithering around on the ground?"

"Mummy.... EEEEEEEEEEW!!"

"Dude.  You totally started it."

* Oh and just in case you were wondering, male snakes have two-headed penises.  The hemi-penis.  (See the diagram below - third section up from the tail.)  When I told Rissa that - she said there needed to be a different word.  "Plurenis" is what she came up with.

Never take pictures of me when I'm talking...

Smiling... laughing - that's okay, but if you catch me on film/pixels while I'm talking,  I look like I'm either in the midst of an epileptic fit, morphing into a velociraptor or channelling Lucille Ball in one of the episodes where she has to deal with stomping grapes or packaging chocolates.

Below is a pic of me giving my Toast to the Groom at a wedding from October.  I know, HOT, right?  Who wouldn't want to tap that?  Later we played Throw Wedding Favors into Heather's Mouth!

NEVER when I'm talking.  There is a plethora of photographic evidence from more than a handful of public events where I've had to give a speech.  I'm sure that I looked just fine actually giving the speech, but catch any of the individual seconds of those speeches candidly?  It's like I'm having a stroke, and instead of calling 911, the photographer took pictures of it.  DUDE!!!  How about a little fucking dignity here?

And as I've already let that horse out of the barn - here are some others...

Help me!  I have lock jaw!!

Brain aneurysm!  I am having a brain aneurysm!!!

Nothing to do with public speaking but here's when I got too friendly with an alpaca and it spat on me.   Here is the before...

Oh aren't you the sweetest little alpaca I've ever seen!

 And here is the after...

I totally deserved that.

Don't show anyone your boobs online!!!

"Don't show anyone your boobs online!"

"Don't type anything that you wouldn't want your grandparents to see!!"  I know her friends, they're all good kids and maybe I'm worrying over nothing at this point, but my mind goes to these freaky places.  You know the ones - where my tween daughter is pregnant and hooked on Crack and debating whether she's going to keep the baby.  Aaaaaand the angina kicks in.

Ever since she hit puberty and had a defined waist - my maternal panic has gone into overdrive.  There are dudes out there who want to have SEX with my baby.  The summer she was 11 we'd go for family walks and we'd be garnering some male attention, I'd preen a bit and think to myself  "Well I guess that I look good today..."  until I saw that it wasn't ME they were looking at - it was my daughter.

"Don't eyeball her you PERV!! SHE IS 11!!" I wanted to get her a t-shirt "I am NOT as old as you think I am".  And it's not  just teenaged boys - it's MEN.  Like men my age.  "I will END you - you freak!  She is a baby!!!!!"

s

Bay Moon Studio pin

I'm so fucked.  Rissa was always an attractive girl, but what with her dance training and her height and her lovely alabaster skin - she's now frickin' gorgeous.  And the more gorgeous she gets the more I lose my mind.

Because it is sooooo much different than when I was young.  It's no longer a case of "You show me yours, I'll show you mine."  It's morphed into "You show me yours via webcam and I'll post it to the entire universe and have you labeled a dirty slut."

My mind is filled with Urban Mythological "lipstick parties" where boys have girls with different colours of lipstick give them blow jobs in the dark.

"Don't put anyone's penis in your mouth!"

"Mummy.  Eeeeeeeeeew!"

"I'm just saying...."

"Gross."

A brain wave comes to me.  Agree with her.  "Yes it IS gross and you should therefore wait until you are finished university before going anywhere near that.  Plus boys never shower enough and it would be really stinky."

"Eeeeeeeew!"

"The minute you start to get tingly around ANYONE - you tell me and we'll put you on the pill!  And you'll have a diaphragm.  And an IUD."

"Mummy, I'm only 12..."

"Yes, but you don't LOOK 12 and dudes start to think with their penises really early in life.  Trust me on this."

Please, oh please, please, please.  Keep my daughter safe - keep her smart - keep her confident.  Let her have moxie.  Let her know the difference between a guy who just wants to get in her pants and a guy who wants to cherish her heart.  Or girl. In fact a girl would be great!  At least if she has a girlfriend she can't get pregnant.

 

Under Pressure

And that's how I accidentally took anti-depressants...

I'm spending so much time stoned now.  Not REALLY stoned.  Just migraine medication stoned.  And menstrual medication.  And arthritis medication.  I slept for 4 extra hours one morning after taking the most innocent-looking of pills.  It was a wee trapezoid shape - so wee and pretty.   It knocked me out.  It was the best nap I've had in a long time.  A deep sleep where drool seeped from the corner of my mouth - leaving me feeling like a contented bear greeting the spring.

Occasionally when I'm reaching into the pill container in my purse - I'll empty an assortment of pills and I have NO idea what they are.  The trapezoid ones are some sort of muscle relaxant and I know I should have those with food because they're hard on a gal's stomach.  But the yellow ones, with the number on the one side and the random letters on the other?  Not a clue.  Aceta-something?  I am smart enough to know not to take any of these pills with alcohol, but other than that?  Is it a T3 with caffeine?  Because if it is, I can't take that after noon on account of my crazy-ass sensitivity to caffeine.

When I was 19, I was sent to Dr. Shrink because of chronic insomnia.   I just couldn't sleep at night.  My body was exhausted, but my mind would NOT shut down.  I'd recently had my existential angst/awakening to mortal fear and my GP suggested that seeing a shrink might be helpful.  The shrink put me on sleeping pills that knocked me out.  I would wake up all muzzy headed and remained kind of vague the entire day.  A couple of months later - I had a check-up with my GP and he asked how the anti-depressants were working out for me.

"Excuse me?"

"The anti-depressants that Dr. Shrink put you on.  Are they helping?"  He showed me the note in my chart from Dr. Shrink.

"So these aren't sleeping pills?"

"No, but they can help with sleep."

The next visit with Dr. Shrink I asked him why he hadn't told me that I was on anti-depressants.

"Oh, but I did."

"Ummmmm.... no you didn't."

"Yes I'm certain I did."

"I'm pretty certain that you didn't."

So... arguing with a shrink never makes a person seem sane  At best you sound whiny, at worst you come off as paranoid.  I stopped my arguing and left it at this:  "Okay... let's just say that this will be my last session with you, you Gaslighting bastard."

You know what caused the insomnia?  Caffeine.  Our family's habit was to take tea after dinner.  I had developed a sensitivity to caffeine and couldn't sleep because of Tetley's Tea.  (This was before I discovered Capt. Picard and Earl Grey - hot.) The smallest amounts of caffeine after lunch can ruin my sleep.  After a major operation, I was put on T3s with codeine and caffeine.  I was exhausted, dying for sleep, but awake all night because of the caffeine.  David called the surgeon and asked for T3s without the caffeine.

She was dumbfounded.  "There's not enough caffeine in those pills to keep a person up."

"Yes, in a normal person, that might be so," replied David.  "However, we are dealing with Heather and she is a freak of nature."

The good thing about my body being so freakishly sensitive is that I know almost immediately when something is wrong with me.  The bad thing about my body being so freakishly sensitive is that almost anything can send my body off into the land of disproportionate symptoms. Too much sugar?  Dizzy.  Too little protein?  Dizzy.  Flickering fluorescent lights?  Migraine.  Wallowing in post coital splendour for too long?  Bladder infection.

My Mom still looks at me and asks "Where the hell did you come from?"  She is healthy as the proverbial horse and my Dad - apart from cholesterol issues is doing just great.  Me?  I am the delicate flower prone to getting high off of caramel.  I can say though, that knowing to avoid caffeine - makes it WAY easier to sleep at night.  Without mis-prescribed anti-depressants.

Community Theatre CATS!

Pretty much can't be done.  According to one acclaimed costume designer - and this must intoned in a deep, throaty, Katharine Hepburn educated drawl - "There can be only ONE fat cat."

I'm not saying that there aren't svelte dancer bodies in community theatre.  I'm just saying that there aren't enough of them that you'd want to see encased in Lycra, rolling around a stage attempting to lick their nether regions.  Community theatre musicals tend to be filled with middle-aged bodies who have been through life, have found their mates and therefore no longer feel the need to go to the gym and keep toned.  Your average community theatre production of CATS! would have a cast full of Grizabellas, Old Deuteronomys and Jennyanydots.

There are certain shows that you just can't do in our small provincial town.  Even in 2012, most of our residents are the WASPiest people you'll ever see.  We can be chock a block with whores, pimps and crooks on our stage, but try to have a balanced portrayal of the real world with real skin tones?  It ain't gonna happen here.  Sure we can do Little Shop of Horrors, but Chiffon, Crystal & Ronnette are not going to be black.  South Pacific, West Side Story?  Ain't happening unless it's completely colour-blind casting.  Although some of the older generation wouldn't even pause at the thought of "throwing on a little more makeup" on the Puerto Ricans.  Hairspray?  Not a chance.  Ours is the town where, when we were looking for diversity for our cast of hippies in Hair, I went up to a stranger on the school playground, who happened to be black, and ask if she could sing.   Instead of slapping me across the face for racial profiling, thank God she took the question in the spirit in which it was asked, and 'dropped trou' with the rest of the cast. 

Basically, we're stuck doing theatre by and for white people (which if you really think about it - is what happens - even on Broadway). Gypsy, My Fair Lady, The Sound of Music, Sweeney Todd, Best Little Whorehouse in Texas... Decades from now, when the rights to The Lion King come up, unless it's an all-white cast who somehow manage to be fabulous puppeteers AND dancers,  it won't be staged here.  Sure, community theatres can get away with Fiddler on the Roof - although the closest synagogue is a 1/2 hour away in any direction from our town, and most productions think nothing of having actors in 'Jewface" with over-the-top wigs and/or facial hair.  And you know why?  Because there just aren't enough Jews in our neck of the woods to be offended. 

So the way we get to push the envelope?  We do Jesus Christ Superstar every ten years or so - which as late as 2002, still had the religious right protesting the show's blasphemous nature. (Apparently Jesus would never want to rock out.)  Rocky Horror comes out every now and again - and we've done The Full Monty.  Oh, the titillation of naked or nearly naked neighbours onstage!  They just aren't black neighbours and you still wouldn't want to see them encased in Lycra.

Stumpy the Cat

Minuit's delicate derriere

That poem by Sandburg, with the line "The fog comes in on little cat feet"? Well, Sandburg didn't know Minuit.  Minuit is 'rubinesque.'  She's not quite as round as she is long, but she does a fair impersonation of that cat.  She is the antithesis of most cat adjectives, being neither stealthy nor particular graceful.

Minuit's version of "Fat Cat Capsizing"

The fat happened when we lived in NJ for 6 months.  While Stateside, she became reclusive.  I'm not saying Grey Gardens reclusive, but she now has a tendency to growl and run whenever the doorbell rings.  She's skittish - taking to darting ahead of you on staircases and hiding under the dining room table.  I think maybe one of those times when she was racing ahead on the stairs, she wound up underneath David's feet and hasn't ever been the same since.  She's like a paranoid drug addict.


With all her extra weight, Minuit STUMPS around the house.  She STUMPS down the hall, she STUMPS to her food bowl, she STUMPS to the bed.  And now the Dean Martin Roast for Minuit:

"She so fat, she makes a grunting noise when she jumps up onto the couch.  We have mistaken her footsteps for that of our 12 year old daughter.  She can't ever play the "I'm invisible" game with the other cats because you can hear her walking.   She's so heavy that when she sits on my abdominal aorta - I almost pass out."

Plus she stinks.  For an added "eeeeeew" factor, if you scare her - she gives a panicked jump and squirts from her frightened cat's ass.

We've tried to limit her food intake, but with three cats in the household I can't spend an entire day monitoring who eats what - it would mean that I'd have to lock her away for 1/2 hour at a time, morning and night, while she eats - basically I would be putting her into solitary confinement because she's fat.  That's never good for a gal's psyche - human or feline. I'm thinking she might just have to stay fat...  We've tried to get her to chase a laser but she's smart enough to know that we're moving the laser and she just looks at our hand.  She sporadically chases after and fetches tin foil balls - but I'm thinking the 5 minutes at a time she attempts to gallop isn't enough to get her in shape.  I would love to get David to build a cat exercise wheel and see if I could get her to use it, 'cause she has NO interest in walking on the treadmill with me.

And yet... and yet... she loves to sit on your lap and "prrrrrrowl" in pleasure.  She is adorable when she gets stuck after rolling on her back.  She has tonnes of personality.  She's just... fat.

There are HOW MANY aisles??

So this week I went to the One Of A Kind Craft Show in Toronto with my friend Meg, a OOAK Toronto Virgin.  This show is SO huge that when you're trying to navigate your way through, you need to give directions like this:

"Okay, go west until you hit the Wawa goose and then take a right until you get to Hudson's Bay..."

Meg was looking up at the aisle markers  - we had started at Y and were making our way backwards.

"This can't possibly start at A!"

Oh yes it can.

There are over 1000 vendors who have each spent, on average, $3000 for a 10 x10 booth to sell their wares. Just think about that folks.  They have to sell at least $3000 to break even.  Or they could consider it $3000 worth of advertising - which, when you're a small business owner - advertising should be a large part of your budget anyway - but $3000?!?  That would mean they'd have to sell $100 items at $30 to break even.

For those of us who are relatively cash shy - the purchase of something at even the $30 range causes a moment's pause.  Let alone the most adorable owl pillow for $68.  I want that disposable income that would allow me to buy this from Velvet Moustache at booth B-59:

or this from Kelly Grace at booth K-08:

or this from Gosia Art at booth S-07:

Plus this by Floyd Elzinga at booth K-04

Or pop art by Denial Art at booth 1-44

Or these fan-freaking-tastic purses made from reclaimed books and belts!!!  By Noelle Hamlyn at booth W-43

But just because I can't personally afford all these fabulous things, doesn't mean that you, or a loved one can't.  Pass their info around - support these wonderfully talented folks!

And lo, there were lights...

 

Rissa was at a sleepover, we had the house to ourselves for the evening, so when we left Shopper's, arms laden with chips and popcorn, we were intent on getting home as quickly as possible.  (Insert eyebrows waggling in deliberate sexual innuendo here.)  It was cold and drizzly as we raced back towards our house.  But then, we hit George Street, and I looked south towards the Town Hall.  There were holiday lights and garlands and fir trees all twinkly and sparkly, it was a defibrillator to my holiday joy.

I'm like a freaking magpie. Christmas decorations instantly delight me - the twinklier the better.  Why is it that something as simple as coloured lights can make a gal so happy?  I won't beg for jewelery, but show me sparkly lights and I almost lose my mind with giddiness.

"Can we go see?  Can we go see?" I jumped up and down - a 5 year old had possessed my body.

"If you like," said David in his Father Knows Best voice.

I scampered down to the main street to get closer to the twinkle and the holiday swag.  There were families making their way east towards the park.

"Maybe they're lighting up the park!!  Can we go?  Can we go??"

We stood together, David had his arm around me to keep me warm.  I didn't bring along my Cold Avenger mask - I was breathing through my scarf.  We were stomping our feet - David didn't even have gloves - we weren't supposed to be out of the house for long - we'd just gone out for 'before the sex' snacks.  A half hour later, amidst a crowd of eager young families and bumped-into friends, David and I stood - counting down to illumination.   As hundreds of us yelled, "Three, Two, One!!!" the park was ablaze with colour and sparkle - our small provincial town was a freaking fairyland. 

We walked home, hand in hand, still grinning.  Holiday music was piped in on the main street.  People were laughing, kids were saying "Did you see?  Did you see?"  We basked in those small town moments.  A few steps from our door, the drizzle, which had mercifully abated while we were waiting in the park, began again.   Even that made us smile, so disgustingly contended were we.   All of this unexpected joy, because we'd wanted chips and popcorn.

The bandshell with attending minature village.

Small town park - or could it be  DISNEYLAND?!?

You'd have to be soulless not to like this shit!

Paying it forward...

Everybody wants something, right?  And you don't get something for nothing.  That's the rumor.  Watch out folks, my inner Pollyanna is courteously clawing her way to the surface!   The sun is shining and I'm filled with the frickin' milk of human kindness.  I have a proposition:  what if instead of all the take, take, taking - we just did a bit more of the paying it forward?

Doesn't come easily to some.  You're in your own world, you're stressed, your credit line is through the roof, the kids need to be taken to dance, or hockey, or piano...  You're busy, you don't have time.  But how about this?  Just for today -  do something without wanting anything in return.  Today, it's not going to be about you.

So leave the quarter (or loonie) in your No Frills cart, drop a handful of lucky pennies in a public place, if you've got a granola bar (or leftovers from your pricey lunch) give them to someone who's hungry.  Say "Yes" instead of your automatic "No."  Spread the word about a cause that needs momentum.  Throw accolades at the unsuspecting.  Compliment that gal at the bank who has awesome hair.  Smile at a stranger - say a "Good morning!"

Yes, it's corny, but you know what else?  I can guarantee that every little act that you do - every little act not for you - every act of kindness without that selfish core - makes you happier.  That's what's so great about it.  The less selfish you are, the more you think of others, the happier you become.   You end up getting something for yourself, just by being... nice. 

So how about just for today, share the happy.  Tomorrow you can go back to being an asshole.

I'm not Scarlett O'Hara

My weekend is full of Santa Claus Parades and Peter Pan rehearsals  - so we're into reruns...

***

I'm not Scarlett O'Hara, which means a regular guy will not ever be able to sweep up into his arms.  I was reminded of this the other night when David hugged me.  I jumped up and wrapped my legs around his waist and he really did his best not to drop me or give in to the impending hernia.  He didn't grimace or anything!!  I sighed and let myself down so that we didn't hurt ourselves.

"The Scarlett O'Hara, being-carried up-the-staircase-thing, just ain't gonna happen with me."

"It's not you, it's me."

"Pardon?"

"I don't have the upper body strength.  I need to do more pushups."

"Yeah, that... and I don't weigh 120 lbs and haven't since I was 12."

"If you weighed 120 lbs, you'd look like a cadaver."

"Yes.  But I'd be a cadaver that you could then sweep into your arms and carry up the stairs."

"Not unless I do a lot more pushups."

I might have pouted.

In an uncharacteristic Caveman moment of problem-solving, David responded.  "I could drag you up by the hair."

"Tempting..."

Delete, delete, delete

I should just un-subscribe.  That'd be the sane thing to do.  From Old Navy and Ikea.  From the Gap and Sears.  From Style at Home and Banana Republic.

UNSUBSCRIBE HEATHER!!!  

I don't have money to buy any crap from any of the retailers who send me their online flyers.  I have financial blinders on.  We require nothing new in our house.  Apart from a new roof, but I don't get flyers for that.

Except right now?  We're leading up to Christmas and I do still have some shopping to do - and what if there was something perfect for that niece/nephew/mother-in-law/parent/child/spouse/friend???  What then?  Then I would have missed it and could have SAVED money on the gift - so really I can't unsubscribe until after Christmas.  So for now... just one quick peek (you know, just to see what potential gifts I might be missing out on)  and then delete, delete, delete...

Alfred, Macy janitor: "Yeah, there's a lot of bad 'isms' floatin' around this world, but one of the worst is commercialism. Make a buck, make a buck. Even in Brooklyn it's the same - don't care what Christmas stands for, just make a buck, make a buck." 

Getting my cats high...

So... I put down catnip last night.  This is the conversation I overhead.

Minuit:  (immediately pawing, huffing and rolling in afore-mentioned catnip) This shit is great!  OH MY GOD!  This is the best shit I've ever had!

Lola:  I wanna try, let me try, let me... (sniff, sniff, roll)  oh WOW!!!

Steve:  I don't feel anything.  (sniffing)  Nope.  Nothing.

Minuit:  Dude, this must have come from BC 'cause I'm seeing colours I have never seen in my... your face is soooooooo fluffy.  (rolling on her back, doing a cat yodel)

Lola:  Is that Tom Jones?!?  You guys!  You guys!!  In the corner... there...! (roll, roll...)

Steve:  Nothing.  I'm feeling nothing.

Lola:  "What's new pussycat... meow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow..." (hysterical cat tittering ensues)

Steve:  What?  What is it?

Lola:  Maybe next time, dude.

Minuit:  I need some of those chicken kitty treats, maybe with some Häagen-Dazs.

Steve:  I feel so disconnected...

Lola:  Wave your paws in the air, like you just don't care!!

Steve: (rolling on his back, from side to side)

Minuit:  Dude!  Dude - are you feeling it?

Steve:  No.  But when I do this, Heather will rub my tummy and that always makes me feel good.  I'm taking it where I can get it. Oh yeah!  Right there!  Right in the cat pit, now under the chin.... yeah....

I'm pretty sure the webcam got a contact high from the cat.

Why can't I just keep my mouth shut?

I catch myself doing it.  Yesterday was Pink Shirt Day at school in support of anti-bullying.  Rissa loathes pink - she was wearing a coral coloured shirt.

"I thought you were wearing pink today... for the anti-bullying thing."

"This is pink."

pause, 2, 3, 4...

"That's not pink."

"Yes it is."

"Rissa I hate to say, but it's not."

"It is."

This is where I pressed my lips together so tight  that they were now between my teeth and I could taste blood.  Don't say anything....  Don't say anything...  Just turn around and leave...  I managed to make it out of the room without shouting to Rissa, the world and the universe,  "THAT SHIRT IS NOT PINK!!!" 

It doesn't matter.  It doesn't matter that she wasn't wearing true pink.  She'd go to school and say "This is the closest thing to pink that I have."  Of course she'd be lying, because I just checked in her closet,  and she totally has a fancy pink tanktop and a pink 1950s style shrug - both bought by me because they were cute and would look amazing on her, because despite my never wanting to dress my female child in pink, it turned out that she looked freaking amazing in pink and when she was an infant and had next to no hair, people kept mistaking her for a dude, so we dressed her in pink for a while there; but since about the age of 3, Rissa hasn't liked pink, so she's never worn either of the pink items in her closet.

She's 12.  She should be able to wear whatever she wants to - I mean I'm not going to let her out of the house at the age of 12 (or 19) dressed like Slave Leia, but if she wants to wear a coral shirt for Pink Shirt Day - I should just shut the fuck up and let her.  EXCEPT I CAN'T.  Because when she said the shirt was pink I could clearly see that it WASN'T. 

I chatted with David about it over lunch.


me:  I'm now writing about how hard it is to keep my mouth shut with Rissa.

David:  hah!

me:  I'm trying to be better, but that shirt totally was NOT pink this morning.

David:  no - it was not.   Though...it does seem to be a natural inclination to open your mouth in certain circumstances...

me:  HAH!  It's like telling me that a cat's an elephant.  It's almost impossible for me to say that a cat is an elephant when it clearly isn't... THAT CAT IS NOT AN ELEPHANT!!  That's like saying that a table is a chair...  or the sun is the...  Oh, good God - I'm the Shrew.*  FUCK.

David:  hah

me:  Rissa's mother is the fucking Shrew. BLARGH!

David:  choose your battles... that's all I can say. 

Wow.  That was a revelation!  I am the Shrew.  So I can either a) continue to be the Shrew and eventually drive my daughter away with endless nitpicking and the need to be right or b) I can keep my mouth shut and let her figure out her own shit and wait for her to ask my opinion.  (epiphanic sound of angels' chorus)  I've got to give up the 'being right.'  It's not gonna kill me to bite my tongue if she wants to define colour by a different spectrum than mine.  It might give me angina, because my body reacts to even the smallest of stressors in the most fucked up way possible, but it won't kill me.  And scotch can totally help the angina.

*Katherina Minola from William Shakespeare's  The Taming of the Shrew.  In my opinion his best comedy, but really NOT popular with the politically correct who can't seem to take it in historical context.

Faux Christians

I hate the faux Christians.  Love, love, LOVE the real ones - I know a bunch and they are the kindest, most supportive and liberal-minded folks out there.  The faux ones?  They're the ones who hide behind the Bible and pretend to be all godly, but are actually prejudiced, racist and pretty much ignorant of, not just how to be a good Christian, but how to be a good person. They're the ones who make organized religion sketchy.  They're the ones whose behaviour convinces me to talk about spirituality instead of religion.  The faux Christians are the ones who abandon their child when that child comes out or chooses the 'wrong' spouse, or lives a different lifestyle.

Those professed 'good Christians' love to lob around Biblical quotations, like "Love the sinner, hate the sin," or any variation thereof, as if Jesus himself was speaking through them.  So here's the thing.  Jesus never said that. Now, I haven't actually read the entire Bible, but I have spent WAY too much time this morning doing internet searches on that particular quotation.  And you know something?  It's not from scripture.  And it's not from Gandhi as is rumoured.   It's from St. Augustine of Hippo, who wrote 400 years after Jesus.  And you know what?  It's still a crappy quotation.

So for those who want to spout meaningful quotations that are actually attributed to Jesus in the actual Bible...  You know what a better quotation would be?  "Love one another."  How about if,  instead of following some archaic notion of what sin is and what sin isn't, how about we choose love?

So here's me, the next best thing to an atheist, starting a campaign. The  Let's put the Christ back in Christian campaign.   Because these faux Christians?  They're giving the real ones a bad name.

Condom Races

"Anything interesting happen in school today?"

"My Mom lost to Your Mom."

I gave her a look.

She sighed, despairing for my ignorance.  "In dodgeball today.  We lost."

Ah yes.  Rissa was in a Dodgeball tournament.  She and her friends were split between two teams.  Rissa's team was "My Mom"  and the other team was "Your Mom."  These names were chosen for the sole purpose of how they would sound when announced by the principal over the PA system.

"Today in dodgeball, we have My Mom vs Your Mom." 

"Right.  I'm with you now.  So you were on which team?"

"I was on My Mom."

"And who was on Your Mom?"

"Jacob and Liam"

Mental head shake.  "And My Mom lost?" This was turning into a variation of Who's on First.

"Sadly yes.  We were hoping that we would make it to the finals and that way the principal would have had to announce it all again."

David chimed in.  "Maybe next year you could have new teams.  My Mom's Meatloaf vs Your Mom's Mac & Cheese."

I roll my eyes at him.  "Anything else interesting?"

"In health we had condom races."

I do my best to imagine what that could entail.  "Were you blowing them up and then letting them loose in the classroom?  Passing them like a HOT POTATO game?"

"Let her finish..." David says.  In my mind I'm thinking BANANAS!!!!!

"We had bananas."

"HAH!"

David shoots me a disparaging look.

"There were four to a team." 

Now I was confused.  "Four to a team?"

"Whichever team of four who put all their condoms on the banana first won."

"You were putting four condoms on a banana?"

"Yes."

"One on top of the other?"

"Yes."

David shrugged. "Better safe than sorry."