I just wanted coffee!

My soy milk refuses to foam.  It takes two failed foam attempts before I grab the tetra pack and double check the label.  Low Fat Soy.  Low Fat Soy does not foam.  And not only does it NOT foam - it tastes like shit.  I check the pantry - there are two more of the wrong soy milks there.  I bang my head on the counter.  I just wanted coffee.

I know, I KNOW... there are worse things in the world than not having foamy soy milk in one's morning coffee.  I am aware that right now I'm coming off as a spoiled, fucking, North-American PRINCESS, I know that.   It's just... it's just.. starting my day on an even keel is becoming a must.  My body delights in betraying me. The least amount of stress immediately kicks me into a 'fight or flight' response.  So wee, simple things that start my day off nicer, are more than just helpful, they are essential.  Yes, it's only stupid foam in my coffee, but it's stupid foam in my coffee that stops me from having my first angina attack of the day before 8:00 a.m.

I'm not coping well with stress.  Our house is on the market, I'm directing the most expensive musical our theatre group has ever produced, I'm about to begin a new job and just found out I have to have another biopsy... any of those could be stressful.  The thing is, my body is reacting disproportionately to regular amounts of stress.  I was making car-pooling plans over the weekend and I had an angina attack.  From CAR-POOLING PLANS!  What the hell is that? 

And although the notion of getting through the day drunk has a lot of some appeal, I recognize that it's not the best course of action.  So I take refuge in little things that make me contented and calm, like my morning coffee.  Therefore, to eliminate one of those stressors, I went to the grocery store and purchased the right type of soy milk.  Problem fixed.  Apparently sex is a good stress-reducer, so as soon as David gets home, that can happen... Blogging is akin to journalling, so me typing this should be helping right now... I just need to add in some self-hypnosis, exercise, listening to music, meditation, and deep breathing and I'll be good to go.  Perhaps even, without my foamy coffee.

23 Days Later...

WARNING: CYCLICAL FEMININE CONTENT

Me in the bathroom, minding my own business, just peeing... I thought.  Until I go to wipe and...

"WHAT THE?!?  It can't have been 23 days!  I just had it!!"

I rush to the calendar in the kitchen and count from my last Red Sharpie-circled days.  I am right on schedule.  23 days.  CRAP.  I had not a clue this was coming.  I am that busy.  You know how gymnasts and other elite female athletes push their bodies so hard that they don't even get periods?  Basically, they are TOO BUSY TO BLEED.  Okay, it might have something to do with their lean muscle mass to body fat ratio but I'm going with the TOO BUSY TO BLEED and wondering why that hasn't happened to me.   Although now, knowing that I was PMSing last week, does explain my several days of wanting choke people - some of whom were small children.

I forget things when I'm busy.  Things in addition to when the lining of my uterus tries to expel itself from my nether regions. I forget to take medicines, go to appointments, collect the garbage/recycling.   I have to have a good 5 -7 reminders on my email calendar.  3 days before, 2 days before, 1 day before, 10 hours before, 6 hours before, 2 hours before.   If I can walk to the appointment/meeting, maybe even 15 minutes before.  Combine regular peri-menopause with my period, and any sort of mental acuity becomes a dumb-ass, muscle car driver being hit by a CN Cargo Train at an un-barriered train crosssing.  Which, coincidentally, is how my lady bits feel right now.

I have forgotten to take my morning pill cocktail twice this week. TWICE.   Some of these pills are pills that ensure that my cycle lasts 23 days instead of 15 days - fingers crossed that that doesn't come back to bite me.

Underwear addict...

My name is Heather and I am an underwear addict.  I have over 67 pairs of underwear.  Which, when you looking at it from a less compulsive consumerist way, means that I can NOT do laundry for more than 2 months!!!

I counted them as I was trying to squirrel away the freshly laundered undergarments into my top right drawer in the walk-in closet.    I have 5 pairs of beige boycut briefs.  I have 8 pairs of white cotton boycut briefs.  Really, what it comes down to is that I have MANY boycut briefs in MANY different colours: pink, purple, turquoise, black, blue, raspberry & green, B&W patterned...  I have over 2 dozen thongs.  I have at least 3 pairs of 'Period Panties."  My cheeks runneth over with sexy panties -  the lace, the cheekinis, the ruffled.  And those are just the ones I have in my top right drawer in the closet.  In the top two drawers of the dresser, I have matching underwear sets, say 8 of them.  Okay, maybe 10.  Possibly 12.

How did this happen?  I mean really 10 should do me... should really do anyone.  7 pairs with 3 more emergency 'just-in-case-the-laundry-didn't-get-done-on-time' pairs.  And yet, when I try to sort through and edit my collection, it's like I have personal relationships with them all.  The white cotton ones with the lace feel great and are a perfect match for any of my vintage styled sleeping garments - especially the white cotton, pintuck-fronted, with the side pocket nightie that allows me to pretend that I'm in Pride and Prejudice.  The balconette and cheekini in turquoise drives David mad for the 15 seconds that it remains upon my person.   And the red panties?  Well, they're RED panties!!!

Why is it that the comfortable beige panies are not enough for me?  Am I that vain that my ass, hidden beneath several layers of clothing,  needs to be clad in the lingerie equivalent of precious gems?  Yes.  Yes I am.  Black thongs for darker clothing.  Beige panties for translucent clothing.  Sparkly blue to make David lose his mind.

Really it's good for a gal's psyche.  'Cause sometimes just knowing that you are wearing bright red lacy panties can get you through that bad day.  When you're ready to decapitate someone who doesn't understand social cues, who doesn't have two synapses to rub together, who wastes oxygen on the planet, you can always think, "My ass looks amazing right now," and sometimes, that, can be enough.

If men gave birth...

Had to share this video from the Netherlands... Two Dutch television hosts Dennis Storm and Valerio Zena offered to experience the pain of childbirth.  Of course their birthing experience didn't include vomiting, involuntary pooping/diarrhea, bursting facial blood vessels, having a 'taint' torn/sliced and then sutured after the fact... but good on them for being guinea pigs.

The Fabulous Lesbian Muffcrats...

This is how much David and Rissa love me.  They bought me THESE at our local charity shop!!

Aren't they the absolute best?!?  I think they're supposed to be be mice, but they look more like muskrats to me on account of their poufy head fur and long tails.  And then when I really looked at their attire - it struck me that the one in the tuxedo had a very feminine, tailored flair, what with the form-fitting vest and cravat and lace around her wrists.  And then I thought, what if these are two female muskrats... on their wedding day!?!  David and Rissa found me my very own diversity-affirming stuffed animals that I can place on my desk and adore EVERY SINGLE DAY!!  I have Fabulous Lesbian Muffcrats!!!  How great is that?!?  The only thing better?  If they were actual taxidermied muskrats.

Salsa counts as a vegetable right?

We're producing Peter Pan.*  I'm directing, David is the tech director and Rissa is dancing.  Sunday is our big rehearsal day.  Our family is at the rehearsal hall all day, which means that no one is home to prep dinner.  Which means that by the time we get home for dinner?  We have Resort Food.  As in the kind of food you RESORT to having when you simply don't have the energy to prepare anything healthy.

Last night?  NACHOS!  Rissa thinks she's died and gone to Heaven.

"Until the show opens we get to eat crappy food all the time, don't we?"

She has given me a list of foods that she thinks would be appropriate options for our Sunday dinners:

Kraft Dinner
Badly Breaded Chicken Nuggets
Frozen Pizza
Poutine
Pasta with canned Alfredo/Carbonara sauce.

If you see someone on the street in a simple carbohydrate/sodium coma?  That'd be me.

* Shameless plug - Peter Pan is playing in Port Hope, ON - the last weekend of February first weekend in March, 2013 

Winning the lottery wouldn't be enough...

Before we bought our beautiful heritage house, we had a meeting with the bank where they looked at our debt ratio.   I was depressed.  I was sure that we wouldn't be able to afford the house.  But then, miracles of miracles, the bank said yes we could.

The bank lied.

In the 70s?  My family lived in Nova Scotia and we'd buy a lottery ticket where the grand prize was $100,000.  It was SO MUCH money!  We would spend hours and hours dreaming as a family about what we would do with those winnings.  The trips we we take, the cars we'd buy, the pool we'd install.  If we won $100, 000 now, it would only pay off a third of our debt.   If we were to win the Early-Bird draw from one of those Home Lotteries?  We would still owe money to the bank.

The bank says, "Here, have a credit line!  Here, have another credit line!"

We say, "Are you sure we can afford all this?"

The bank says, "We are completely sure!"

The bank are lying bastards.

They talk about the benefits of home ownership.  You're not throwing money into a black hole of rent - you have 'equity' in your home - it's an investment.  What they don't talk about?  Is the fact that you'll never have disposable income again once you own a house.  Maintenance on a house is expensive.   And maintenance on a century home?  Forget about it!  There's a reason they are called money pits. 

We are so fucking house poor.  Every job?  Costs at least $1000. Minimum.  And when you're in a heritage home or even heritage district, you can't just go the economical way.  The Heritage Committee can't tell you what you can do to the inside of your home, but they are fascists about the outside.  If we were to replace or repair our windows to satisfy the Heritage Committee?  It would be about $1000, per window.  We have 37 windows - not including the basement windows.

You don't think about this when you fall in love with a house.  You are seduced by the butler's pantry and servants' staircase and claw footed bathtub and sloped ceilings in the attic.  You salivate over the wood-burning fireplace and transomed windows.  You don't think about the fact that it will take, according to the rate at which we are paying down our debt now (which is the 'one step forward, 3 steps back' ratio), 75 years to pay off our debt.  I just did the math.  I'll be 119 when I'm debt free at this rate.  Not a problem!  The women in my family are long lived. We'll pay it all off and then we'll be able to afford that trip to Disney - with the grandkids, great grandkids and possibly great grandkids.  It'll be a helluva party!

Hippalicious...

I am an archer.   My arms stretch in opposing directions, pulling the nylon.  But unlike the Olympic bulls-eye 229 feet away, my target is closer.  The nylon/spandex thong in my hands is pulled near-to-tearing so that I may circumnavigate my hips. I'm Magellan!

Boy shorts don't cause this problem.  Boy shorts squoosh everything into their containing fabric.  Thongs don't have enough fabric to do that, hence the stretching.  I mean, sure, I could lose 20 lbs so that I didn't have these hippalicious bits, but the odds of that happening?  Pretty small.

It's just part of the morning routine.  You know...  You brush your teeth, you scrape all the coaty bits off your tongue, you re-adjust your bra straps annnnnd.... you stretch your thong.    Then after you put your bra on, you make sure your nipples are pointing in the same direction and you tuck your back pudge into the bra band.

There was a time when being hippalicious was not an issue... When I was 12 maybe... nope!  Not even then.  It was when I was 10... 'Cause the spring when I was 11?  I stole money from my parents and went to the Tasty Twirl and had ice cream  every day until I was caught and grounded for the entire rest of the summer.  My diet of high fructose corn syrup, proved to be my downfall.  Basically my criminal activity from age 11 has haunted me for 33 years.  Crime does NOT pay.

Six Degrees of Separation.. according to Rissa

At the dinner table:

I say to David, "You know what Will Smith movie we should see again?  Six Degrees of Separation..." 

"Six degrees?"  Rissa looks perplexed.

"Yes, it's a phrase that talks about the interconnectedness of..."

"That's like this big."  (She holds her fingers apart by this much, indicating the angle.)  "That's wee."

"Yes it is pretty small," David and I agree.  "There was this movie with Will Smith when he was much younger..."

Rissa isn't paying attention.  She's looking at her fingers.  "It's really only this big.  (Her eyebrows are down around her nose now.)  Seriously.  We've been doing this stuff in math.  It is only this big.  I can get my protractor and show you."

She's going to get her protractor?  "Where did you come from?" I ask - thinking that the math gene really must have skipped a generation.

"I'm smart.  In my brain." 

In other news... Rissa was unimpressed when when we then told her about Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.  She felt we were doing a disservice to math.

Unswallowable... (and NO, I don't mean THAT)

There was a discussion around the dinner table about how many teenagers in the Family Studies class at David's school have ended up pregnant since the course began.  A lot.  Like more than a handful.  These girls are in a class that GIVES them condoms and information on how NOT to get pregnant!  I might have ranted.

"Are they stupid?  Is this a Family Studies Class for stupid people?  If they are sexually active, why are they not on the pill and using condoms!?!"

"Maybe they can't swallow the pill," says Rissa.

"Everyone can swallow the pill," says I.  "It's THIS big!" (indicating tiny pill size with my outstretched fingers)

"I can't swallow pills," says Rissa.

"Yet.  You can't swallow pills YET.  Hand me that jar of gummy vitamins and a knife - we're starting now.  By bedtime you'll be swallowing pills."

"Mummy..."  (with accompanying eye roll)

"Seriously.  We need to get on this.  Do you KNOW how much more expensive Children's Tylenol is?  If I put all the extra dollars we'll save by switching to actual pills into your RESP, you'll be able to attend Harvard."

"Mummy we were talking about sex."

"No we were talking about dumb girls who get pregnant."

"No, I was just saying that maybe they can't be on the pill because they can't swallow pills."

"So these girls aren't dumb - they just can't swallow pills yet?"

"Yes."

"If they are too young to be swallowing pills, then they are obviously too young to be having sex."

"But when you CAN swallow pills, you're old enough to have sex?"

"NO!!!  OH MY GOD, NO!!!"

"You just said..."

"Forget what I just said.  Say this with me now: 'Teenaged girls who get pregnant are dumb... teenaged girls who get pregnant are dumb..'   I'm serious.  It should be your mantra."

"Mummy."  (eye roll)  "Even if I could swallow pills, I'd probably forget to take them anyway."

"David we need to research the shot."

Funny, I don't remember taking banned substances...

A Jewel on Queen West

So I found these socks...  these mind-blowing, amazing, hyperventilation-inducing-from-so-much-glee socks...  on Queen West at a store that must, I think, cater to the drag queen set.  (Original - 515 Queen Street West in Toronto.)  This store was so awesome, I got a little dizzy.  Jon had to remind me to breathe properly as I stared at a wall of leg wear.

This store was kind of like... Heaven.  First, you walk in and there are fabulous shoes as far as the eye can see.  Floral oxfords and polka-dotted Mary Janes and Steam Punk red leather boots.  Counters with sparkly hair accessories and bracelets...  Fancy-schmancy dresses (+ a whole 2nd floor above with even MORE fancy-schmancy dresses)...   And then?  Then an entire WALL with the most fabulous socks and tights I have EVER seen.  I spied, designed in France!!!, Dub & Drino socks.  I held them to my chest like a brand new patchwork kitten.  When the cashier tried to make me hand them over to scan the price, I growled.  She eventually convinced me to move my hand closer to the scanner.

Dub & Drino tights and socks, from FRANCE

I escorted these festive foot accessories home.  Rissa got very excited when I shared their magnificence with her.  I took the socks from their cardboard banding - nearly salivating as I readied my feet for their glory...

And the fuckers didn't fit!!  When did I acquire Female Soviet Athlete calves?!?   Were my Flintstones laced with anabolic steroids in the 70s?  I could just barely get the socks on, but then my circulation was cut off from my knees down.  I got a little woobly.  I was close to weeping.  The socks, now reside in Rissa's sock drawer.

I looked on the wrapper and discovered these socks were made for sizes 5/8.5  feet.  See?  That was the problem there.  I needed either sized 9/11 socks, or the ones labelled "For those with freakishly ginormous calves."  I'm going back next time I'm in town and I'm reading the labels and I'm stocking up.  If Rissa hadn't so coveted them herself, I would have turned them into fingerless gloves for the winter.  I may still buy another pair, cut the toes off, make a thumb-hole and do just that.  'Cause you know what? My forearms WILL fit into the 5/8.5 sized socks and then the world shall marvel at my fabulous forearms and say "Oh my Heather.  Where, oh where, did you discover such marvelous mitts?"  And then?  Then I shall sing them the Ballad of the Fabulous Fingerless Gloves.

Hurray! I get to run on the beach and ride white horses!

HURRAY!!!!

Recently, Rissa arrived home from school, all moany and growly and generally not her usual bouncy self.

"Are you tired honey?" 

"NO!  My PERIOD started."  Grrrrrrrrrr...

(So... I have this thing.  Women shouldn't use their periods as a convenient excuse for just being moody bitches.  Yes, most definitely it can be a pain in the ass, both metaphorically and quite literally (say if your sit bones come into play - I mean Sweet Mother of Creation - how can you even HURT there - they are bones!?!)  But you know what?  You don't have to decimate the rest of the world with your hormonal fallout.  I had no cramping until I was in my 20s. It only really got bad for me AFTER having babies.  Unintentional moodiness happens, sure, but if I find myself doing it, that's when I know to take a breath, regroup and pour myself a scotch tea.  For me, the first 36 hours suck like a Dane getting the marrow out of a turkey neck; I'm pretty much medicated/drunk the whole time clutching my heating pad and watching bad t.v., but you're not going to find me yelling at random dudes on the street, "You fucking fuckers have no fucking clue what the fuck I'm going through here!!"  It is what it is.)

Rissa's new to the game, I therefore take a patience-filled breath before I ask, "Are you cramping?"  Maybe she's in true discomfort.  I ready my bosom for a commiserative hug.

"No... but the universe is mean!!  We shouldn't HAVE to bleed."

Well I can't really fault that sentiment.  "How about this?  How about you become a scientist and you can figure out a way for women not to actually have to bleed, but they can still ovulate and have babies?"

"No, that seems like a lot of work.  Especially if I'm having my period."

Chart Your Cycle - by Chella Quint - awesome zine!!

You make my heart murmur...

This picture will make more sense at the end of the post

So at dinner last week we were talking about irregular heartbeats.  You know... for fun...

"You used to have a heart murmur," I tell Rissa.  "When you were a baby."

"What's a heart murmur?"

"It's like an extra heart beat on top of your regular heartbeat... ish."

"COOL!  But I don't have it anymore?"

"I don't think so, or at least it  hasn't been mentioned since we had to take you to the special doctor when you were a baby."

She pouts.   Then a thought passes over her face.  "You know what would be the absolute BEST?!?"

David and I look at her expectantly.

"It would be awesome if I went to the doctor and he listened to my heart and it went like this:

Bomp-ba-da-da-da-domp, ba-da-da-da-da-domp, ba-da-da-DOMP-DOMP...  
(she uses her hands to drum the table)  

And then... on top of that have this sound:

BOM-BOM-BA-DA-DOM-DOM-BA-DA-DOM-DOM-BA-DA-DOM!!!" 
(She is now singing above the percussive part with gusto)

David and I share a look.

"Is that Pirates of the Caribbean?"

"IT IS!!!!  Wouldn't that be AWESOME?!?"

See?  First picture makes sense now, doesn't it?

COLD AVENGER strikes again!

So remember the Darth Vader mask that David got me - to help with my winter angina?

We have gone for several walks where I put the sucker on - much to David's amusement and the perplexity of onlookers.

"They are all staring at me!!"

"That's because they want your autograph."

"Because why?"

"Because they think you are Bane from the Batman movies."

"Har-dee-freaking-har!"

I am a dufus in this mask.  I mean, more so than usual, even.  Except now I can't ever go into a bank without the security guards wrestling me to the floor.

But worse than ALL of that?  I now have all this dry scaly skin around my mouth from all the recycled sweaty air that I keep circulating.  I have to lube my face when I wear the mask!!!   I have to put vaseline all over my mouthal region when I wear this!  Fine when I'm wearing it and don't plan on having to take it off to talk to anyone... but if I run into someone I know, or I'm running errands, I have to take it off and I  look like I have taken a glazed donut and rubbed it all over my lower face.  Basically, I look like a tall toddler with a vicious head cold.

I'm thinking I can live with the chest pain.

Sex Show vs Home Show

David recently treated me to a romantic weekend away in the big city.  He planned it all. We stayed in a hotel.  We had fancy dinners.  He even packed for me.  He organized (ahem) activities.  And by activities I mean... SEX... and lots of it, without your child's ears in close proximity.  In fact, having sex in a hotel, basically encourages you to be as loud as possible while in the throes of passion.  If you don't have the management knocking at your door at 3:00 a.m. after noise complaints, you're not taking full advantage of your 'activity' time.

The next morning we went to a diner and enjoyed the best of greasy breakfasts.  David gave me a choice of afternoon non-sexual activities before our  fancy schmancy dinner out.  The Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex Show OR The Home Show.  Tough choice, right?  I had never been to either which is bizarre given that SEX and HOUSES are two of my most favourite things.  What to do, what to do? 

Sex Show - lots of interesting toys and seminars vs  Home Show - lots of interesting tools and seminars...  So... pretty much even.

Sex Show - interesting people, possibly in leather, maybe carrying whips vs  Home Show - interesting people, possibly in overalls, maybe carrying leather tool belts...  Sex Show pulled out in the lead there.

Thing was?  We'd recently been to a well-stocked  sex shop where the sales people were incredibly helpful - we'd actually just 'stocked up' as it were.  And frankly?  There's only so much room in my bedside table for further activity accoutrements.  And the Home Show?  Price tags on items available there can launch you into the thousands of dollars realm without breaking a sweat.  It was a conundrum.  I was vacillating.

"Sex Show... Home Show....  Home Show... Sex Show."

David was scanning the list of weekend TO-DOs in the city.  "Hmmmm.... the Royal Winter Fair is on too..."

"It is?!?  Really?!?  With live animals?  And butter sculptures!?!"

"...Yes...."  His glance in my direction - laden with disbelief.

"There!  I want to go there!"

Yep.  That's what we did.  I saw the butter sculptures and I got to feed the llamas...

I was a little disappointed that this sculpture was not the size of a house

Llamas are ALWAYS worth seeing.  ALWAYS.

I pet sheep and felt alpaca wool...  I watched rabbit jumping and calf showings...  I also saw lots of leather and riding crops for the horsey set - making me think that perhaps the Sex Show and the Royal Winter Fair have way more in common than one might think and if they combined those shows, you could really do the two birds one stone thing.

p.s.
On my way to the Royal Winter Fair I got to feed squirrels in the park!!  One of the best activities EVER. 

After I gave the squirrel a nut he took it
up to the tree and ate it upside down like this

"I'm BATSQUIRREL!"

Honestly, the $3.95 worth of nuts that I fed to the squirrels could have probably kept me happy all day.  David had to drag me away to get me to the Royal Winter Fair.  We totally could have saved all that admission money on the Royal Winter Fair and spent the day outside in the fresh air...  Watching the coolest squirrel ever.

Little Granny Grey Bush

Yep... 'for the hair down there'

 WARNING: This post contains too much information

Today, I found it.  A grey hair.  In the bush.  Does the phrase "all downhill from here" strike any chords?  I mean, sure, I've had grey hair on my head for 5 years or so, but my haphazard dye job every 6 weeks usually takes care of those.  I even have a few of those pesky grey peri-menopause neck hairs, the ones that can drive you to distraction when you're trying to pry them out of your carotid artery...

But down there...?  DOWN THERE?!?  I don't think a gal can bounce back from that.  I am now officially old.  It's so disheartening.  I'd pluck it, but I tried that with the ones on my head and that just lead to lots and lots and lots of wee little pokey-outey hairs sprouting at the part in my scalp and in my salt-n-pepa temples.  Bush hair is already fiercely rough and crinkly without adding pokey-outey to the mix.  Nope, the little buggers are here to stay.

Maybe, just maybe if I went grey down there in a classy way...  You know, say if my bush were comparable to what I imagine the Dames Helen Mirren and Judy Dench might sport ... all posh and delicately coiffed, lusted after by those who appreciate women of a certain age.

I just didn't reckon that I'd be a woman of a certain age at 44...

NOT A PROPER CALENDAR!!

Calendars. My requirements:  it must be large, clever, colourful, stylish...  The free one from the local real estate office (while offering a plethora of picturesque homes) just isn't going to cut it hanging on my kitchen wall.  Chagall, Vintage Vogue, Edward Gorey... now THOSE are calendars.  

I found one on sale at Chapters after New Years that would serve my purpose - interesting B&W shots of Paris from the turn of the century to the 70s. Done.  And it wasn't $20.

Then, I got it home.

Turns out this calendar starts its week on Monday.  Okay, what the fuck?  NO.  Unacceptable.  When you look at a regular calendar, you know which box is which.  I can tell you that Thursday is THIS box, just by looking at it.  But on a calendar where they have decided that the week begins on Monday - I'm screwed.

I'm sorry we missed your wedding, you see we thought Saturday was Sunday.

Dentist on Wednesday?  Nope, sorry you must mean Tuesday.

No, I didn't start my period on MONDAY!!!  I started it on SUNDAY - but if I put it where Sunday is now, I'll think I started on SATURDAY!!! I need to circle the right freaking START day you calendar-fucking fuckers!!!  (Apologies.  It's day 2.)

Is this a generational thing? A hipster thing?  Should I be wearing enormous black-rimmed glasses with skinny jeans to decipher this?

There is a case to be made that the work week starts on Monday and then you get to the weekend and the partying begins and all is well in the world. It's a great THEORY.  My brain just can't get its synapses around that concept when I LOOK at a freaking calendar!!  I need to do be able to extrapolate immediately, I can't count back one - I've got enough shit to shovel on a weekly basis without second guessing if I'm in the right place at the right time. 

The calendar search begins once more...

Magical Meerkat

This is a MAGICAL picture. It is a MAGICAL MEERKAT. I have dubbed it thus. You do NOT have to comment, like or share with any number of people to enjoy good luck or suffer bad luck. Why?? Because it is JUST a freaking picture of a meerkat! Have people lost their freaking minds?!?

And while we're at it, how about this?  The next time you see a guilt-ridden chain of anything (picture, quotation, "let's see how many people really pay attention" posts)...   How about you edit the wording to eliminate any sort of indentured reciprocity?  Then, by all means, share to your heart's content.  If people want to do the same, fan-freaking-tastic!  And if they don't - it doesn't fucking matter! 

Cliff-hangers and 12 year olds...

"NO!!! NO!!! Where's the remote?!?  Where is the next episode?  What is going to happen?!?  NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"  (collapse, collapse, collapse...) "Oh WAILEY, WAILEY, WAILEY!"

We were watching the first (and sadly, only) season of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.  Around episode 19 or so they got all cliff-hangery.  I'm pretty sure that's when Rissa started to throw her apoplectic fit.

"We have to watch the next three episodes RIGHT NOW!!!"

"It's bedtime!"

"But what's going to HAPPEN?!?"

"You'll have to wait and see."

"WAIT AND SEE?!?"

"Yes.  Like in olden times, you know... before evolution.  The way we use to watch tv before PVRs and Netflix and DVD Box sets."

"We're DINOSAURS!!"

"Yes.  And I call velociraptor."

And that's when the 2 year old monkey copped a feel...

Rissa had two big firsts over the weekend.  She was french kissed AND felt up.  By a two year old.  In a monkey suit.  The kid got to 2nd base under the guise of a 'tickle fight.' The kissing?  Some good old toddler 'affection.' 

Afterwards we took Rissa out to dinner.  You celebrate milestones when you can, right?   Recent victims of a toddler induced virus, and having just spent several hours in a house with three children under the age of three, David and I weren't taking any chances.  We pulled out the hand sanitizer, slathered our entire bodies in blue sparkly "Dancing Waters" and then rinsed our mouths out with a couple of good long sparkly swigs just for good measure. 

I offered Rissa the sanitizer, but she declined.  "I was french kissed twice by a two year old - I don't think the hand sanitizer is going to help me.  I should just lick the table now."

Seconds after the 'incident.'

You pluck mine, I'll pluck yours...

From Knitting Ole Bag on Etsy

I would like to enter into a pact with all my female friends.  A facial hair pact.

This is my vow to you:  If you suddenly sprout a thick moustache, I will tell you.  If you have a neck full of hairs that are visible-only-in-natural-light, I will tell you.  If you have a fine, blonde hair on your cheek that is a full three inches long and can be braided into the hair on your head, I will tell you.  If your mole has sprouted a hag's hair, I will tell you.  If your eyebrows go Frida Kahlo, I will tell you.   All I ask is that you do the same for me.

We're in this together.  This is more important than letting a gal know that she has spinach in her teeth or that her zipper is down.  Please let us age gracefully together without morphing into elderly Italian women who frighten small children with their hunches and facial hair.

You did WHAT to your hooha?!?

		WARNING: ADULT CONTENT Cutie Pie Wax Bar - Vancouver's Waxing Destination  vajazzle Pronunciation: /vəˈdʒaz(ə)l/ –vajazzle, v.: adorn the pubic area (of a woman) with crystals, glitter, or other decoration.  Okay, have I been living under a rock?  How did I not know about this?  My friend Narda read it in a pulp fiction book and told me to Google it.  So I did.  And it's real.  It started in the UK.  Great.  We now have Bridget Jones AND vajazzling.  Seriously? What the what??  Okay first off - the whole Brazilian thing on its own?  I, like other married-for-more-than-5-years women, have done it as a surprise for the spouse.  I'm here to tell you... Ewwwwwwwww.  Your hooha winds up looking like an 11 year old girl's.  There is supposed to be hair down there.  I'm not talking like needing a weed wacker hair, but at least so you look like you've exited adolescence.   Plus, I don't know about other gals, but when I briefly went bare down there?  There was not nearly enough friction, if you know what I'm saying.  Texture was all wrong and a stiff breeze could get me all het up.  The distraction factor was at 11.   In 2010, girls began 'pimping their ride' as it were. Adding Swarovski crystals to their lady bits.  Sweet Merciful Eastern Block Aesthetician!  Wouldn't that CHAFE?  Wouldn't it give a penis road rash?    You know how the idea of having sex on a beach seems like a charming thought at the time... but when you actually have sex on the beach you end up with sand in your hooha?  Just imagine trying to dig Swarovski crystals out of there! For anyone engaging in downtown dining - razor burn would be a certainty;  errant crystals stuck underneath one's uvula, more than a probability.   Pluses?  I can see two.  If you are prone to shaving/waxing bumps, those little crystals are great at masking those areas with a curtain of bling.  But unlike Oz's curtain, gals want you to pay attention to it.   AND say you had two girls - both vajazzled - in the midst of intimacy, every pelvis to pelvis bump or grind could wind up being a potential energy source - imagine the sparks - if we could just harness that power!!  What's the phrase?  Two birds one stone?  Except this is two bushes with MANY stones.   If we charged to view that - financial crises would be averted!!  Here's an article from Daily Mail discussing Emergency room visits since the trend hit groins in 2010.  I will leave you with this elaborate holiday vajazzle courtesy of nkd () the waxing specialists with salons in Glasgow and Nottingham - now that is some holiday sparkle!  The Christmas Topiary

Stop me before I eat again...

It's like we never learn.  With food, that is.  With alcohol, I am smart enough to know when to stop.  I haven't been DRUNK-drunk in at least 10 years.  (Tipsy - hell yeah!  Pleasantly buzzed - most definitely!  I'm not a freaking saint!)  I have been hungover twice in my life - no wait - three times - I forgot that time I got into a box of white wine before the Hawaiian Hula dance in Grade 9 - for anyone under the age of 18 - DON'T do that!  It was NOT pretty.  Wiping vomit from your mouth with your plastic grass skirt can never be pulled off as 'cool.'

Most people learn, thank GOD,  from those sorts of hangovers.  One near-death experience when you're 24, with 12 shots of tequila can can put you off booze for a LONG time.  It's a miracle that I didn't die from alcohol poisoning that night - my Scandinavian heritage saved my life there.  By no means am I championing being able to drink your own body weight in liquor - I was stupid - I killed many brain cells, that night in particular.  I am proud of not going too far - NOW - unlike some other career partiers out there.  The dudes who are 45, and sound like Beavis or Butthead:

"Man, I was so fucking tanked last night!!  I think I made it with a goat!"

So here is where I revel in my maturity at having not gotten drunk last night.  And Nana-nana boo-boo to all you poor fuckers who haven't evolved from freaking high school!  Grow the fuck up!  Don't be a fucking moron!  Your body can't take it any more and your spouse is thinking of leaving you.

Me?  I do have a killer holiday food hangover because I am apparently still stupid enough to do that.   What is the matter with me? I bet people in 3rd World countries don't pull this kind of shit.

This is what I ate yesterday:

• two fried eggs (fried in delicious bacon grease) on rice toast

• glass of apple cider

• 7 almonds with a glass of soy milk (Still full from the greasy breakfast, mind fully functioning)

• Eggnog with a tall shot of rum with a butter tart (It was, after all, New Year's Eve day - I could stand a little indulging...)

• Tostadas (spicy ground meat with re-fried beans, guacamole, peppers, cheese, caramelized onions and salsa) with a bad glass of red wine.  (No dessert - I was being sensible)
• Rusty Nail with 1/2 a dark chocolate orange while we watched It's a Wonderful Life  (Synapses not firing as best they should)
  
  Then it all goes to hell as we hunkered down to watch our traditional New Year's  movie, Dodgeball...
• A tray of salty rice crackers with home made chip dip (Greek yogurt with honey (we had no sour cream) + vegetable seasoning mix - the dip was NOT good, and yes, I ate it all)
• A bowl of Party mix - concentrating on all the ringy things that might have been made with corn, plus the cheesies, corn chips and Doritos - I avoided the pretzels, because they are bad for me
• Sour rings of fruity-sugary sweetness - to which I originally said, "No, I couldn't possibly, I don't like them..." before ingesting handfuls - I could actually feel my brain start to slow down with each one
• Buttered popcorn - dragging my fingertips along the butter & salt-soaked bottom of the bowl so that I could lick them surreptitiously while no one was looking
• Approx 6 glasses of sparkling Italian soda/ fruit juice mix - on account of the fact that I was thirsty from all the salt I had eaten

I'm not saying that I was in a sugar coma after that, but it was hard to stay awake those last 18 minutes while we endured crap commentary as we waited for the ball to drop in Times Square.   David and I then stumbled upstairs.  I lay in bed, my stomach roiling, before I staggered to the bathroom and popped the rest of the antacids - which I have been doing pretty much every night since Christmas Eve.

"Hi, my name is Heather.  I am a holiday food addict and I do not know my limits."

This morning - I think I will have a single piece of rice with a glass of water.  Happy New Year folks!!

Singing loud for all to hear...

Strict instructions had been given.  We would not start Christmas until 7:00 a.m.  Meaningful parent eyes glared to impart the importance of the rising time.  David and I were toasty warm in our bed.  At 7:03,  a Christmas Cheer rendition of Deck the Halls was bellowed from the living room.  It was not Rissa.  Rissa was still asleep.  It was my Mom.

"HURRY UP!  YOU ARE MISSING CHRISTMAS!!!"

On the drive down for Christmas, Dad reported she bounced up and down and giggled for the last 30 minutes of the drive. Because why?  Because when it comes to family and the holidays, my Mom is a 4 year old.  She gets THAT excited.  She hugs and chortles and kisses and snuggles.  She holds you as though she never wants to let go.  She is infectiously joyous.  Her illness is the best kind of bug to come down with over the holidays.

As we co-cooperatively prep our Danish feast on Christmas Eve, in the midst of chortle and singing along with Elvis's Christmas album, Mom notices that her slip is showing.

"Uh-oh," she says.  "It's snowing down south."

"Pardon?"

"That's what we always said in high school if your slip showed."

What's great about Mom is that she is kind-hearted, loud and just the right amount of goofy.  She is a person who uses phrases from Simcoe County in the 1960s, not with irony, but as a way to keep traditions alive.  A small town girl, born and bred - she has travelled the world, viewing it with open-minded and accepting eyes, and she chose to return to wallow in small town once more.  She says things like "Look on the bright side,"  and "Every cloud has a silver lining," and MEANS them.  She chooses to embrace the happy.

When David wrapped  Rissa's ridiculous squishy, illuminated bear on Christmas Eve, my Mom almost peed her pants she giggled so madly.  

"Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!  It's so silly!  SO silly!!!! I need one!  I NEED one!!"

"Do NOT wake Rissa up!!"

(stifled giggles as she whacks it against the arm of the sofa...)  "It's just so silly!   hee-hee-hee-hee-hee!!!" she now whispers, holding a finger to her lips - showing just how quiet she is being.

While we played Monopoly before bed, she knocked over a wine glass ... "It's okay!   No drops went on the carpet because they are ALL... in my... TUMMY!"  (pat, pat, pat - indicating safe placement of wine)

I love my parents.  Not only do I choose to spend time with them - I revel in that time.   I revel in all my Dad's bad puns and my Mom's fist-pumping after she's won a game of Perquacky.  I'm 44 years old - snuggling with my Mom on the couch remains a perk.  She still kisses me on the forehead the way I kiss Rissa.  I see more and more of myself in her cackle and crazy.

We had them for all of 47 hours over the holidays.  Then it was time to go, we were lucky that they weren't waiting at the door on Boxing Day when we got up that morning.  If my Dad doesn't have tasks, he might implode.  We wave from the door as they honk the car horn.  My Mom blows wild kisses from her car window.

"Boy it's a good thing you like my Mom," I say to David.

"I agree."

"'Cause you know that I am going to turn into her."

"I'm down with that."

Longing for the Longshot

So... Les Miserables... the movie...

Before I get into my rant... It IS a good, film.  It's just not as good as it should have been.  (But if you haven't seen the stage play, and you love a good tragedy, you'll love it.)  The acting all around was stellar - I cannot fault the cast on that account.  There were standouts for me.  Anne Hathaway's performance as Fantine made me weep.  Eddie Redmayne's voice and screen presence was fantastic as Marius, and the cameo by Colm Wilkinson?  Delicious!   I gotta say that Amanda Seyfried's Cosette had a beautiful controlled soprano that was not at all grating and Samantha Banks' portrayal of Eponine was exactly what it needed to be.  The trio between Cosette, Marius and Eponine was lovely.

That said...

Please Sir, may I request fewer close-ups?  Too many faces!  There were far too many desperate, crying, puss-filled faces.  I'm praying that there are 6-degrees-of-separation between Tom Hooper and me so that I can get him to re-edit the film with WAY more medium and long shots in it? Please? I'm sure that the set decoration and design for the film was splendid - if only the audience could ever see it.

Rissa pointed out as we left, all depressed and ready to slit our own throats from the pathos, "Well Mummy, it is called The Miserables."  And it was - oh God was it!!  Tragic and dark, near plodding in sections, and just bone-crunchingly SAD.

I've seen the stage version three times.  Not once did I come out of it depressed.  There's something about good live theatre that reaches across the divide and unites an audience.  It is uplifting, driving you to your feet in a truly organic standing ovation.  The film had very little of that.  And why?  Because the vocals, while good (some great - see first paragraph), they were too intimate and lacked the grandeur that the music requires to move the audience.  Yes, Hugh Jackman can sing.  He gave a good vocal performance for the most part, but Bring Him Home was not his best song. He just did not have the vocal control and sweetness to his voice to make that song into what should be one of the most affecting moments in the show.    Eddie Redmayne gave that performance in Empty Chairs at Empty Tables.   Russell Crowe can sing (anyone who says that he tanked vocally is full of crap - if you want to see someone tank vocally watch Pierce Brosnan in Mamma Mia), but he just doesn't quite have the musical theatre chops to carry Javert's numbers.

In a film version that's 2 1/2 hours long, steeped in tragedy and angst, you really need the comic relief.  REALLY A LOT.  That's why those comic scenes are written into the original musical.  The Thenardier bits just weren't nearly funny nor grand enough to allow the audience that moment to laugh, breathe and prepare for the rest of the pathos.  This again comes back to the TOO MANY CLOSE-UPS.  Onstage the comic scenes rollick, but the film lacked the scope of the stage-picture and the scene suffered as a result.  By and large the trios, quartets, quintets and chorus numbers just didn't cut it because they were overly edited.   You need to SEE Eponine as she watches Marius sing with Cosette - you need the juxtaposition of her WITH them - not a close-up of her in angst.  There was only the smallest of edits that allowed that to happen on film.  On stage, even as people stand at different blocked points representing different locales, they still inhabit the same space for the audience and they sing WITH each other.   Those same scenes on film minimizes the stage picture and take away the magic of the music.

Most accurate and satisfying transfer of a chorus number from stage to film?  The final reprise of Do You Hear the People Sing.   It finally managed to capture the feeling of a true chorus number, and though it had close-ups, it was mostly long and medium shots.

I would watch certain parts of the film over and over again.  Those moments are brilliant.  Other parts?  Not so much.  Before seeing the film, I assured a friend that I would watch it with her again, now I'm not so sure - with its grime and its pacing and its weeping it was all too.... Miserable.

Waking to Barney Stinson

About a month ago, David got this fancy-schmancy light that gradually becomes brighter and brighter to simulate a sunrise in our bedroom. I'm not making this shit up.  We live in Canada - it is now winter - coming out of hibernation sucks at the best of times.  This light takes about half an hour to gently accustom its owners to the morning before having the most soothing of Asian plink-plonking pseudo bells as an alarm.  I will freely admit that it is a more civilized way to greet the world.  You can snuggle in the blankets and reflect as you snooze (David ALWAYS hits the snooze button at least once), basking in that gentle nudge into wakefulness.

At least that's the plan until Rissa's alarm goes off about 5 minutes later, at full volume. She recently made a new CD with all her favourite ITunes songs. This morning it was Barney Stinson singing Nothing Suits Me Like a Suit at full volume.

And though I revel in my daughter's delicious musical weirdness, I know that I will have that mind-worm of a song in my head all frickin' day now.  Bright side: it could have been more jarring, could have been American Idiot.

Rissa's Wake Up Mix

American Idiot

Nothing Suits Me Like a Suit

Rehab

Taico drum number from Cirque du Soleil's Dralion

I'm Yours

Summer of '69 

Superstar - from the Australian cast recording of JC Superstar

The Flesh Failures from HAIR

and...

Walkin' on Sunshine 

Where are the REAL Christmas Cards?

Okay, seriously?!?  How hard can it be to find a heart-felt Christmas card for your Mom that is not overly schmaltzy, poorly rhymed or full of guilt-driven sentiment?  SERIOUSLY?!?

I went to two stores looking for the right card for my Mom.  Found perfect cards for David, Rissa, even my Dad, but for my Mom?  Nothing, nada, zip!  There were a couple of cards that would have done alright, but they were like $9.95 and $11.00!!!  ELEVEN FREAKING DOLLARS?!?  For a card?  Since I had my first rant last May on this subject, Mother's Day without the Crap,  prices have sky-rocketed.

First off, why are most of the cards addressed to: A Wonderful Mother, The Best Mother, A Special Mother...  Who on this planet, not raised by nannies, calls their Mom, MOTHER?!?  I don't even call my Mom, 'Mom,' I call her 'Mare' - after the French, Mère, but horsier, and because I like bad puns.   Or 'Mor' - the Danish word for Mom.

There were so many cards that started with this sort of text:

"Mother, during this season, you will never know how much you truly mean..."  
Yes she will.  And you know when?  When she finishes reading the card.  Because you are telling her right now with this stupid card how much she means to you.

"Mother you've always been there for me at Christmas..." 
Lie.  No mother has ALWAYS been there for her kid.  Except maybe Mildred Pierce.  There are times when kids are shits and have made dumb-ass decisions and they need to be told "You're on your own on this one sweetie... I am not bailing you out of jail tonight." 

"Mother, I know that I don't say 'I love you' a lot, but because it's Christmas..." 
Why not?  Why aren't you telling your mother that you love her a lot?  Are you a bitch and you're just trying to make up for your bad behaviour and get into her will with a crappy card?  OR... is she the bitch, in which case, why are you even giving her a card?  Stop this toxic Catch-22 relationship and spend time with your friends who are nicer people. 

So for Mare this year, she's getting a handmade card with a hand-written sentiment which might be as simple as writing out "I love you,"  or "I'm so glad that we get along."  I don't want to give her a crap card that other people wrote that sort of fits the circumstances.  I want her to know that I'm proud that she stands up for the under-dog, happy that we still get into giggle fits, and when she does her Arsenio Hall fist pump and sings "I am the Champion" after she beats me at Perquacky, she is a goddess.  Where's the card that says that?

Christmas 1969, Summerside, PEI

Bottom of a Birdcage Mouth

So why is it that when you're sick, your mouth feels like the bottom of a birdcage?  What is that?  It's like the virus crawls up onto your tongue when you sleep, lies there overnight all cozy and pasty white under you uvula, clutching your tonsils and adenoids as fleshy stuffed toys for comfort.  It spreads out across your tongue and glories in its stench.  My cat padded up to me in bed this morning.  I said "Hello," and she looked offended.  And this is a cat who cleans her own ass - badly.

Bright side - Although I am muzzy headed, I have this week to get better before I have actual things that I have to leave the house for.  Annnnnnd... that sentence made next to no sense because apparently my brain, in addition to my other organs has been affected by whatever that virus ridden toddler slipped me.

It's my own fault.  I mean, toddler fingers are yummy and sweet and you usually get a laugh when you suck on them.  But I knew.  I KNEW as soon as those fingers went into my mouth that I should have rinsed with scotch right away.  But now it's too late, because everything that kid touched (floors, walls, his nose, other people's noses/mouths) that day is now making its way through my system, one exhausted, achy muscle group at a time.

OY.

I have family members who were down and out for the count over Christmas - actually unable to get off the sofa - quarantined, able to interact only with other infected members of the family.  I wanted to go round and wrap them all in Christmas garlands and twinkle lights so that their barfy, fever of 104, nearly comatose holiday was a bit more festive - except I didn't want to touch them or breathe in their air.  I'm kind-hearted and all, but not after I've already suffered from my own week of the flu.

Jack Lemmon with Maracas

Jack Lemmon with maracas Some Like It Hot 1959
Screenplay Wilder & Diamond after a story by Lomax and Thereon

Last night we shared Some Like it Hot with Rissa for the first time.  As soon as she saw the B&W hit the screen - she rolled her eyes.

"Is the whole movie like this?"

"Yes.  Give it a chance."

Eye roll with accompanying sigh - subtext: "Why, oh why, do my parents keep showing me stuff that just isn't cool?"

She yawns her way through the first act, but then we're in to Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis in drag - and this line from Jack Lemmon's Jerry as he watches Marilyn Monroe:

"Will you look at that! Look how she moves! It's like Jell-O on springs. Must have some sort of built-in motor or something. I tell you, it's a whole different sex."

And that gave us our first of many true snorts of laughter from our oh-so-disaffected 12 year old.  Lemmon is irresisible as Daphne - watching him do the tango and then relive his romantic night with accompanying maracas is priceless.   David and I barked laughter over Wilder and Diamond's dialogue - yes some is a little dated (remember this was 1959, and same-sex marriage was NOWHERE on the radar), but when Daphne/Jerry is trying to explain Josephine/Joe about her/his great night, Lemmon is PERFECTION!!

Jerry: Have I got things to tell you!

Joe: What happened?

Jerry: I'm engaged.

Joe: Congratulations. Who's the lucky girl?

Jerry: I am!

Joe: WHAT?!

Jerry: Osgood proposed to me! We're planning a June wedding.

Joe: What are you talking about? You can't marry Osgood.

Jerry: Why, you think he's too old for me?

Joe: Jerry, you can't be serious.

Jerry: Why not? He keeps marrying girls all the time.

Joe: But, you're not a girl! You're a guy, and, why would a guy wanna marry a guy?

Jerry: For security! Look, I know there's a problem, Joe.

Joe: I'll say there is.

Jerry: His mother - we need her approval, but I'm not worried because I don't smoke.

Joe: Jerry. There's another problem, like what are you gonna do on your honeymoon?

Jerry: We've been discussing that. He wants to go to the Riviera but I'm kinda leaning toward Niagra Falls.

Joe: My God.

Jerry: I don't expect it to last Joe. I'll tell him when the time's right.

Joe: Like when?

Jerry: Like right after the ceremony. Then we get a quick annulment, he makes a nice little settlement on me and I keep getting those alimony checks every month.

Joe: Jerry listen to me there are laws, conventions. It's just not been done.

Jerry: Joe this may be my last chance to marry a millionaire.

Joe: Oh, Jerry — Jerry, will you take my advice? Forget about the whole thing, will ya? Just keep telling yourself: you're a boy, you're a boy.

Jerry: I'm a boy.

Joe: That's the boy.

Jerry: I'm a boy. I'm a boy. I wish I were dead. I'm a boy. Boy, oh boy, am I a boy. Now, what am I gonna do about my engagement present?

Joe: What engagement present?

Jerry: Osgood gave me a bracelet.

Joe: [examining it] Hey, these are real diamonds!

Jerry: Of course they're real! What do you think? My fiance is a bum?

Rumour has it that the maracas were added after a test screening because the audience was laughing so hard the rest of the dialogue was getting lost. 

The best part?  At bedtime Rissa said to David "I could see why you'd want to show me that.  It was awesome."