Stoned dudes in Sears

I was recently in Sears buying underwear for Rissa.  I wasn't really 'put together,' hadn't dressed up, probably had no makeup on.  It was an emergency underwear trip - she needed them and she needed them fast.

I was lined up, ready to pay with my 6 pairs of xs panties, when the guy in front of me in line, a fairly well-dressed guy in his early 20s, stood staring at me.  He was transfixed.

"Your eyes are soooooooo blue.... They are incredible.  Joe... Joe... LOOK at her eyes - aren't they the most beautiful eyes you've ever seen?"  His buddy waiting at the end of the cash looked at me and began to stare as well.

"Wow.  They are amazing."

I was beginning to blush - I mean sure, my eyes are fairly blue and occasionally, if I've eaten too much wasabi, they'll even go turquoise, but really, this was more than I've ever gotten from strange young men in a check-out line.  They were totally hitting on me.  I felt good.  I felt like I was having a MILF moment, it was a great day...  until I realized these two young men were most assuredly stoned.

"Joe, her eyes.... her eyes...  Miss..."

And he had just called me "Miss." Bless his little heart.

They were completely stoned and the objects of their collective stoneated fixation were my eyes.  I moved my head from side to side - their gaze followed - apparently I was a living, breathing, blue-eyed tennis match.  I traded a look with the cashier.  She raised her eyebrows.

"Wow," said the first dude.  "What are you doing here?"

"I'm buying underwear."

They both blushed.  I don't know what they were thinking before, but I had a sneaking suspicion that it now involved my nether regions.

"For my daughter.  I'm buying underwear for my daughter."

They looked so confused.  I wanted to pat them on their little heads and tell them it was going to be alright.

As they left, these stoned dudes kept looking back.  I smiled and waved.  They shyly waved back.  It's the little things in life that can make a gal's day brighter.

i DESPISE summer!

WARNING: There is adult language in this post

 

Just shoot me now.  Please.

I know, I know... I know that I'm not supposed to.  After a long winter and meteorologically weird spring, I know that I'm supposed to be SO happy that heat has come to Canada... but for me, summer in Southern Ontario sucks the BIG ONE, BIG TIME.  Summer sucks King Kong's massive dick and the Blob's sweaty balls.  It sucks Godzilla's gigantic gonads and Pulgasari's prodigious prick.  It sucks Crocosaurus's collasal chubby!  It sucks  Mothra's massive meat stick!  Summer SUCKS!!!

Honestly, I would rather have -45 °C with the windchill than a humidex of over 27 °C. You know why?  Because you can dress for the cold.  You cannot dress for the heat.  Once you're naked, short of flaying the skin from your body, you can't get any more naked.  How many times must I powder my inner thighs so that they don't stick together?!?  HOW MANY?!?  'Cause I am not, nor have I ever been a gal who has a 'thigh gap.'  And who are these sick pukes who are hyping the 'thigh gap' as something to achieve?  I want to find those people and drown them in a pool of cellulite.

I have heat rash on top of my heat rash.  You cannot feel sexy when you have heat rash on your ass.  David will kiss me before bed, trying to get my motor running...  I look at him like he has suggested that we roll in barbed wire and then have a salt water bath.

I start sweating IMMEDIATELY after getting out of the shower.  I have to dry off AFTER drying off... Several times.  Humidity is an oppressive bitch!

I have fantasies about snowstorms or a cold snap in the fall - that is what I want.  It has only been 3 days of hot so far this summer.  I'm doomed.  No wait!  If I hide in the basement and we use only the BBQ to cook, and I exist on Diazepam I might be able to survive.  I might make it through to September.  Or.... OR... I could just spend the entire summer at the movies.  Now there's a way to problem solve.  I wonder if I could sneak in a sleeping bag.  Wish me luck.

Pocket-Sized Bombshell

My friend is a bombshell.  When I'm with her, it's like hanging out with Marilyn Monroe.   A shorter, more shapely Marilyn Monroe.  She is the flame to every male moth within her orbit.  Has been ever since high school.  Most definitely she is gorgeous, that's part of it, but she has something MORE.  Something intangible.  I don't know if it is her pheromones or her complete disdain for the males of our species in general, but every time I'm with her I feel I need to document the experience for a psychology journal.  It's something to see.

Marilyn Monroe photographed by Milton Greene

 Picture, if you will... We sit at a table, minding our own business.  Almost immediately, any straight male within arms' length puts his shoulders back, sits up straighter, sucks in his gut.  They start talking a little louder so that they can maybe get her attention.  Then other dudes at tables a little bit further away and those sitting at the bar fall into her wake.   I'm not saying that she's a landlocked Charybdis, but it is kind of like watching a whirlpool or black hole suck things into it.  And she's just sitting there...  Not noticing the men salivating at her.

Honestly? I think that it really is because she could care less.  She has no interest in those guys and that, well that added to her ridiculous sexpot, bombshell beauty is what does it.  I could be naked doing the Charleston and I swear to God not one man would notice me. And I'm a redhead with D-cups.  She could totally do mass-hypnosis with this power.  If I could figure out a way we could make money off this super power - I could be her agent and we'd be rich!  Until then, I will just watch and document - it must be worthy of a phenomenon being named after it at the very least.

This is your "Go-To"?

WARNING - This post is about sex. 

We took a workshop at an 'adult' club in 'sensual sensory deprivation.'  Welcome to marriage after the first decade.  When David mentioned it, I immediately imagined a water tank in the dark in complete silence, basically like being trapped alive in a box, pretty much my ultimate nightmare, but with the added horrifying element of being in the water.  But I was willing to give it a whirl.  What the hell, right?

It turns out 'sensual sensory deprivation?' Was blindfolding.  Okay, so David and I have been married for almost 15 years.  I'm pretty sure that we tried blindfolding each other the 3rd weekend we spent together.  And yet, when the instructor, Mistress... Suitably Clever/Slightly Scary name asked who had experimented with blindfolding, in this room of 20 couples,  maybe 4 sets of hands went up.  I was baffled.  I mean really, truth be told, we were at what was pretty much a swingers' club.  Couples were mostly there to hook up with each other.  David and I?  Were there for the workshop.  And to swim naked in a heated pool.  I mean, why not?  We were there already and had 1/2 an hour to kill before the workshop.   Sure, I'd accepted a shot of single malt scotch from another couple, but I was really doing that just being polite.

So when only 4 couples sheepishly admitted to having blindfolded each other - it struck me as odd.  These couples went to a swingers' club to hook up with other couples before they tried blindfolding.  Sex with strangers before blindfolding.  And blindfolding, if we're being honest, is really the most benign of sexual kinks.  I know, because I know stuff.  I have read A LOT...  REALLY. A. LOT.  I knew about stuff long before there were 50 Shades of Grey.  But here I was feeling like part of the most worldly couple in the room because, not only had we done blindfolding, but we'd done sensual massage  (isn't that really just lead up to sex anyway?), and found interesting uses for silk scarves.  I know. I know.  Too much information... but I just thought it was weird.  Don't you think it was weird?  I always figured that marriage was about a couple figuring out together ways to spice things up - you know as a couple.   No third, fourth or fifth parties, no barn animals.   You pick up one of those books that suggests newfangled sexual positions, you blindfold each other, buy some edible underwear and you're good to go.  Right?  Am I too old-fashioned?

My boobs aren't supposed to be there.

So you know when you lie on your back in bed and your boobs nearly rest in your armpits?  What is that?   Remember when you were in your 20s and the girls were pert and perky and in their place?  It's not like they're National Geographic boobs now, but as I approach 45, they do have an udder-like quality to them that they didn't once have.

I mean, sure, David's not complaining, but then dudes don't seem to mind what kind of shape the boobs are in... as long as they're boobs, you know?

When I'm lying in bed, if I tilt to my left a bit, the right one is gorgeous - it faces the ceiling perfectly, but then the left one is actually IN my armpit.  If I move too far to the left, it's like a scene from Titanic where EVERYTHING starts to slide.  Sometimes it's fun just to flop back and forth to see what happens.  If you do it in water, you can almost create your own jacuzzi. Really, this as a perk.  I should market it.

You know what would be even better?  Prehensile breasts.  Breasts that could move on their own!  No woman would need a bra because the breasts would self-adjust to the perfect level!!!  There must be scientists out there working on this!  I'm afraid to google it though - there'd be some crazy-ass shit coming up in the search results.

Touch her and die...

I am now the mother of a teenaged daughter.  How the hell did that happen?  One day she was 3 and now she's 13.  Rissa is now 13.  Except she looks like she's 17.  She draws the male eye.  And not just the eye of her peers, but the eye of dudes who are a good 5-10 years older than her; dudes who excel at leering.

I remember what it was like being a girl of her age, with a cute little figure and watching as the boys ran into things because they were looking at my ass instead of where they were walking.   When it was happening to me - I thought it was hilarious.  "Look at those dumb boys!  That guy ran into a light post!"  Now it's happening to her and it's freaking me out.

As a direct result of my freaking out, I'm starting to freak her out.  But I'm trying to be cool and hip about it.

"We'll have a code," I say.

"What kind of code?"

"Put down the machete."

"Huh?"

" 'Put down the machete' will be code for anything stupid that shouldn't be happening.  Like when a guy tries to touch your boobs, you say 'Put down the machete.' ''

Rissa looks at me like I'm nuts.

"Anything drug-related could be 'Stop smoking the baby.'  Like if some stoned dude offers you and your friends anything to do with drugs, you say... " I pause, eyebrows raised, waiting for her to fill in the blanks.

"Stop smoking the baby?"

"Exactly."

"O.....kay."

"Guy tries to cop a feel?" I quiz.

"Put down the machete."

"You get offered drugs?"

"Stop smoking the baby."

"Perfect!  Plus it just makes you sound crazy, and most folks don't want to mess with crazy people."

Me grabbing the testicles of any dude who tries to feel Rissa up.

I brought this on myself.

WARNING: Female things discussed.

Peter de Seve, Thar She Blows (sketch)

I am in idiot.  Why couldn't I just leave well enough alone?  Sure, there was that pregnancy scare because I hadn't had my period in 3 months, but why couldn't I just embrace the peri-menopause?  Why did I have to seek out the OBGYN who put me on pills to regulate my wonky periods?

"Take one of these pills the 1st to the 15th of the month for the next three months."

"D'uh... Okay Doc." 

I should have just cancelled the appointment.  I mean sure, before the 3 month drought, when the appointment had been set, I was down to a 17 or a 15 or an 18 day cycle, but what if that 3 month drought was leading into actual cessation of bleeding?  Did I just ruin it? 

'Cause two days after I stopped taking the pill...

 THAR SHE BLOWS!!!

The flood had returneth.  I used to think that two days of heavy bleeding with make-you-yodel cramping was bad.  I take it back.  5 days of heavy bleeding with accompanying cramping and blood clots the size of toonies is worse.  My body, was not happy with me.

Plus?!?   UNDER THE CHIN ACNE.  What the hell?  For those three months, my crazy-ass, peri-menopasue acne had abated.  Period comes back and I looked like a small pox victim. And MOODY?!?  Great mother Gaia - the mood swings.  David and Rissa exist in juxtaposed states of placation or self-preservation depending upon what emotion is wending its way through my body.

I now have to maintain strength of resolve on account of the frickin' food cravings.  There was a tray of praline encrusted graham crackers at the office yesterday.  Praline encrusted graham crackers should not be eaten by me.  There was enough gluten and sugar in those tidbits to take down a water buffalo.  After having eaten 4 of those suckers my already tenuous hold on civility was gone.  I felt like shit and I felt guilty for having allowed myself to be seduced by the deadly plate.  I needed to exercise and was a petulant and despondent lump.  I had to walk.  I didn't want to walk.  I wanted to lie in bed and read erotica.  But after dinner, I put one depressed foot in front of the other and I walked.  And  just the way Karen Walrond told me to in her Houston TEDx talk, I looked for the light.   With the sun low in the sky I found myself on the boardwalk, breathing in the wildflowers, crouching down to pet a furry caterpillar and listening to the red-winged blackbirds.  Clichéd, dorky, make-you-feel-good things.  But you know what?  They did.  And by the time I returned home 45 minutes later I was no longer a peevish sheep and I still had enough time to lie in bed under the covers and read erotica.   It was really win-win all around.

Snatched from the jaws of death...

So basically, if you threaten a cat with euthanasia?  They get better.  That's what happened to Steve.  One day at death's door ...  Me checking in on him every two hours overnight as he was sequestered in our main floor bathroom.  Him just lying there - near flat as a pancake and all glassy-eyed.  And I'd basically prepared myself for taking him in the next morning and giving the order.  The "put him out of his misery" order.  Except that the next morning - there he was sitting up and when I called his name, he actually looked at me, all clear-eyed and on the cusp of being alert. 

Apparently, each beast we own gets one funding of extraordinary measures.  We give them that one brush with death.  That near-cross on the River Styx.  It's happened with a bunch of our cats.  Nym - $900 who then managed to live another couple of years.  Bardolph - $1800 - for a month I had to feed that frickin' cat through a tube in his neck because he refused to eat - and then he was all better and lived another 4 years.  So they each get their one episode.  They either bounce back, or they get put down.  We prepare for the worst - know when to cut our losses and they sense it.  They know that if they want to remain on this mortal coil they perk the fuck up and live.

And for that I'm thankful.  Because Steve is the greatest cat.  He is a cat of epic personality and snuggliness.  It would have sucked to put him down.  And now?  After a 1/2 dozen visits and re-checks from our amazing vet team, he lies on the foot of our bed and purrs.  Yesterday, he started playing again - chasing after toys, cavorting under my feet.  He's back.

ps - We are the human parents of a feline rock star.  Every single person working at the vet clinic knows and loves Steve.  "STEVE!"  "Hey buddy!"  "Hiya handsome!"  "How's Mr. Steve?"   Nobody there knows my name, but by God they were pulling for my orange tabby.  My cat.  My goofy and personable cat had everyone in that clinic wrapped around his paw - that positive psychic energy may well be what saved him.

Rissa the Brilliant

I'm okay in the brains dept.  I have my 128 IQ.  Or at least that's what every free online IQ test tells me.  So I'm smart, but not Mensa smart.  David is Mensa smart - plus some.  He's around 162.  But he can't find the ketchup in the fridge, so draw your own conclusions.

Rissa's average math mark this year was 91%.  She kicked math's ass.  I was always an A student in math, but not that kind of A.  I look at this goofy and beautiful girl and she blows my mind.  My egg and David's sperm got busy and made HER.  And I know that every parent thinks that their  child is brilliant, but I actually think that she might be.  Unless the school is lying - but really, why would they do that?  She has an 85 overall average without really applying herself.  Imagine what would happen if she actually thought to study.

So here's to her.  To my beautiful and brilliant daughter.  I could just burst I'm so proud of her.

The sweet smell of gasoline...

Just one whiff of it - always takes me back... Back to 1984.  To being 16.  To spending the summer in Nova Scotia at my grandparents' house.  To falling head over heels in love with a small town mechanic.  Rodney.  (sigh)  He worked at the garage in Bridgetown.  He wore grease-monkey overalls and at the end of the day had to scrub his hands clean from all the motor oil.  He rode a Honda 750 motorcycle.  Late at night, I would lie on my bed listening for that motorcycle. He rode that bike without a helmet, wearing a pair of jeans nothing else.  Just a glimpse of him on the bike made my heart pound.  I was infatuated.  He had green eyes.  GREEN!  He had a rockin' stache (think young Tom Selleck) and drank stubby beer, cause that's how they made them then.  Rodney was 21.

Only now, as the mother of my own teenaged daughter, do I realize why my mother, when she found out about this tryst, freaked the fuck out.  But at the time, I couldn't see what was wrong with the picture.

"MOM!  I am grown up now!  He knows that I am mature."

"He knows that you're built like brick outhouse is what he knows..."

I was so mature, so old-beyond-my-years, so.... infatuated.  God was I dumb.  Sure he liked me.  Oh yeah he did.  Today, my nearly 45 year old breasts, still have a great deal of tone and lift to them - at 16 they would have been spectacular!!  I had a helluva personality, even back then, but a smokin' hot body is like catnip to young men.  I was 16, with a kick-ass auburn perm, blue eyes and braces.  But he really liked me.  He really respected me.

Except, you know what's funny?  I think he kinda did.  'Cause when I was determined to offer myself to Rodney (in the backseat of his Duster - there's class for you), we got to the part where I should  have lost my virginity and I was willing to grit my teeth against the pain... he stopped.  In my extremely limited experience with men I thought that stopping wasn't possible.  I, as many girls my age, thought that once they got to a certain point, men couldn't stop.  Or maybe that's just what young swains tell the girls they're trying to climb on top of.  But here was Rodney - stopping.  Because he discovered I was a virgin.

"We should stop."

"No, no, I'm okay...  I'm okay..."

"We should stop."

And we did.  That night.  I guess when you have a nubile girl desperate to lose her virginity, you can only remain stoic for so long.  I mean, he wasn't a saint.

Creeper!! Or how Rissa is prejudiced against old people.

You know Something's Gotta Give?  The movie with Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson?  We recently watched it with Rissa.  Rissa loves a good romantic comedy.

"EEEEEEEEWWWWW!  He's soooooooo old.  How can he be dating her?"  Early in the film, Jack Nicholson is dating Amanda Peet - who is less than 1/2 his age and plays Diane Keaton's daughter.

Then later... "That's just wrong.  She's too old for him!" At this point in the film, Diane Keaton is dating Keanu Reeves - almost 1/2 her age. 

"Rissa, there'll come a time when age differences like that won't matter."

"No there won't."

She got freaked out by Steve Martin dating Darryl Hannah in Roxanne - his grey hair made him look older - so she's ageist and greyist.  She got freaked out by James Garner dating Sally Field in Murphy's Romance.  Can you imagine if I showed her Funny Face? 

"Rissa I'm 5 years older than Daddy.  I was 28 and he was 23 when we met."

Her eyebrows settle at the bridge of her nose.  "I guess that's not so bad."

"Trust me.  After you're in your 20s, age isn't such a big deal.  I'm not saying that you should be dating someone who's 21 when your 16..."

"Didn't you date someone who was 21 when you were 16?"

"Yes.  But you are going to learn from my mistakes.  And any 21 year old who goes out with my 16 year old daughter?  CREEPER."

Cardiologist convinced it's NOT my heart - YAY?

According to the cardiologist and am in near-perfect heart health.  The chances of me having a heart attack within the next 5 years are almost nil!!  HURRAY!!! HURRAY!!!  According to him, my 5-year history of chest pain is not related to my cardiac health.

 "So Doc, what is causing my chest pain?"

"I have no idea."

"Any idea who might?"

"Maybe you could try a GI specialist."

"I've been to one, it's not GI."

"Then I'm not sure what I can tell you..."

This is where, in my mind, I grab the dude by his oxford shirt collar, pull him to within inches of my now-crazed eyes.

"Then who can?  WHO?!?  'Cause it's not like I can ignore heart attack symptoms.  I'd try, except that  every piece of medical advice says that you shouldn't ignore heart attack symptoms.  So tell me Doc...   Tell me who I can see.  Tell me who will clear up this medical mystery.  TELL ME WHO WILL GIVE ME ANSWERS!!!"

Out loud I say, "Who would you recommend I go to then?"  I am calm.  I am not frothing at the mouth.

"Maybe a physiatrist?"

"A... phy... whatnow??"

"A physiatrist - deals with musculoskeletal issues and chronic pain."

Excellent, I shall see another "ist."   "So could you give me a referral to a physiatrist?"

"You'd have to get that from your GP."

I leave the office, determined not to cry.  This is good news.  I have just heard good news.  It's good news.  Right?  I still have NO FREAKING CLUE what's wrong with me, but this is good news.  I get in the car.    U2's Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For plays on the radio.  I start laughing hysterically.  Driving home, I sing along at the top of my lungs...  laughing...  crying... While stopped at a light, some of the singing morphs into primal screaming with accompanying rhythmic pounding on the steering wheel.  By the time the light is green I have my shit together and logic has re-entered my cranium.  I square off my shoulders and take a deep breath.  Alright.  What's next?

Cool Rissa tricks

"You should feel this Mummy," says Rissa, as she deliberately creases her forehead.  "It gets all lumpy.  It's awesome!"

"I always liked that I could move my scalp back and forth," I reply - taking my fingertips and moving my scalp over my skull and then reaching over and moving hers.

"Wait!  Wait!" she begs.  "I can do this cool thing with my tongue.  I figured it out in my mouth and then when I looked at it in the mirror it was soooooo cool."

"Okay.  Show me."

She screwed up her mouth - eyes bugging out a bit - she started snorting with laughter and showed me her tongue - not doing anything particularly special - not a tunnel, nothing - kind of just lying there.

"Wait!  Wait!!"

"I'm not seeing anything.  You just look like you've tasted something yucky."

"What I'd really like is to be able to make my tongue look like a snake tongue - you know with two parts..."

"Your tongue would have to be cut in two..."

"Yeah!  Like this lady from a Freak Show in New Jersey..."

"New Jersey?"

"Yeah - she could move her tongue in two different directions at the same time!"

"So she could pick both nostrils at once if she really wanted to?"

"EEEEEWW!!  Mummy!  Gross!"

"You're the one who wants a snake tongue - I'm just thinking of the perks."

I never thought that hip-hop would make me cry

 This is the soundtrack to this post:

Driving back from a 13th birthday party.  Rissa and two friends in the backseat near-to-collapsing from an afternoon in the blinding sun - hair still wet from the home made Slip-n-Slide.
"Daddy!  Daddy can you please put it on 'aux'?" 

David changes the stero input.   We close the windows - put on the AC.  The opening strains of  Same Love pipe through the car. 

I wish I'd taped it.  For the first time in my life, I wish I actually used a cell phone that had a video app component and I had taped it.  Then you'd see two adults in the front seat, sharing a look.  Three girls in the backseat doing spoken word with Macklemore and then joining Mary Lambert as the chorus swells.

This song.  This song celebrating love.  Of all kinds.  And these girls - singing with all their hearts.  Pushing mine near to breaking because it's so beautiful.  These just-turned-teenagers know the words, all the words, to this song.   My breath hitches.  Tears come to my eyes - I turn my head because I don't want them to stop - which is what they'll do if they know how hard we're listening to them.  I put my hand on the back of David's neck, reaching out, needing to share this connection.  To acknowledge that this hip-hop groove can change lives, change perceptions, change the world if we let it.  So proud.  So freaking proud of these girls.  Wishing I knew the song well enough so that I could sing along too.

And I can't change
Even if I tried
Even if I wanted to
And I can't change
Even if I try
Even if I wanted to
My love
My love
My love
She keeps me warm
She keeps me warm
She keeps me warm
She keeps me warm

So don't be surprised Macklemore and Ryan Lewis.  Don't be surprised if some random woman - old enough to be your older sister or your mom - stops you, holds you tight and whispers in your ears, "Thank you.  Thank you.  For standing up, for speaking out, for sharing love." 

These thighs are not made for sconce light.

Sconce light and candle light are not the same thing.  We have these wall sconces on either side of the fireplace.  They are adorned with vellum-type shades which cast a nice glow.  The room looks warm and inviting.  My thighs in this light?  Cottage-cheesy and terrifying.

"Don't look!" I tell David.  "DON'T LOOK!"

"Don't look at what?"

"At anything!  Just close your eyes."  I desperately try to pull down my chemise so that it covers me to my knees.  My knees, at least, are pleasing to the eye.  Trouble is, the chemise really doesn't go down to my knees, so I'm now bent over at the waist, shielding the offending thigh region from the unflattering light.

All David can feel is me wriggling.  "What are you doing?"

"NOTHING!  Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain."

His eyes begin to open.

"NOOOOOOOO!!!!!"

"Would you stop?"

"I'm hideous!"

"You're not hideous.  You're badly lit."  He then gets up and turned off the sconces.  By the light of the tv my legs are spectacular!

Kick-Ass Uses for Crafting Supplies!!

Too much?

I've got boobs.  Largish ones.  On occasion, there'll be a day where I'll get dressed for work and as I'm walking to the office, I'll notice that my attire for the day is a little more low-cut than I had originally thought.  I'm not talking porn low-cut, but enough that as I'm looking down, even I get the urge to motor boat.  You know... 'cause they do look so inviting.  It's the kind of low-cut where it takes every iota of focus for David to have a conversation with me.

Sure, I do my best to make the outfit more public-appropriate.  I play around with the shoulder seams to get the neckline as far back as possible - make sure that my posture is overly straight - all the tricks so that I my co-workers don't get distracticated 'cause let's face it, even in an office full of women - 'out there' boobs can cause some commotion.

Yesterday, I thought I'd try using scotch tape to secure the edges of the neckline to my decolletage.  To no avail.  No matter how tightly you make your tape loop.  You really need double-sided clothing tape - or... OR... those super adhesive dots that you use in scrapbooking or card making!!!  I could have one of those dispenser thingies in my desk and just pop out a line of adhesive dots when a cleavage emergency arises and I'd be good to go! KICK-ASS USES FOR CRAFTING SUPPLIES!!!  Send along your own quick fixes!

What would you pay for this cat?

His name is Steve.  He's an orange tabby.  Sure, exceptionally affectionate and purrs up a storm, but really your typical tom cat.  If I were to put him up on Ebay, or Kijiji - what do you think he'd go for?  Any guesses?   $100?  $500?  How about $1000?  This cat must have freakin' gold in his faulty kidneys, because as of last night, Steve is worth $1232.38.  One Thousand, Two Hundred, Thirty-Two dollars and 38 cents. 

He's supposed to be dead.  If we'd done what we'd said we were going to do, we'd have had the vet call our animal care proxy, and Steve would now be dead on account of the fact that he's past the $500 mark.  Once it gets to $500 we're supposed to get the vet to call our friend Narda and she's supposed to say "Kill it," when we can't.  (She's also our medical proxy in the event that someone has to pull the plug on us; with the proviso that she has to laugh maniacally and say "Revenge is mine!" after we've been declared dead.)

I know, I know, you don't want to put a monetary value on your love for a treasured pet... but for a cat we got FOR FREE... $1200 freaking dollars?  Steve went in to the vet's on Thursday night - and by Friday when I thought to inquire as to the balance, we were at $800 and change.  Which is why Narda didn't get a call 'cause it was already past the $500 mark.  And now we're into increments.

"Okay, we'll do the x-rays to see if he has stones in his bladder, but if he has stones, we're not operating."  (Suitably heartless gesture of  fingers slicing across the jugular, with accompanying gurgling/choking noise).

"Okay, we'll let you 'relax' him so that you can express his bladder, but if you have to catheterize again, he's done."  (Again with the heartless gesture.)

Treating a cat with a bladder infection is kind of like being a compulsive gambler or playing the stock market.  If I play one more round, just one more round, if I make this one last investment, I'll make my money back, except you won't - what you get in the end might be a healthy cat.  Or you might not.  But now, after having poured so much money into the cat, if we stop treatment - we have literally just wasted all of that money.

We could still lose this sucker all on account of the fact that animals are poorly engineered and can't talk.  They can't say "Ummmmm, excuse me?  It's hurts when I pee."  Cats are healthy, healthy, healthy... until they're NOT.  Until they almost drop dead.  That seems like a pretty big evolutionary flaw to me.  You get this close to death from a bladder infection? What the hell is that? 

So that means, as of today, Steve is worth about $3.37 a day over 365 days.  And I think he's worth that.  For the sheer joy that he gives me, when he demands to snuggle down under the blankets at bedtime and curls into the crook of my arm.  Now, if that were to be $13.69 a day?  Not so sure.  We don't have that spare money just sitting around.  The last time one of our cats got really sick, David had just received an inheritance.  We couldn't say we couldn't afford to treat the cat, because at that time?  We could.

Now?  We need to re-roof our house - we're going to have to do that on a payment plan.  I just spent my entire month's wages on possibly fixing a cat.  I had to move money around from our already overly-extended credit line to make sure there was room on my Visa.

There are those who will think that I'm stupid for putting that kind of money into an animal.  There are those who think I'm heartless for even contemplating having him put down, when just another $1000 or $2000 would ensure his health.  I'm driven by guilt and finances and... love.  LOVE.  For this stupid cat who couldn't tell me before he was at death's door that it hurt when he peed.

Trying to love my turkey bum...

WARNING: There is Too Much Information in this post

After the second baby, I ended up with a turkey bum.  The midwifery student was given the chance to practice her stitchery on me after the episiotomy.  I think it might have been her first.  She fucked it up.  I have this extra piece of skin, that, were I a roasting fowl, would be considered a delicacy.   This extra flap - between the IN and OUT doors.  A place that I could maybe hide extra subway tokens in. 

We, as women, are encouraged to accept ourselves.  We are encouraged to revel in what makes us unique, what separates us from the flock as it were.  I find it hard to revel in my lady bits when they resemble the ass-end of a  Christmas dinner.

Is it wrong of me to wonder what would happen if I just wrapped this "Pope's Nose" really tightly with an elastic band... Would the blood flow  be cut off to such an extent that the offending skin might just fall off?  I've read that this can work for hemorrhoids.

Or wait, maybe I could vajazzle it!!!  Little bit of bling on my special thing?  Hold up now!  I'm sure there's a kink out there for this sort of thing.  There are kinks for everything.  This will be my path to making millions!  Who's with me ladies?

Not after you've had a baby vaginally you can't...

We took Rissa to Sky Zone in honour of her 13th birthday.  In case you've been under a rock, Sky Zone is Trampoline Heaven.  It is an indoor TRAMPOLINE PARK!!  Imagine a velodrome, but covered in trampolines!!!!  I know, right?!?  After having seen versions of this mythic place popping up in people's Facebook feed, David and I were so excited to discover there was one a mere hour and 15 minutes away!!   Sure, we were going 'for Rissa,' but really it was so we could bounce ourselves.

I made sure that I peed before I got onto the tramps. (Okay, now I'm visualizing myself either on top of hobos or really drunk chicks, depending on my mood.)  It's a good thing that I did pee before I bounced - otherwise I would have drenched not only my crotch, but my pant legs and probably those tramps as well.

2 bounces.  One to test the waters (oh the irony of that) and one to see how high I could get... Not very high.  It was the 2nd that had me squirting into my panties. (And not in a good way.)  2 bounces folks.  Sure I could do gentle, sorry-ass bounces and not wet myself, but any time I actually tried to show true trampoline form (I used to be a frickin' gymnast for God's sake!) I peed my pants.  I could NOT take a nice wide stance before bouncing high into the air, legs coming together, toes pointed.  I couldn't concentrate on pointing my toes when I was concertrating on NOT drenching my pants with urine.  I couldn't bounce from tramp to tramp, because every time I gathered enough kinetic energy to leap, I'd pee a little.

David was bouncing all over the place like that freakin' Jackalope from Boundin'.  He was bouncing off the side walls and leaping ALL over the place, chortling like a mad man.  He was giddy with joy. It was a sight to see.

Next time, I'm totally wearing a pair of Depends and I'm doing a frickin' routine - with my toes pointed.

  NOT what I looked like yesterday
This is Rosannagh MacLennan

How many times must I pee to get a control line!?!

WARNING: THERE IS FOUL LANGUAGE IN THIS POST

I bit the bullet.  I bought a pregnancy test.  Even though I'm in peri-menopause and David is fixed.  I used it yesterday afternoon, right before my Mom, Dad and brother Michael came to visit.

I peed for "at least 3 seconds" and "no more than 5."  I counted my Mississippis to make sure, just as the doorbell rang.  I put the test on a flat surface and let my family in.  Hellos all around.

I think that Dad was the first to notice the test on the counter.  At this point we were at the 2 minute mark.  It showed nothing.  NOTHING.  After 5 minutes - still NOTHING.  Not even a stinking control line!  The paperwork on this sucker said that if I hadn't seen anything after 10 minutes that I should take another test.  10 minutes came and went and still NOTHING.  I knew I should have bought the frickin' two-for package, but nooooooooo,  I had been logical at the drug store.  Why would I buy two pregnancy tests when I only needed one?  I wasn't going to need more than one test.  Not me!  Nope!  One would do!  And I sure as shit wasn't going to spend $27 on a test.  Which means that I spent $9.99 on a single bastard dud test.

No matter how hard I looked at that sucker there was still nothing in the control window.  I internalized my cursing and did NOT say, "I fucking paid $9.99 for you, you rat-fucking pee stick - now show me a fucking control line and tell me that I'm not fucking pregnant!"  Instead I grumbled under my breath "bastard pregnancy test," with Dad mocking me saying that my moodiness surely was a 'sign.'  When I offered my visiting family muffins, Dad queried,  "Are they dill pickle and ice cream?"   "Har-dee-freaking-har Dad."

By the time David got home from work there was still nothing.  After dinner (an hour later) there was a band of red approaching the windows but still no discernible line.  Then, after my family left, I checked  the test and there was a single line - in the control box.  Which should mean that I'm not pregnant, but all the literature with the rat-fucking test told me that I shouldn't trust the test after 10 minutes, which means I'm still going to have to buy another one.  Even though I know that I'm not pregnant.  (In spite of the fact that I haven't had my period for over three months, I'm weepy, gaining weight and my nipples hurt.)  Even if I could convince myself with sound logic that this is all peri-menopause, all that went right out the window with the stories Mom had recounted during her visit of at least 2 instances where she knew folks (personally) who'd had post-vasectomy "oopses" years after the fact.  "Not helping Mom - that is not helping."

Any bets on how much I'm going to spend before I get my negative test result?

This is not the Magic Sword I thought it was...

I used to go to Saturday matinees at the CFB Winnipeg movie theatre.  Between the ages of 5 and 8, I'd get dropped off with a girlfriend (probably Kristen), we'd enjoy our 2 hours with snacks and then late in the afternoon we'd emerge bleary-eyed into the sunlight seeking out our parents' waiting arms.

When I was about 8, Kristen and I went to see The Magic Sword. Our parents thought it was the Disney version.  They were misinformed. This Magic Sword was the one with Basil Rathbone as an evil wizard and Anne Helm as the beautiful princess he was going to feed to a scary-ass dragon.  It was made in 1962 with all its attending camp and cheesy special effects.  It was the one where George (Gary Lockwood.) went on a quest to save the princess and people's faces melted off and there were vampires with electric green eyes who morphed into hags.  George's attending knights kept dying, in more and more hideous ways.  First Sir Ulrich of Germany and Sir Pedro of Spain are slain by an ogre (which in retrospect I can now totally see is a dude in a Planet of the Apes-esque suit filmed so that he looks like he's 25 feet tall).  Then Sir Anthony perishes in a swamp, followed by the deaths of Sir Dennis of France,Sir James of Scotland  and Sir Patrick of Ireland. All dead.  All of them.  Dead knights everywhere.

Crouched behind the seats in front of us, our hands over our eyes, Kristen and I glimpsed the movie...  Unable to breathe for terror, knees sticking to the gum and pop-encrusted floor of the theatre.  Hearts pounding, near-vomiting with fear.  Running to our mothers after the show was over, pale-skinned and wide-eyed.

After seeing The Magic Sword, my already over-active imagination went into overdrive.  I could relive every image from that movie as soon as I closed my eyes.  Two bald dudes in a Siamese-twin outfit, 2-headed dragons, a chimp in a suit...  some weird-ass shit.

My Mom came to kiss me goodnight and I wouldn't let her near me.  She had green eyes, just like the morphing vampire.  I was pretty sure that her eyes were glowing - I knew that she was going to suck my blood.

"YOU HAVE GREEN EYES!!!  YOU HAVE GREEN EYES!!!" 

I was in hysterics before my Dad, who didn't usually do bedtime, rescued me.  That might have been one of the times that they gave me cough syrup to aid in knocking me out.  After that Magic Sword fiasco, my Mom learned to double check what movie was playing at CFB Winnipeg before dropping me off on my own.

I was pretty good at avoiding things that would feed my imagination until  The Exorcist was shown on primetime network television when I was 12.  I was at a sleepover - I think her parents were out - I have a sneaking suspicion we were left with her older brother.   That shit messed me up.  I had post-traumatic stress after seeing it.  Seriously.  I slept with my little brother for 4 months afterwards, and to this day, if I even see a picture of Linda Blair from the movie, I want to throw up. 

Quick! Pass me the pregnancy test!

Is what I'm thinking because I haven't had my period now in 12 weeks.  I know I'm in peri-menopause and all, but there's still this little part of me that worries, you know?  It worries that this extra weight which I can't seem to get rid of lately, no matter how much I over-exercise and not eat - what if that's not extra weight?  What's if it's BABY?  What if that muffin top has nothing to do with muffins?!?  What if I'm nearing the end of my first trimester and should be making some big decisions?!?  Oh sweet Jesus!  Quick!  Pass me the pregnancy test!

HOLY FUCK!!!  Panic attack!  I am having a PANIC ATTACK!! I need to put my head between my knees.  I am 44 and 11/12  fucking years of age!!  I'm on medication to try to regulate my periods because they've been so freakin' wonky.   

Logically, I know that I'm not pregnant, (David has been fixed for 7 years and I know that I haven't been having sex with anyone else but my Hitachi Magic Wand), but you know how you get a thought in your head that just won't leave?  And the more you think about it, it just starts to seem like it's completely plausible and then completely possible?  Like, what if the vasectomy clips slipped? Or corroded...  Or were absorbed by male body parts?  How am I to know know what's going on with David's junk?  Maybe those crazy sperms really wanted to squeeze out the eye of the snake just one more time.  Their last hurrah...

Don't Google it Heather!  Do not Google pictures of a 3 month old fetus.  Do NOT open another browser tab. Don't you do it...  FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.  That's it, I'm going to Shopper's. 

Still Crushing - after all these years...

1984.  I was 16.  I had a crush on a kid three years my junior.  He was strong, he was brave, he was determined.  He was open-vested.

Atreyu.  (sigh)  Oh Atreyu.  Screaming to save Artax - yanking on those frickin' reins.  And then (SPOILER ALERT) the damn horse drowns and now, almost 30 years later, I still get a lump in my throat.

And then when Atreyu meets up with Rock Biter when he is washed up on shore... Only the soulless cannot be affected: 

So what am I doing now?  Ordering the book online, because in spite of having seen the movie at least a dozen times, I've never read the original text by Michael Ende.  I may have to have box of tissues handy.  Because of the tears you sick bastards -  the kid is still 13, even after all these years!!  And it was the purest kind of love.

Tell me I don't look like that when I kiss!

We recently went to a wedding.  At this wedding there were many young, beautiful couples - years, perhaps dozens of years, younger than us.  We were seated with one of these couples.  They were hip and happening and 'NOW.'  But they sure as shit didn't know how to kiss.

I watched this beautifully coiffed and gowned young woman as she kissed her husband.   She looked like a clown blowing up a balloon.  Like a guppy sucking in air.  Like an infant trying to latch onto a nipple.  And he was digging it!

It was the least sexy kissing I've ever seen in my life.  And I've seen some bad kissing.   Pretty much every kiss that Colin Firth has given on film is a bad kiss.  And before you nail me to the wall for dissing Mr. Darcy - I urge you to go back... Go back and watch videos of Mr. Firth's kiss at the end of Pride and Prejudice and Love Actually and Bridget Jones' Diary - those are not sexy kisses.  Mr. Firth looks like he's worried that he's going to catch lip cooties from those gals.  But those terrible kisses, were like from Lady Chatterly's Lover in comparison to the kisses I witnessed at the wedding.

If someone had caught my reaction on film it would have been something like this:

You ever have one of those days?

It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon.  I was driving into Toronto to see a friend's show.  I had Q107.1 on (the home of classic rock) - it was Psychedelic Sunday and a Beatles A-Z weekend.  The tunes were stellar.

I made sure I checked the highway update signs all the way along my route.   "Express and Collectors moving well after next transfer."  That's what I like to hear.  Singing along with the Beatles "Goooolden slumbers fill your eyyyyyyyes!" - anticipating a great show - happy to be alive.

I eased into the exit lane at the DVP and had a moment of stupification.  It was CLOSED.  The DVP was CLOSED.  But a driver wouldn't know this until they actually exited and drove 100 m and saw that they couldn't travel south because there were big freaking road blocks there, and instead everyone was being re-routed north - towards Newmarket.  The complete opposite direction of where I was supposed to be. 

My best laid plans had gone to shit.  And in that moment, I knew... I knew that if I ever was to murder anyone in my life, it would be one of those people in charge of the update signs on the highway.

I'd be introduced to a guy at a party 5 years from now and I'd ask,  "What do you do?"

And he'd say, "I program the highway update signs on the 401."

And then I would stab him in the throat with the first thing I could get my hands on (a cocktail skewer) and when he fell to the ground I would jump on his testicles... a lot.  And as he was crying and bleeding out and asking "Why?  Why?  Why?"  I would say this:

"Because you ruined my Sunday!!!  The trip that was supposed to take me 1 hour and 15 minutes mutated into a BILLION times longer!  And I missed the thing that I drove all the way into the city for!  I had to circumvent the gridlock on the 404 and when I finally got back on the highway I almost ran out of gas because I'd had to drive for so long out of my way, so I had to get off the highway and find a gas station - do you know how HARD it is to locate a gas station CLOSE to the 401 even with a GPS?!?  And then I had to use the stupid Allen Expressway which took me 25 minutes to travel 2.5 km and then when I finally got to my destination and paid for parking, I couldn't have an alcoholic beverage because I had to drive home, and when I got back to the car, there was a FUCKING PARKING TICKET on my windshield!!!  That is why!"

And then all of his highway update sign programmer friends would know.  They would know how important it is to update those signs on the highway.  He would be a lesson to them all.

That being said.  I did manage to have a lovely warm apple cider with my friends.  After I'd missed the show. 

Cannibal Chickens

Lesley has chicks.  Baby chicken-type chicks.  In her house.  Four adorable balls of feathery fluff.  I can barely contain my "squeeeee" of joy within the confines of my head.  I have picked them all up - pressed them against my cheek.  They are fluffy yellow examples of the perfection of our universe.

I just found out that these chicks are 'eating chicks.'  By that, they are meant for eating.  Not, as Rissa and David supposed when I explained this to them, cannibal chicks who are eating other chicks.  Lesley will be slaughtering these chicks after they become full-grown chickens, and then, she will eat them.  These baby chicks whom I pressed to my cheek.

And I'm going to help her do that.  Because I think I need to know how to do this.  You know, when Armageddon comes, we'll all be living on homesteads in the remaining wilds of Canada raising our own food, and I'm going to need to know how to slaughter chickens and whatever else that can be food, including humans.  'Cause ME turning into a cannibal??  After Armageddon, that's gonna be an eventuality.  I know human is supposed to taste like chicken and all that, but say you've spent the last several months/years with George the cobbler, or ferrier or whatever in post-Armageddon times George does... I don't know if I'm going to be able to eat George on account of the fact that we'd have had a relationship of sorts, you know because he makes my shoes or puts shoes on my horse - which is all we'll have left for transport, because it's after Armageddon and we'll all be riding horse or elk or reindeer - and then when the regular food runs out we're going to have eat the Georges of this world  and I want to be prepared for that eventuality. So I'm starting with chicks.   

I WON'T resort to bulimia, I WON'T resort to bulimia...

I had a good week last week, I really did.  I was a good girl.  I limited my intake of all the bad-for-me stuff.  I did.  I didn't eat after 7:00 p.m.  I had club soda with lime instead of the Rusty Nails and Chocolate Martinis that called to me. 

Until Saturday night.  That night it all went to hell.  After a sensible dinner of pork tenderloin salad, where did David and I go?  No Frills.  What did we buy?  Bags of gluten-free brownies, and rice chips and a tray  of Nanaimo Bars.  We went out for eggs.  If I really think about the calories I ingested, I might have to commit Hara-kiri.

Food rehab may be my only option.  If I went to food rehab, I could maybe sweat out the addiction to chocolate, sugar and salt.     This once-a-week bingeing is going to kill me.  I know that I'm an emotional eater.  I know that.  So when I'm feeling low because of my freaking ridiculous health issues, that's when I should just go to bed.  Even if it's 7:30 p.m.  I should NOT have two bowlfuls of cut up miniature gluten-free brownies with added chocolate chips, topped with a dollop of sour cream, followed by an ENTIRE FUCKING bag of dill pickle flavoured rice chips.  That is stupid.  I know that it will make me all dopey and stoned on the sugars and that I'll then feel like crap.  So why do I do it?  Why can I not eat healthfully?  Why can I not ignore these stupid-ass cravings?

Although honestly?  After I ate the two bowls of miniature gluten-free brownies with added chocolate chips,  topped with a dollop of sour cream, followed by an ENTIRE FUCKING bag of dill pickle flavoured rice chips, I didn't feel all that bad.  I thought I'd have the urge to purge, but... no.  It was all good, except for the all-consuming guilt, of which I wanted to rid myself immediately.  My strategy will now be this:  eat ALL the remaining gluten-free brownies to get them out of the house.  In one sitting if I have to.

'Cause my body can't take this.  This health issue roller-coaster is sucking the big one.  I exercise every fucking day of the week for at least 60 minutes - I shouldn't have to worry about weight gain!  This shit is actually making me contemplate bulimia.  I contemplate heading to the basement with a bowl into which I could blow chunks so that David and Rissa wouldn't hear me hurling my guts out in either one of the bathrooms.  Although, if I turned the fan ON in the upstairs bathroom... NO!!  This is NOT healthy behaviour!  Plus, I'm sure that I'd still get caught, noise really has a way of travelling in our house what with the extra staircases.  The echo of my retching into a stainless bowl would probably resonate through the entire house.  Plus, if you're woofing your cookies from self-induced retching?  You give yourself a headache and burst those wee little vessels around your eyes.  That is not a good look.

If I were an alcoholic, this is where I would now call my sponsor. 

Erotic Spiders - or how David doesen't listen...

I have hallucinations during the night.  The hallucinations generally centre around the ceiling fan in our bedroom.  The fan turns into a starfish, an alien life-form or a hobbled octopus missing three legs.  The other night it was a Robotic Spider.  Matrix-like in its design, with cameras in its abdomen - massive eyes, whirring noise, looking down on me as I slept.  I had the presence of mind to be aware that I was buck naked and pulled sheets up to cover my ta-tas in case the robotic spiders were broadcasting video of me sleeping to the world at large.

I was telling David about it over breakfast.

"Erotic Spiders?" he asks.

"No, not EROTIC spiders.  ROBOTIC spiders!"

"Earn more sessions by sleeving?"*

I took in what he'd originally said.  "EROTIC spiders?  Are spiders a fetish thing now?  'Cause... EEEEEWWWW!  Oh, and, you and your daughter both have bad ears."

"Bat ears?"

I roll my eyes at him.  "Cute."

 

* ps.  From Roxanne

C.D. Bales: [shouting through the front door] Ten more seconds and I'm leaving!
Roxanne Kowalski: [opening the door] What did you say?
C.D. Bales: I said, ten more seconds and I'm leaving! Wait a second! What did you think I said?
Roxanne Kowalski: I thought you said, "Earn more sessions by sleeving."
C.D. Bales: Well, what the hell does that mean?
Roxanne Kowalski: I don't know. That's why I came out.

Raccoons are dealing crack in my attic

You know how some people don't want to go to the doctor because they just know it's going to be bad news?  We don't want to put our extension ladder up to the roof for the same reason. In spite of the fact that our good neighbour Neil was pretty sure he saw a family of raccoons shinnying up our drain pipe and then entering our roof.  AGAIN.

Last night, as I was typing this, I heard bigger-than-squirrel noises coming from our eaves.  Which means we're going to have to grab that extension ladder and go up and take a look.  And I just know that we're not going to like what we're going to see. 

Raccoons with switch blades, dealing crack. 

That's what we're going to find.  And holes in our roof.  Ginormous-freaking holes that will have to be repaired.

This spring, I was focused on combatting dandelions - not varmints.  I was planning that kind of attack.  Now we have to evict a raccoon colony from our roof.  Can we use Indiegogo or Kickstarter to raise funds for this?  I know!  I could turn it into performance art!  I'll film it in B&W and use subtitles.

We totally would have had the funds to do the roof this year if we hadn't had to pay if I weren't so freaking honest and demanded that David claim all the income he made from self-employment this year, thereby owing a nauseau-inducing tax amount to the CRA.  Damn me and my wanting to support better education and healthcare in our country!  What the hell is wrong with me?  Why couldn't I just LIE like everyone else?

We headed to bed, but the party above us was so loud that David decided that he'd to take a look.  Naked.  In the dark.  He wanted to suss out the situation and see if he could spy the raccoons out the back window, you know, surreptitious-like.  Instead, he found himself in the middle of the dark attic, hearing close-up raccoon noises that made it sound as if he were surrounded.  Naked.  In the dark.  By raccoons with switch blades dealing crack.  Then,  as I lay in the room below all this, David lost his mind.

The pounding and growling began... 

BANG!  BANG-BANG-BANG!   BANG!  BANG-BANG-BANG!
GROWL!!!  

A Stomp-esque musical number from my vantage point. It went on for a good 7 minutes. I'm surprised that Rissa didn't wake from the pandemonium.  Eventually, David returned to bed.

"Are they gone now," I asked.

"No."  There was a pout in his voice.

"Still in the roof?"

"They are partying over-top of the light fixture.  I'd bang and then they'd skitter away, but then they'd come right back. Taunting me... Banging back...  'Oh yeah!?!  You're going to bang at us?  How about this!?!' "

He put his head on my chest.  "We're going to have to go up with the ladder, aren't we?"

"Yep."

ps.  So we got the ladder out.  It became immediately apparent that the raccoons had eaten their way AROUND the boards that we had placed over their old entry points.  Note to self: find extra money to put sheet metal on the eaves when we fix the roof.

Best trip to the gynecologist ever!

Visiting a dude whose job is to stick his hand up your hooha is not my favourite thing - (unless that dude is my husband) - but I don't dread it.  I don't get all freaked out about it.  I usually sit back with a magazine while I'm waiting... sometimes I read during the exam.  Somebody has to stick their hand up there, right?  It might as well be a person who's trained to do it. 

Although I do wonder why dudes become gynecologists.  It can't just be for the free vaginas.  As a young medical student, I'm sure that in the abstract, having a day filled with women showing you their wares would be titillating and all... but in reality - I'm betting you end up getting a whole lot of wrinkly-ass vag in your face, and I'm pretty sure that not everyone weeds around the garden if you get my meaning.

But I digress...  My most recent trip to the "lady doctor" was fantastically satisfying.  It wasn't like he gave me a leering grin and said "Oh, I like what you've done down here," before he whipped out the Hitachi Magic Wand or anything...  He told me... wait, I'm still bursting with feminine pride here...  He told me... that I have a small uterus.  NEVER in my life have I been told that I have a small ANYTHING. And now it turns out I have a small uterus.  AND small ovaries.  Petite even.  For a gal who has been at least a size 10 most of her adult life - I never thought my incubator and eggs would be defined as small.  I blushed and said in a modest tone as I waved my hand demurely, "Oh, stop... you just say that to all the girls."

So maybe that's the trick, I just need to visit specialists who concentrate on the inner parts of my body.  Maybe my appendix, too, is diminutive!  I could have copies of an MRI kept in my wallet that I could take out when I'm feeling dumpy.  Yes, I may have armpit pudge, but look at that spleen!!

Synchronized Soccer with Rissa

Rissa's playing soccer this summer.  She and David went out to buy equipment.  She came back with shin guards, snazzy cleats and... nose plugs. You know, for all those underwater games.

I threw a look at David.  He shrugged.

Rissa put on the nose plugs and complained that they didn't feel right.

"I don't think that these will stop me from breathing.  Air is totally going to get in."

"Try breathing in through your nose," said David.

Rissa tried and went cross-eyed.  "It still feels weird."

"That's because you're wearing them backwards."

She put them on upside down, now looking like a small bull with a ring through its nose.

"No, not upside down," said David.  "See how this is kind of nose-shaped?  Try wearing it like that."

"OH!!!!  That makes SO much more sense," she said  before trying out some synchronized swimming moves.  Soon as this is an Olympic sport, she's going to kick ass.