Monday, October 21, 2013

And that's why I'm supposed to cut down on my alcohol...


Cause it gives me hot flashes.  And now, apparently... Night Terrors.  Not just regular nightmares, but crazy-ass, finding out that Nate Berkus, in addition to being an interior designer, is the leader of a boy band who has people eviscerated when you discover that they are 100% auto-tuned, full-on NIGHT FREAKING TERRORS.


I had two drinks.  Is my ability to handle my alcohol also being compromised by peri-menopause?  (That would be incredibly sad, given my Scandinavian heritage.)  Or is it because the second drink,  "Oh, don't worry, the ice is displacing the alcohol - it's really only a double," actually was a quadruple?   Plus?  Over Thanksgiving - to cope with the pinched nerve in my neck?  I may have imbibed a bit to take the edge off.  During the full course of the day, I might have had a couple of pina colada coolers and a couple of glasses of wine.  And again - the hot flashes were like rocket liftoffs.   One drink?  I'm fine.  More than one?  You can BBQ on my torso.

And then there's  caffeine.  Not only will it keep me up at night if I ingest it after noon, but waking up with the night sweats adds a certain - I was about to say je ne sais quoi, but I totally quoi - it's just that I don't have enough adjectives to adequately describe the sensations in a way that men will understand.  Other women of a certain age get it.  They know all about it.  But most dudes?  They have not one freaking clue as to how those hot flashes can turn you from rational wife and mother to slathering murderous wielder of words and weapons.  My middle name during one of these spells could truly be 'harangue' - not necessarily at other people, but towards the universe in general.  Men not in the know, pass it off as us being hormonal and 'tut-tut' us and give us patronizing little pats on the shoulder.  Experienced husbands and partners know the drill.  They duck and roll - find the safe spot in the house - don't make eye contact - stay under the radar - hand you a bag of frozen peas to put on the back of your neck.  They are the ones who know not to mock, at least not while you're in the room... Mostly, methinks, so that one's harangue doesn't devolve into a crying jag that could rival Biblically proportioned floods. 

So no caffeine or alcohol for me... not now.  Most doctors will agree on that point anyhow.   I'll be smart - it's for my own good.  I anticipate quite a bender though, when I've actually made it to menopause. 

Thursday, October 17, 2013

Canada: Back to the Dark Ages


Allow me to wax hyberbolic for a moment.  I love being Canadian.  It is the absolute best country in the galaxy!  I LOVE it.  LOVE, LOVE, LOVE it!!  I love living in Canada.  The people, the wildlife, the breadth and scope of our land, the change in seasons...  I am proud to be a Canadian and to live in our democratic, and yes, somewhat socialist state.  I revel in our beauty and spirit of bon amie.  Very little in the Canadian experience causes me true ire because the abundance of good that we have as Canadians is so vast, so spectacular, so unlike anything else in the world...  But Holy crap, do I DESPISE losing the sunlight in the winter! 

Every year, come October, the sun rises a little later - which means that when you get up in the morning you're staggering from your bed in the dark.  And not in that fun, because you've just had that drunken hookup with an ex and have to make it home before work, kind of staggering.  You're staggering because without your bedside light on, you literally can't see.  And, with due respect to our hardworking farming communities, unless you're a shift worker, waking up when it's still dark outside, just seems fucked up. 



They say that Daylight Savings Time helps, but really??  At 7:00 a.m. in November?  It's pitch black.   And then, by about 4:30 p.m.?  PITCH FREAKING BLACK.  Three words: Seasonal Affective Disorder.  I don't personally lose my mind (well not completely anyway) in the winter months, but my get-up-and-go gene tends to lay dormant, and I know plenty of folks who bring out their inner cave dweller for the duration of the winter... Monosyllabic, furrowed of brow and prone to beating things with sticks.

And those sunrise lamps for your bedroom?  Not sure if they actually work.  Over the course of 30 minutes, our light comes on very gradual-like to simulate the sunrise.  Now it might just be because right now we're still staying up too late because we've got shit we need to get done, but in the morning, even with that gradual increase in light in our room, when you step into the hall, you still trip over cat toys because it's so freaking dark.  WAIT!!  WAAAAIIIIIT!!!  Every home north of the 49th parallel could have an entire house that's set up on solar battery powered sunrise simulators!!  So that, no matter where you are in your house, it seems like it's actually day time.  You acclimatize yourself to that state for the the 1/2 hour 45 minutes before you leave for work and then... you step into darkness.  CRAP.  Suggestions?  Anyone?

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Next time it'll be fire engine red!



I have been a redhead for more years now than I haven't.   There have been occasional comments on the colour now and again, but something about this newest shade is driving folks wild.

Recently, I was in Toronto for a public speaking engagement.  As I was walking to the venue, a very attractive, incredibly well dressed man in the Gay Village, stopped me on the street.

"I LOVE YOUR HAIR!!!   OH MY GOD IT'S STU...U...U....NNING!!!"

At the grocery store, two men, in separate aisles, stopped me.  I was standing next to the sauces and one guy said to me, "This sauce is SO hot, it'll turn that gorgeous red hair... BROWN."  Sometimes guys aren't quite on their game. 

This morning, in the kitchen, I marvelled that this shade was getting so much attention.

Rissa:  You know what you should do next time?

Me: What?

Rissa: Dye it FIRE ENGINE RED (she uses jazz hands to signify the colour's vibrance.)

Me: Huh?

Rissa:  Yep.  Like literally the colour of a fire engine.  AND,   ANNNNNND... you add a little siren in your hair too... so you'd be going "Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo..." with the light all rotating...

David: (piping in) And maybe have a little ladder at the back too.  THEN you'll get noticed.

Me:  Uh-huh...

Rissa:  OR!!!  WAIT!! WAIT!!! ORRRRRRRR.... you turn it into an Arctic scene - you put little penguins up there, maybe some polar bears...

Me:  What does that have to do with red hair?


Rissa:  Nothing, but it'd be cool, you have to admit...

David: Depends if you're clubbing seals...  

Me: DAVID!!!  (He shrugs)


Me:  So basically, you're saying that I should treat my hair as an ever-changing diorama?

Rissa & David: YES!!!

David:  Then when you go to a royal wedding you can kick everyone's asses with YOUR fascinator!

(The best part of ALL of this might just be that David knows what a fascinator is.)


From 2010 Fantasy Hair Competition
Manchester, NH
Rachel Bishop (model)
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1268235/International-Fantasy-Hair-Models-fashion-ships-castles-dos-blow-bubbles.html


Tuesday, October 15, 2013

M... M... M.... My Melasma


 This is the soundtrack for this post.

I have always been fish belly white.  Some smatterings of freckles on my face in the summer, but traditionally, my pale skin could be used as a signal point in the dark. Like you could line a bunch of me up on a runway and we'd be great markers for night flights arriving at Toronto's Pearson Airport.

A couple of years ago I started developing melasma (a tan or dark skin discoloration) upon my face.  Pregnant women occasionally get this - it's dubbed The Mask of Pregnancy - kind of like the Mask of Zorro, but you can't take this mask off.

I'm NOT pregnant and I never had it during pregnancy, but turns out other hormonal changes in women can bring it on too.  Like, say... peri-menopause.   And, I've just now read, thyroid disease.   ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!?  What do I have? Peri-menopause AND thyroid disease.  So basically, I'm doubly screwed without any of the benefits.

I went to a skin clinic to see how much it would cost to treat.  For a mere $1000 they could give me laser treatments and accompanying cream that might help.  MIGHT?  For $1000, they should give you a freaking guarantee, I'm thinking.  I figured that using some BB Cream would be a lot cheaper and would mostly mask the mask.  Now it just looks like I'm new to this whole 'makeup' thing and have forgotten to smooth my foundation on my jawline.

"You know if you feather out the edges..."

"I HAVE feathered out the frickin' edges - my face is a whole different colour than the rest of me!!!  This colour?!?  It's doesn't come off!"

Every time I've mentioned it to David, he just shakes his head.  "You look beautiful.  You always look beautiful."

"To YOU!  I always look beautiful TO YOU!!"

"No, I think we can state empirically..."

"You have love juice in your system - you're not thinking rationally!!"  I hold up my arm to my face.  "See this?!?  THIS is the colour my face should be!"

"Yeah, but your face gets sun..."

"I wear SPF 30 EVERY day, I should have NO colour on my face, I should look like a freaking MIME!"

"A little colour is good - makes you look healthy.  When you don't have colour on your face, people usually ask you if you're okay."

"BLAAAAARGH!!!"


Mentioned the melasma to my doctor at my yearly physical.  "Oh, that's hardly noticeable at all.  You just have a bit of colour in your face.  If it's hormonal you can't really do anything about it anyway."   He was facing away from me when I made to strangle him.

The good news is... after my body has decided its hormonal future, these particular delights should stop.  After I've truly made it through THE CHANGE I might get my skin back - possibly my rationality too.





Thursday, October 10, 2013

R'UH R'OH!! I'm behaving inappropriately... AGAIN.

I'm screwed.  My new crush is totally inappropriate on at least 2 levels (there might be more).

  1. He's an 18 year old boy.

    *face palm*

    (But really, if you think about it - this isn't as bad as when I had a crush on Taylor Hanson when he was 16, because at least this kid is technically LEGAL.)
  2. He bears more than a passing resemblance to my daughter's 13 year old boyfriend.  And that, my friends, makes me a perv AND a bad Mom.

    *face palm*

I recently heard him interviewed on a rebroadcast of yesterday's Q with Jian Ghomeshi.  This 18 year old was so freaking well-spoken that I actually got turned on listening to him. (Quick!  Hit the listen button on the Q page right now before you even scroll down - experience what I initially experienced while driving home last night .) The fact that's he's adorable and articulate??  I was already in the midst of indecent day dreams about the kid WHILE DRIVING HOME.  Eloquence is my crack.  That doesn't sound right.  Eloquence is like crack to me.  Someone who can turn a phrase with confidence?  sigh. 

But then I got home and Googled the kid  and he looks like this:



Jan Lisiecki.

I mean LOOK at him.  Just LOOK at him.  I want to pick him up and squidge him!  PLUS, in addition to being my latest skinny blonde boy crush (young Leonardo DiCaprio, young Taylor Hanson, young Ilia Kulik), he's this astoundingly fantastic pianist.  I listened to him play two Chopin Etudes and got positively light-headed.  Then I might have watched a video of him playing and of course had to extrapolate about how all that intensity and manual dexterity would make for some pretty spectacular fireworks in a more intimate arena... Hold on... wait a second... I just need another second here...

NO!!!!!!

Bad Heather.  Very bad Heather.   But I mean, come on, LOOK AT HIM!!!

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

It's a Thanksgiving Miracle!!

"OH!!!"

"What?" asks David.

"OH MY GOD!!!"




"What?!?  What is it?" David now sounds a bit panicked.

"Mummy, you're scaring him," says Rissa.

"IT'S A MIRACLE!!!  IT'S A THANKSGIVING MIRACLE!!!"  I'm standing in Rissa's doorway.  My shock is palpable.  I've never actually seen this - not while it was actually happening - not in my entire life.  I'm feeling a little swoony.

"SHE'S MAKING HER BED!!!  RIGHT NOW!!"

"OH MY GOD!!!!"

"I KNOW!!!!"

"You told me to make my bed last night," says Rissa rolling her eyes.

"Yes, but I tell you to make your bed EVERY NIGHT.  Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you."  I kneel in the doorway, looking up to the heavens to whichever deities made this possible, before rushing in and squeezing her in my proudest maternal hug.  "This means you actually LISTENED to me."






Tuesday, October 8, 2013

How long does it take to become ambidextrous?

It hurts when I brush my teeth.  My SUPER SPINATUS (Rotator Cuff) has betrayed me.  I'm not brushing my teeth particularly violently or anything.  I think it's just those wee little movements at that particular angle.  I start the day off wincing.  And what's really depressing is that it's not from having had twisty-bouncy sex the night before. 'Cause that kind of wincing is always accompanied by that satisfied smirk on your face.  You forgive the pain, because what went on before, was so freaking great.

I've decided that I need to stop using my right arm and become proficient with my left.  How long do you figure it will take?  Instinctively I high five people or reach for things or lean on that arm, so I need to abandon it, strap it down and begin using the other one.  I tried brushing my teeth with my left hand this morning and it didn't go well.  Water and toothpaste everywhere.  My spaz factor was at 11.  I wounded my gums.

I've got some great ambidextrous inspirations: Michelangelo, Einstein, Tesla, Leonardo da Vinci.  Very arty and sciency dudes.  And I'm not 100% sure, but if Escher wanted to his ability kept secret, he shouldn't have given us things like this:

M.C. Escher 1948

Plus?  I'm pretty sure that I could become a superhero if I were ambidextrous.  Less than 1% of the population is ambidextrous - which if we had accurate statistics on superheroes would probably reflect EXACTLY the same percentage!!  Or is that super models?  Me becoming a super model would take a bit more time and money I'm thinking.  The recuperation time alone from adding extra 3 inches to my torso and legs would be at least a couple of months.   Probably not as much fun as being a super hero either.  But step one is definitely the ambidextrous thing, regardless.  Which, seeing as I've already achieved mad touch typing skills, I'm well on my way!

Monday, October 7, 2013

Warming up before the bouncy-bouncy...

WARNING: This post is about sex

I never thought there would come a day where I would have to stretch before having sex.  Honest to God, it's not like we're particularly athletic about it.  I'm not doing a handstand against the wall or anything.  We're not suspended from a chandelier.  I'm just lying on my back with my legs in the air - you know propped open for... ahem... action. (bown-wown-chicka-wown-wown)

I think I'm in one position too long.  I remember those days when you'd get so het up that the barest of touches could set you off.  None of this 15 - 20 minutes before the big finale.  That's why my poor arthritic hips give me grief. The day after sex, I feel like I'm 70.  My frickin' joints are shot to hell - it's what comes of nearly a decade of gymnastics.

Thing is?  When the urge hits - you want to go with it, you want to let it happen.  Nothing ruins a good frisson of sexual tension like stopping to stretch out your quads and triceps (you gotta stretch the triceps too - you know for when you're holding onto the headboard too tight). 

"Do you want to... waggle of eyebrows... STRETCH?"

"Oh baby, I'll STRETCH with you.  You just get down here and we'll do that partner GROIN STRETCH..."




We'll strip seductively, NOT getting caught up in any of our clothing as it comes off, because my 'go-to' if I ever get stuck in my sweater, is to do a clown routine which generally shifts the mood from sex to slapstick.  No longer aroused, we are now amused, and crossing back over that particular divide takes work.  When you find yourself giggling madly after sex, it's incredibly therapeutic, but it really puts the kibosh on the kink in the early stages.

In the early stages, you can't get too distracticated.  "Oooooh, look, something shiny!!"  Gone are the days where it's Wham Bam Thank You (insert appropriate pronoun).  If you start to get tingly, you've got to jump onto that horse and ride it into Coitus Land, do not stop, do not wash that last plate in the sink - GO HAVE SEX!  You want to be in good shape, ALL THE TIME.  So that, at a moment's notice, if your partner gives you the come hither look, you can drop everything, take those stairs 2 at a time up to the bedroom, abandon civility and get down to it. 

Basically, Adult Yoga = Flexible Sex.  It's a win-win.  And not only will the sex be better, but you're going to be in better shape so you'll be able to do other activities.  Though let's face it, being an octagenarian who can do reverse cowgirl and survive?  Great incentive.

Friday, October 4, 2013

I don't remember buying this hairsuit.

WARNING:  Adult language in this post

I never used to be this hairy.  I mean sure, I had the pubes, I had the pits - I shaved - below the knee - because my mother had warned me against above the knee shaving as if it could end civilization as we know it. Taking my hands in hers, eyes so serious, "You don't want to have stubbly knees Heather." 

I noticed my first chin hair when I was in high school.  I remember being in typing class - in between time trials - and feeling the prickliness of that single hair, underneath my chin - embedded, it seemed, in my chin scar.  The scar was the result of a childhood injury with a springy horse at the playground when I was two, a good place to have one's first scar - conveniently obscured underneath the shelf of your jawbone.



I didn't even really notice the other hairy bits emerging until my Dad made primate noises when I appeared in my bathing suit in my late teens.    "OOOOH!  OOH!  OOH!"  Deep throaty noises to trumpet the arrival of longer and darker hair on the backs of my thighs.  Back of your thigh hair is impossible to really pay attention to unless you spend a lot of time feeling yourself up or trying to wrap your own legs around your head.  So I blithely went around for years, unaware of my Zorba-esque rear view.  I was befuddled.  I knew about the "if you shave it will come back darker and hairier" threat, but I hadn't shaved there!  Not since the first time when I was 11 and hadn't yet been advised against such insanity.  The lag time was incredible!  That back of my thigh hair was what prompted the  purchase of my first epilady to tear the offending colour and texture off those legs.

That epilady is now used to tear hair from the backs of my thighs, the fronts of my thighs, my inner thighs, my bikini line, the tops of my feet - HOLY FUCK!  I'VE BECOME A FREAKING HOBBIT!!! - the tops of my big toes.  It'd be used on my neck and my chin hairs if I weren't terrified that I might catch the not-quite-as-taut-as-it-used-to-be neck flesh in it's tweezing clutches.  The chicken skin behind my knees has suffered from that mistake and it hurts like fuck.



The denuding never happens as often as it should, usually before I know David and I will have sex or I'm having my physical or a massage.  Which is why it generally ends up being a rushed affair with imperfect results.  Days later, I'll be having that last nude before-bed-pee and look down and notice entire swaths of hair that I had missed.  The next quarter of an hour is spent with me shivering on the toilet, obsessively ripping the offending hairs from my person.

One day.  One day I shall have unlimited wealth and I shall have a team of strong young men (all ex-Olympic swimmers) to take care of my hair... scratch that.  They'd have to see me all hairy and orangutan-like.  Not going to happen.  Better to have the Eastern European Aesthetician wax me or - I'll save up the big bucks and have laser hair removal.  And then I will have that team of strong young men massage my smooth and hairless thighs - front and back and as far up the inside as I can, before it costs the extra bucks.

Thursday, October 3, 2013

Anyone else's kid do this?

"If you had a fake laugh what would it be?"  Rissa asks as we're walking to her dance studio. (We have one car, David takes it to school, if David's late at work, we have to figure transportation shit out.  Rissa opted for the walking option instead of biking.  This happened half way through our 15 minute walk.)

"Beg your pardon?"

"We all need a fake laugh!  You know, if you had to pretend that you thought something was funny, when you didn't really think it was funny - what kind of laugh would you have?  Would it be... you know...  (she trills) "Heee-heeee-heeee-heeee-heeee...  or... (she brays)  "AW-HAW-HAW-HAW-HAW-HAW..." or  (she snorts) "Giggle-giggle-snort-giggle..." or (she blarts) "Huh! HUUUUUUHH!  Huh-huh-huh..." or... (she machine guns) "Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh..."

I shoot her a look.

"My brain just thinks of these things. Sometimes I even confuse myself.   I'm saying this because so and so's brother laughed and I honestly thought it was a fake laugh.  I laughed because his laugh was so ridiculous. And that got me to thinking.  You have to have a fake laugh.  Just in case.  You know, for emergencies."

"I'd have to go for the Katharine Hepburn/Philadelphia Story  laugh."

She looked dumbfounded.  Dear GOD, she didn't know who Katharine Hepburn was.  I had failed her as a parent.  She'd never seen The Philadelphia Story.  She didn't understand the brilliance of casting Cary Grant, Jimmy Steward and Katharine Hepburn as the three corners in a near-perfect screwball comedy triangle.   It was then I made a solemn vow to educate her, as we should all educate our children in classic cinema - we shall batten down the hatches and make a weekend of it.


Wednesday, October 2, 2013

I'm too old for this S*&t!




 

I get Detective Murtaugh now.  I couldn't before, but now that I'm 45, I completely understand him.  Plus, I think he must have been some kind of super human.  How could he possibly do all he did with Martin Riggs, a man a good 15 years his junior, and not DIE from it?   How did he not actually DIE?   I can't even pull an all-nighter - without teetering on death.  I used to have an amazing bounce back rate... when I was 22.  Cripes, last night I stayed up until 11:30 p.m. and when I dragged my sorry ass out of bed at 7:25 this morning, I thought I might die.  Stuck in the middle of a sleep cycle, my brain needed a major reboot.

Now, I'm looking for my quick fix.  The bag of real coffee in the cupboard is calling to me.  Its siren voice had me stumbling towards it, before I remembered that caffeine is terrible for peri-menopausal women and I don't want to fall into its deliciously invigorating trap.  'Cept it'd be so much easier than coming out of this on my own.

I'm rehearsing for a play.  I've had to beg the other production members to reschedule end times of rehearsals - that is how pathetic I am.   "I can barely function after 9:00 p.m. Please, I am begging you, can we start at 7:00 p.m. and just go to 10:00?!?  PLEASE?"  And even now, if you were to take pictures of me during the last 45 minutes of rehearsal, you would find me in various states of yawn.

I used to laugh at my Mom when she would try to read a book in her Lazy-Boy.  It seemed like all she had to do was lift the book and crack its spine  before she was zonko.

"Do you want me to just wave it over your head Mom?  Might accomplish the same thing."

"You watch it!  This'll come back to bite you!"

Last night?  As I was struggling to study my lines?  The seconds between blinks grew longer and longer until I dropped the play on my face. ON MY FREAKING FACE!!!  Yet another thing I can't do in bed like I used to!

Tuesday, October 1, 2013

IT'S OCTOBER 1ST!!!!


Yellls Rissa as she flops down beside me in bed this morning.  She is VERY excited.

I stifle a yawn, wiping the sleep from my eyes.

"October 1st, huh?"

"YES!!!"

"And October is a good month?"

"It's the BEST month!!!  First off, there's TURKEY DAY (Canadian Thanksgiving is coming up in approx 12 days).  Then, there's the day AFTER Turkey Day where you get to make TURKEY SANDWICHES!!  Then the new book in the Divergent series - ALLEGIANT - comes out!!  Then there is the DANCE STUDIO HALLOWEEN PARTY and then... (she can barely contain herself) ...

IT'S HALLOWEEN!!!!

She leaps out of bed, skipping and singing, continuing her morning.

I turn to David.  "October is VERY exciting!"

"Apparently."

Monday, September 30, 2013

I think I might have to report my cat to Interpol...

Lola is a cat burglar. I mean literally. Our smallest black cat... burgles. She has a penchant for jewelry.  She must be part magpie. Which is a cute little quirk generally, except that a while back she stole one of my most adored pieces of jewelery - a pendant from my friend Shannon. I'm pretty sure Lola's stashed it in her secret cat cache of stolen goods. I'm hoping I'll be able to find it before she puts it on the black market.


And because she, like the other cats in the house, can't actually talk, she won't tell me where this secret cache is.  I've been looking under beds and dressers, carpets.  I've pleaded with her, tears have been shed, but to no avail.

Thing is?  This particular piece of jewelery is one of the last presents that my friend Shan gave to me before she died. I've been using it as a talisman - a memento amicus as it were. I would feel the roundness of the blown glass against my throat and it would calm me, I'd feel better, feel closer to her, the pain would disperse just that little bit. And you need that when you've lost a friend so young in life.  She was only 41. I desperately needed that object I could palm in my hand and think She touched this too.  She chose this with love.

I keep thinking, Maybe it'll be here, in the bottom of this bag. I'll step on something under a rug and my heart will leap, Is this it?? And it never is. And it's now been months and when I reach for it in my jewelery box there are mornings I'm near tears with its loss.

So I'm going to find another one; or have it made... whatever the case, I will have a pendant of the same shape, size and colour and I will imbue it with all my best memories of her. It is, after all, just an object. Shannon was not that piece of turquoise and lavender glass. But in my mind somehow, this object had become that tie to her. My attempts to describe her would probably sound corny and clichéd.  But those clichés become what they are because there is that truth in them, that truth to them.

Shannon was a fierce friend. Shannon's smile could power the Eastern Seaboard in a blackout. Shannon had this ridiculous vaudeville-esque finger magic trick, that wasn't her trick at all, but rather her version of her father's trick, that always made me laugh. Shannon would sing to you because the lyrics of that particular song were perfect for the moment and would bring you solace. I haven't beatified her in death. I didn't have to. She was pretty damned perfect on her own. Which is why instead of bemoaning my lost tie to her, I'm making another one that I can hold and take comfort in. And if that disappears into the ether, I'll create another. Its tangible weight in my hand will give me strength. Just as she did.

Love you Shan.





Friday, September 27, 2013

I just ate my own weight in waffles.

Behold the waffle iron!

The best laid plans and all that...  It's the pumpkin's fault.  I had 3/4 of a can of leftover pumpkin in the fridge that I had to use up before it turned into a science experiment.  You know the kind of experiments I'm talking about...   Where a day in the not-so-distance future you think, Hey, I know!  I have leftover pumpkin that I can use for this recipe of cake/muffins/waffles and then you open the container and you have to swallow that little bit of mouth vomit when you're met by green and white pillows of mouldy-mould.

Making waffles is an adventure at the best of times, but for me, first thing in the morning, it takes every single last little bit of my focus.  Turns out, I'm not so good at math first thing in the morning.  And seeing as I decided that I would double the batch of waffle batter to use up more of the pumpkin, I found myself having to do a lot of fractional math... first thing in the morning.

Doubling  1 3/4 cups of milk shouldn't cause a person this much distress.

Okay... 1 and 3/4 doubled is...  nnnnnnnope, AIN'T gonna happen.  

I'll try it this way:  1 doubled is 2.    YAY!  We have 2!   

3/4 doubled is 1.5.  We have 1.5.  

2 + 1.5 = 3.5 cups.  3.5 cups?  That sounds like a lot of milk.   Better double check.

1+1=2  

3/4 +3/4 = 1 1/2

2 + 3.5= 5.5?!?  What the???  Where did the 3.5 come from?  (Flour coated fingers rub my furrowed brow.)  AHHHHH!  First total.  We're good.  3.5

***

4 teaspoons of baking powder

Which means it's really 8 teaspoons.  That's too many teaspoons - there's no possible way I can keep track of 8 teaspoons. Time for conversions.

4 teaspoons is 1 tablespoon + 1 teaspoon.

Doubled = 2 tablespoons + 2 teaspoons!!

A recipe that should take about 5 minutes to whip together, takes me, first thing in the morning, when doing fractional math, at least 15 minutes.  (Note to self - write the double batch amount in the margin next time.)  But once the batter was mixed, we were good to go.  It seemed a little extra thick (must be all those ground pecans in the pumpkin pecan waffles), but waffle number one went on the waffle iron.  When the "I'm DONE" beep sounded, I pried the waffle from the iron's grip.  I'm pretty sure that this single waffle weighed 12 lbs.  David ate that one.

"Wow.  This is a WAFFLE!!!"  He growled masculinely for effect.  "WAFFFLE!!!  No one mess with me today, I'm full of WAFFLE!!!"

I added a little more milk.  Maybe it should have been 5.5 cups of liquid.  I still had to smooth out the batter on the iron with an extra spoon, pat it down, convince it to be smaller.  After Rissa said she didn't need a second waffle, I knew that these waffles might be the equivalent to Arctic Bannock.  I tried to the thin the batter out some more and continued to cook.  Eventually, I had a stack of waffles beside the iron, precariously perched ... the Leaning Tower of Waffles as it were.

Moments before physics kicked in.
I turned my back to put something in the fridge and I heard a somewhat moist, heated thud.  Half the waffles had disappeared. What the?  DAMN IT!    I knew I should have moved them!  I looked beside the stove.  There in our extra plastic bag stash - easily a dozen suicidal waffles.


Their own weight was too much for them.  My haphazard placement of the stack could not have been countered - I'd begun my own elaborate Waffle Jenga game and had lost.  Thankfully they fell into the extra plastic bag stash - (the top bags, I quickly calculated, had been placed just the day before - thank God) , not on the floor and could be salvaged.  We now have 126 waffles in our freezer in aluminum foil covered batches of 3 so the next time I get the bright idea to make waffles first thing in the morning we have 42 opportunities to eat them.    Lesson Learned:  Make waffles the night before.

Thursday, September 26, 2013

Just shoot me now... still...

Instead of writing an entirely new post about the perils of peri-menopause and its attending hot flashes from hell, I'm reposting this, on account of the fact that I'm pretty sure I almost died last night and can't write anything new today...

Is it hot in here?

I awoke in the midst of another horrific hot flash.  Stumbling and growling all the way down the stairs - David and Rissa's eyes got really big as I stomped my way into the kitchen. I was fanning my face with my hands and flapping my arms to get air into my armpits.

"I'm not even going to ask," I said.

"If it's hot in here?" David replied.

"Yes, I'm not asking, because..."

"It's not hot," Rissa cheerfully piped up.  "It's just you."

"Awesome!  That is just freaking AWESOME!!!"  I open the freezer and grab a velcro ice pack and strap it around my neck.



"Interesting look," said David, ignoring the laser beams coming out of my eyes.  He then leaned in to whisper at my ear, "Are you going for an auto-erotic asphyxiation type look?"  I growled at him.

"I am only  44 years old," I griped, as I attempted to start my coffee.  "44 YEARS OLD!!!  My Mom had hot flashes until she was 60!!!  You could have to live with THIS (I point violently to myself, drawing a wide, erratic circle around my head) for another SIXTEEN years!!!"  I grab the soy milk and my hazelnut flavouring.  The mug is warm.  "THIS MUG IS TOO WARM TO HOLD!!!"

Rissa then giggled, which let me know that David must have done something behind my back.   
"WHAT???  What did he do?  Did he just make a 'she's crazy' gesture?!?"

"Nope, not at all.  Un-unh.  Nope."  Both of them looked all sweet and innocent.  David had the decency to look chagrined before admitting "I just raised my eyebrows like this."  (He demonstrated.)   It's the 'Oh boy, fasten your seatbelts' look.  Even though I really, really wanted to... I did not bludgeon him.

"How about I make you an iced capp?  Would that help?"  He moved swiftly out of my arm's reach.

"Maybe," I pouted.  Then I realized what he was offering.  "Yes please.  (sigh)  David, you just don't understand.  I can't do this to you guys for another 16 years.  You'll lose your minds.  You can't be walking on eggshells all that time.  That's not fair to you!  I am considering hormone replacement.  THIS (again another  finger circling my skull for emphasis), is making me consider HRT!!!  It's not supposed cause as much cancer now, but I can't be on hormone replacement for SIXTEEN years!  That's just asking for bad shit to happen to my body!!!  I have enough bad shit happening to my body already!!"

It was at that point that Rissa led me to the kitchen table, sat me down and patted me on my arm in a gesture of placation.  David then put the iced capp into my hand.  It was cool and delicious and took my mind off the volcano in my torso.

What if I commit major crimes before I actually make it to Menopause?  This is only PERI-Meonopause - and already I'm pretty much out of my mind.  Can I make it through another SIXTEEN years?  And more importantly, will I be able to use it as an excuse in court?  Like, for when I murder someone when they look at me funny or drive slowly in front of me or chew with their mouths open?!?   The only upside to jail is that the metal bars will proabably be cool when I bang my head on them.


Wednesday, September 25, 2013

I want to... but I can't!

I don't know if it's ALL nature vs nurture or vice versa.  But I DO know that perfectionism is genetic.  Rissa got her perfectionist streak directly from her father's side of the family...  from her paternal grandmother to her father to her.  From the ages of two to about seven, Rissa would melt down when she couldn't complete a task.  She was unwilling to fail at anything.  If she couldn't get it on the first try, that child imploded. She wasn't much of a tantrum thrower, but man that kid could simply refuse to communicate.  She would hide behind chairs, tables, simply close her eyes to shut you out.  The stubborn crossing of the arms stance was a staple reaction for my kid. 

I remember her, age four, at AirZone.  AirZone was one of those party places with jumpy castles, big slides and obstacle courses.  Rissa was determined to go down the 20 foot slide.  DETERMINED.  It was a big frickin' slide.   She got all excited and climbed to the top of that monster slide.  Then she looked down the slide and understandably panicked.  It was a LONG way down.  She sat at the top of that slide for a good 15 minutes, letting child after child after child in front of her.

"Rissa sweetie, you don't have to go down honey.  Just climb down the ladder.  It's okay hon."

"NOOOOOOO!"

"Sweetie, it's okay.  Just climb down the ladder..."

"No Mummy!  NOOOOOOOO!"

I couldn't take it any more.  My heart was about to burst.  There was my little girl sitting up at the top of that slide quietly sobbing, mumbling to herself like some some sort of JK schizophrenic.  I climbed up and went down with her - even though it was against the rules.  The minute we reached the bottom, she climbed up again to the top, still determined that she would go down on her own.

"Sweetie, you don't have to do this.  This is a big kids' slide..."

"Mummy I want to!"

"Then just go ahead and do it!"

"I want to!"

"You can do it!"  I put on my best RAH! RAH! voice.

"I want to... "

"You can..."

"I want to... BUT I CAN'T!!!!!"

There might as well have been a pit of rabid, slathering Hounds of Hell, covered in barbed wire at the bottom of that slide, instead of a safe, bouncy landing - she was petrified.  Desperate to go down, but terrified of the drop.  Other parents in the joint looking at me like I'm torturing my kid.  Don't look at me!  I don't need her to go down the slide!  This is ALL her.  I am just a terrified bystander.

45 minutes we waited it out.  Her yelling occasionally from the top, me doing my best to keep my voice calm and give her support. The backs of my legs were bruised from where I had wedged them so firmly under my chair seat to stop me from leaping up to rescue her.  See, I'd said that I wouldn't come get her again.  I'd drawn the line in the sand.  Was it the wrong line in the sand?  Probably.  I should have probably climbed up again, hefted her under one arm and left the building, but for whatever reason, this rite of passage seemed to mean more to her than being the focus of attention for all the patrons of AirZone, so I was all in.

And sure enough after that 45 minutes and countless "I WANT TO... BUT I CAN'TS!!!", she went down.  ONCE.

"I'm so proud of you sweetie!  Good for you!!"  How was I supposed to  play this now?  Do I encourage a second trip down?  Do I just zip my lip?  Zipping the lip is never really my thing.  "Do you want to....?"  I left the end of the sentence hanging there, my tone ambiguous.

"No, Mummy.  I'm good.  I know I can do it now."  Then she ran off to be a four year old again.




Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Did you feel the earthquake?

8:02 a.m. Eastern Time.  I was dozing in bed, desperate to grab any extra resting time.  The smallest of shudders had me opening my eyes.  The bed was moving.  It stopped.  I must have been dreaming it.  (I was somewhat stoned on a cocktail of ibuprofen and acetaminophen - DAY 1 of my period.  I'd arisen at 6:30 and doped myself up as best as I could - building a chemical fortress against the cramping.)  The bed moved again, more violently, for a longer period of time.  What the...?  I sat up - ready to grab onto the bedside table lamp in case it crashed to the ground.  Was this the BIG ONE?

Then I saw her.  Minuit.  Our biggest and most irritable of cats.  She was on the bed.  Scratching behind her left ear.  Raccoon-like in size, when Minuit uses her full energy to scratch behind her ears, it can apparently be mistaken for an earthquake. Our fat cat has some incredibly powerful haunches.  She could double as the motor for one of those cheap motel vibrating beds.



I slumped back down onto my back.  I could maybe steal another 30 minutes of pseudo-sleep before having to get up and get ready for work.  If I did nothing more than brush my teeth and put deodorant on, I could maybe have 40 minutes. 

Knowing that I was awake, Minuit made her way up the bed... Doing her best Edward G. Robinson*  "Meah.... Meah...,"  she placed her front paws on my stomach and began to palpate, which this morning, with the strength of her considerable weight behind her?  Was the best ovarian massage that I've ever felt.  There are definite perks to having a fat cat.


*Minuit sounds exactly like Mel Blanc
doing an impersonation of Edward G. Robinson.
  At 2:17 into the clip you get the full effect.

Instead of "Yeah, Yeah" insert "Meah, Meah."

Monday, September 23, 2013

Co-Sleeping vs the World

Three days after she was born, Rissa came home from the hospital.  I was adamant that she sleep in her crib.  David was in a state of paternal panic.  "But she... How will we... What if she?"  Having spent the first three days after my c-section NOT sleeping in the hospital, I was nearly hysterical with exhaustion.  "I NEED to sleep.  I will not sleep if I'm worried I'm going to roll over on her.  Please, for the love of all things holy, PLEASE... LET... ME... SLEEP!"

Rissa slept in the crib...  Until 2:00 a.m., when David brought her into our bed, whereupon I nursed her and then she slept between us, each parent precariously perched on the side of the double bed, infant flat on her back in the middle, blissfully unaware.  Boom!  Pattern set.  Crib for naps and the first part of the night, parents' bed from the middle-of-the-night feeding on.  I'm sure that my mother was horrified, but it worked for us.

Full-time co-sleeping with the infant or even toddler version of Rissa wasn't practical.  Rissa is the most violent sleeper in the world.  She flails her limbs and has 22 elbows which connect with eye sockets, bridges of noses and kidneys.  Plus?  I've always been a selfish sleeper.  Even more so in those first couple of years of parenthood.  I jonesed for sleep.  I wanted time with David to snuggle, even if it wasn't for sex.  'Cause we all know that first year after the baby - is NOT about sex.  A little dirty spooning with one's spouse is a perk I was unwilling to give up.

Seems recently - a decade after I had to really worry about it with Rissa, there is a great hue and cry over Co-Sleeping or Bed-Sharing.   Even Maclean's did a huge cover story on it. It's this dirty little secret.  And we North Americans love our dirty little secrets don't we?  Sure, I will fully admit that until very recently, I thought that parents who slept with their 4, 5, and 10 year olds were out of their gourds.  But  that's because I was and am a selfish sleeper who wanted to have sex in my own bed and that greatly affected my feelings on co-sleeping.  PLUS?  North American society makes you feel like a parental pariah if you 'give in' to your kids. The online forums dedicated to parents asking when they should stop co-sleeping, how long to co-sleep, whether they should co-sleep are all based on societal and familial constraints that tell them they're doing something wrong.   But hey!  If it works for your family - if it means that you're not spending hours of negotiating or constantly getting up and down with your kids and you actually get some sleep?  YAY YOU!!  Congratulations!  You're coping!!  Better to be sane and cramped in your own bed than exhausted and sleep-deprived, I'm thinking.  The kid will not ask you to sleep with them when they head off to university.

North American Pediatric societies do their best to convince parents that co-sleeping is unsafe and preach that it increases the risk of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS).  Here is a particularly lurid ad from Milwaukee's Department of Health.


It doesn't help new parents when studies such as the one released by the British Medical Journal in May of 2013 tell them that co-sleeping infants below the age of 3 months are FIVE TIMES as likely to suffer SIDS than non co-sleeping infants. "No really, go ahead and sleep with your baby, if you want to KILL it."
 
Thing is?  The North American 'norm' of infants sleeping in a separate crib ain't really the 'norm.'   Throughout the world, infants share their parents' beds, or are least within arms' reach, often for the first couple of years.  Yet now in North America, co-sleeping is the latest in divisive parenting practices.  God forbid that you admit that you co-sleep.  The raised eyebrows, the generational 'tut-tutting' with grandparents and older relatives.  "We NEVER slept with our kids..." "She won't be independent..." "You're not doing him any favours..." "You'll never be able to cut the apron strings..."

We North Americans are so frickin' sure of ourselves.  We're so much smarter than the rest of the world, except when we're not.    As middle-class North Americans living in houses where almost everyone has their own bedroom, we don't remember that most of the world doesn't have that luxury and yet they have somehow, miraculously, managed to raise independent and successful members of society.  With industrialization in first world countries, breastfeeding went out of vogue, it wasn't until the late 60s, early 70s that we clued in that, as mammals, perhaps our young might be better off if they were getting the nutrients that they were supposed to.  And breast milk?  It doesn't fill up that infant's tummy the way that formula does, hence they get hungrier through the night.  Hence more waking up, hence more opportunities for co-sleeping.  We're so worried about seeming 'civilized' that our children are expected to be self-sufficient, sleep through the night and generally silent from 3 months of age onward. 

New parents in North America are terrified of SIDS.  That fear, accompanied with articles throwing around percentages and the phrase FIVE TIMES AS LIKELY telling you that co-sleeping will KILL your baby -  are convincing parents that co-sleeping with an infant is wrong when most of the world is managing to do it just fine.  Strangely enough, these international co-sleepers don't have high SIDS rates and when they grow up aren't running around wetting themselves and unable to make decisions as adults. 

How 'bout this?  If you feel like co-sleeping and it works for your family,  embrace that decision.  Tell other people to mind their own frickin' business and that you're coping alright thanks.   A few caveats: Put your baby to sleep on their back.  Don't sleep with your infant on the sofa or in a waterbed.  Don't get drunk or consume drugs and then go to sleep with your infant.  Sleep in a big bed with lots of space for the 6 of you in it if you have an infant there with you.    This is your parenting journey - if you are happy with it, don't let anyone else tell you differently.

Here's some other reading just to really confuse the issues:
 

Friday, September 20, 2013

And that's how you have your car stolen...

Our car was stolen last night, right from our driveway.  The theiving bastards took it right from our freaking driveway!!!  Our driveway!!!  We were violated!!!  Except we weren't.  And it wasn't.  And they didn't.

I had driven the car to the theatre downtown for rehearsal and then walked home, having forgotten that I'd driven there.  But for that brief moment before I could tell David that I had taken it to the theatre and forgotten I had taken it - our car had been stolen.  That 15 seconds of panic was a helluva kickstart to our day, I'll tell you.

"I'm sorry!!"

"It's okay."

"I'm sorry!!!"

"It's okay, I'll call Shawn and tell him I'll be a few more minutes."  (David carpools with another dude named Shawn.)

"I'M SOOOOOOOOOO SORRY!!!!"  

"The PANIC is strong with this one."
Whereupon, he took my face in his hands.  "Heather.  Heather.  Look at me."

"I SUCK!"

"HEATHER.  IT.  IS. OKAY." 

The problem is, we live about a 6 minute walk from the theatre downtown.  Hence, I rarely drive down there. I usually walk.  I take pride in my walking.  I scoff at people who drive instead of walking the 6 minutes.  But last night I had a shitload of costumes I had to take in which I didn't want to carry over my arms as I walked, on account of my stupid Super Spinatus injury, so I drove.  And then I completely spaced out that I'd taken the car and blithely walked home at the end of the night.  My route home doesn't take me past our driveway, so not having the car parked in the driveway couldn't have even jogged my memory.  I was completely clueless.

Has it really come to this?  Am I now losing cars?  We're so screwed.  It's time for dementia testing.  Rule of thumb: If you forget where you put your car, that's forgetfulness.  If you forget what car does, that's dementia.  (pause)  Nope, we're good.

Thursday, September 19, 2013

Good thing I never did crack!

Did you ever smell something SO GOOD that its presence within your nasal cavity brought you close to orgasm?  Something so delicious, that you clenched with everything inside you and had a full on frisson go down your spine, making you gasp?  That's me, walking past the open door of a bakery.  The smell of bread, or cinnamon buns or anything with gluten in it can almost get me off.

Restaurants, while you're waiting for your appetizers and main courses, will bring you a basket of fresh warm, saliva-inducing bread.  Bread is now, and has always been, my downfall.  I remember eating those buns that you could get from the deli department.  The ones in the bins - big fluffy buns with airy delicious wheaty centres.  I would just eat them with butter.  Nothing else.  No protein source anywhere close to the carbohydrate. Just pale yellow, delicious butter.  Wolfing them down, already thinking about the second one before I had finished the first one.  Pasta was the same.  I could be half way finished with a bowl of spaghetti and jonesing for the second helping.

Trouble was/is I'm hypoglycemic and those sorts of carbohydrates metabolize into sugar faster than you can say "Oh God, Oh GOD - I want to hump this bread!"  I basically get high off simple carbohydrates.  Have a wheaty product with icing, like say, a cake, and you might as well roll me into rehab.  At my office there is leftover cake from a weekend event.  Approximately 18 pieces of cake slathered in icing remain in the box adjacent to our coffee area.  I walk by this box at least a half dozen times in a day.  It takes every ounce of self-control and Tourettes-like verbalization to stop myself.  "Don't do it!  DOOOOOOON'T!  Bad!  Very Bad! SUGAR!!! BAD!!!"  I may have, uh... devoured the icing off a side piece on Monday and then sat under my desk to wait for the effects to pass.  The box needs to disappear.




Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Nervous Nelly.

I was joking around.  Throwing out the one-liners.  Getting people to relax.  Chit-chatting.  Looking all unconcerned and unaffected by the process.  Slipped on my kick-ass heels and crossed my ankles delicately, doing my best to channel Julie London.

Then, as I walked in front of the auditioning panel, I felt those same ankles tremble. My feet, in those kick-ass heels caught the contagion.  Then my knees - leaving me feeling like I might have been on boat for too long.  Listening to the introductory chord of the song, my mouth opened, the nerves that had been pooling in my stomach traveled up my trachea and blarrrted from my throat.  Breathless, unsupported... trembly.  My right hand moved from my side and pushed against my diaphragm to add some manual strength.

Ann-Margret from her 1966 USO tour to Vietnam
I excel at public speaking.  I can get up in front of a room, nay a theatre, an arena full of strangers and extemporize.  I'm completely fine, I'm one of the few people in the world who LIKES public speaking.   I enjoy cracking wise - love to get people to relax with laughter.  Public speaking is my sweet spot.  Acting auditons are a breeze.

Me, standing in front of a panel of people prepping for a singing audition?  I freak the fuck out.  My body betrays me, I can't support my tone.  The song which had power and control at home in front of my daughter and husband - becomes this mediocre thing.  In my ears it becomes a sharing of 'meh' with people.  Leaving me wondering, is that note flat or sharp?  Second-guessing each breath, each belt, each tone.

Later, when I'd had a chance to calm down, to get rid of my vocal heebie-jeebies, they tested my range.  No longer nervous, I could hit that out of the park.  Now that I'm older, my used-to-be lyric soprano has tempered and I can hit low notes, nice chesty notes, my own version of Nina Simone notes.   I've still got some range at the top.  My break isn't too defined.  I can belt the hell out a song when I'm not nervous.  I had to be taught to sing softly - I Ethel Mermaned my way through singing when I was young.   Great big voice, no control.  Took me years to sing pianissimo

I have been auditioning for 34 freaking years.  Since I was 11.  At what point in a performer's career do the nerves disappear?  At what point is my body going to believe in me?

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Enter the Navel Squid

"Do you want to see what my navel can do?"  We're in the grocery store.  Rissa is in full-on lunatic mode. She has been tying bunny ears on all the bags of our vegetables.  You know... so they'll be securely closed and it'll look like we have an entire cart full of transparent rabbits.  (I really shouldn't be surprised. I think it's genetic.  My father used to race down the aisles of grocery stores with the shopping cart, much to my mother's embarrassment.)

Apparently, Rissa's navel can climb buildings.

"What... it pops off your body, and all on its own...?"

"No!  Noooooo!  It has a Navel Squid, that can come out and use its suction cups you know, ON things."

"I think I need an example."

"Like this."  Rissa's lifts up her shirt to expose her belly button and then she violently assaults my side with her stomach, making a sucking noise deep in her throat.

"It can also push shopping carts..." She detaches from my side and 'sucks' onto the handle of the shopping cart, pushing it forward with her abdomen, a low squelching noise accompanying her movement.

On the way home, her navel squid was singing to me - an extended version of her usual navel trumpet voluntary...



Later... at bedtime.

She is doing the a capella version of Broadway Here I Come from the second Season of Smash (the best and worst in T.V.), desperately trying to figure out the percussive accompaniment at the foot of her bed. She is clapping and snapping and stomping her feet.  She should have been in bed at least 15 minutes ago.

"You need to get into bed.  It is bed time now.  Go to sleep."

Dejectedly, she climbs into her bed.  I make to turn the light off.

"Wait!  Wait!  I need to just... please may I just have one tiny spaz out?  Just a little one.  Like for 18 seconds or so?"

"Fine.  You may spaz out for 18 seconds."

She does her best Linda Blair impersonation for 18 seconds, then lies panting.

"You done?"

"International solvent!!"

"What?"

"International solvent in my nose to calm me down when I'm like this at bedtime!!  I'd be all like... (she moves her head frenetically to and fro...) WHOA... HEY!  WHOA... (She then mimes having something sprayed up her nose, her eyes roll back, her head falls to the side and she lets out a deep throaty snore.)  "See?  Like that."

"International solvent?  Do you know what a solvent* is?"

"Yeah, it's like in nose drops or eye drops."

"Saline solution?  Is that what you think you mean?"

"Yeah."

"Cause a solvent is generally something used to dissolve things, like to dissolve paint."

"Don't put that in my nose!"  She is grasping my hands in hers, now panicked.

"I wasn't going to!"

"You can't put that in my nose!  What if my brain got all..."

"You have to stop talking."

"I can't."

"You have to try."

"This towel is all wet from my hair, I'm going to die of hypothermia."

"You are not going to die of hypothermia..."

"What if the hypothermia..."

My words, now muffled, because I have buried my own head in the towel-covered pillow beside her, "Why won't you stop talking?"

"Because I love you?"

"I love you too.  Now stop talking."


*I had to look it up.  She was right.

sol·vent  (slvnt, sôl-)
adj.
1. Capable of meeting financial obligations.
2. Chemistry Capable of dissolving another substance.
n.
1. Chemistry
a. A substance in which another substance is dissolved, forming a solution.
b. A substance, usually a liquid, capable of dissolving another substance.
2. Something that solves or explains.

A solvent could totally be used to dissolve her insanity at bedtime.  It's like she's some sort of dada-esque savant.



Monday, September 16, 2013

How to create your very own Lord of the Flies...

Step 1: Rent a 70 foot long inflatable obstacle race with 10 foot slide exit.

Step 2: Let children know they can use it.

Step 3: Turn your back for the briefest of moments.

Beautiful bucolic fall day.  Sun shining, birds singing, crisp air.  As the inflatable sought form on the pavement, rosy-cheeked, tow-headed tots and youth lined up champing at the bit to have the okay to enter.  "Is it ready yet?"  "Can we go on now?"  "When can we use it?"  "This is for US?!?"

They marvelled at this amazing engineering feat.  "It's HUGE!!!"  "Look at the climbing wall!!"  "I'm going to spend the rest of my LIFE on this!"  We gave them rules:  Two people at a time on the slide.  Watch out for the little ones.  Have Fun.  We'll be watching from right over here.

Happy shrieks filled the air.  There was much giggling and skipping around to use the course. Then, the children devolved.  And by children, I mean the boys.  After 15 minutes,  boys between the ages of 10 and 13, chose the top of the slide as their 'castle,' refused to let any girls up and gleefully tossed smaller boys over the edge to their 'death.'  "HAH!  You're DEAD!  We just pushed you over the cliff!!"

 Lord of the Flies 1963 - directed by Peter Brook

15 minutes.  Civility was lost in 15 minutes.  Smiles and giggles gave way to the tears and hiccupping sobs of small-to-medium-sized children.  "They boys w... w... won't... let us up there!!"  "He p...p... pushed us over the top of the slide!"  "I don't w...w...want to worship the severed pig's head!"

We then had to install several young adults at the top of the slide to ensure that chaos would no longer reign.  15 minutes folks.  It wasn't hours, it wasn't days.  They weren't lost on an island.  They were within sight of ALL their parents.  It took 15 minutes.  Thank God I had the conch.