And that's how I almost screwed us out of financial freedom!

I will be unstable for the next 7.5 weeks.  I give you all fair warning.   Do NOT tease me.  Not now.  In fact, do not tease me for the next 7.5 weeks.  Treat the next 7.5 weeks as if I am hormonally unbalanced.  I am very fragile.  It ain't hormones - it's house.

We sold our house.  After years of trying (off and on), somehow, around Christmas Break, the stars aligned just right  and it... sold.  It wasn't even on the market.

A friend who recently became a real estate agent said, "Hey, what's happening with your house?  Is it still on the market?'

And we said, "No, but if you know people who want a ginormous century home, what the hell, bring 'em by."

So two days later she did.  She showed the house.  We got an email after the showing:   "The people loved it!!  They are asking about taxes, heating and hydro costs. Also they asked about possible March closing."

David and I were nonplussed.    People never asked about closing dates with our house.  Never.  After years, we'd become very accustomed to people saying that they loved the house.  It's a 2.5 story red brick century home - it has servants' staircases and a butler's pantry.  Everybody loves the house. But it usually goes like this:  "They loved the house..."  And then after the (dot, dot, dot)...   the agent says,  "They don't like the neighbourhood."  "It's too big."  "There are too many stairs."  "They don't like the yard."  "They don't like your neighbours' dogs."  (I didn't even know my neighbours had dogs.)

So even after this particularly positive response, David and I were, "Yeah, whatever, they liked the house.  Sure they did, mmmm-hmmmm.  Here are all our utilities costs.  Go ahead and let them see them... whatever... "

And then, by the end of that week, they wanted to come by and see it again.  With their daughter.  And David and I were all, "Yeah, sure they can see it again... with their daughter... whatever..."  Unaffected scoffing followed.

And then they made an offer.  David and I kept looking at each other.  Seriously?  We have an offer on the house?  Seriously?!?  

It was during the offer period that I started to become unstable.  They offered 24 K less, we countered with 12 K less, figuring we could eliminate some of the negotiations, and then they came back 2,000 under our counter offer but they wanted the kitchen island included.  The kitchen island?!?  The kitchen island which was an exclusion?!?   I went cuckoo-bananas.  

That island was an exclusion!  It was listed as an exclusion!  They offered less and they wanted my island!?!  All my love for this home immediately concentrated into that kitchen island.  David and I had sourced the base at an antique store.  It was a 1920's medical table.  With push-through drawers and a tip up back and a pull-out end and two places if you wanted stirrups - which come to think of it, means that there were naked ladies up there showing their hoohas on that table...  But that's not the point!  The point is that this table - along with the hand-crafted maple butcher block top that David created for it - became the perfect  movable island.  It became MY perfect movable island.  And now these people offered us less and were trying to steal it from me.  David and I went upstairs to talk.

I shook my head violently.  "Nope.  No way.  They cannot have that island! NO!!!"

"For the sake of a sale, are you really going to worry about it?"

"Yes!  Yes I am!  The house wasn't even on the market!  We didn't ask them to make an offer!  They offer us less than our very reasonable counter-offer, and then they want my island?!?  Well, they can't have it!!  I will  accept their stingy counter-offer, but that's it!  NO ISLAND!!!"

"So you would be willing to walk away from this deal, even though we've been trying to sell for what seems like forever, for the sake of that island?"

"Yes.  Yes, I would."

So I tromped downstairs, grumbling all the way.  We countered back, without the island, and then had to wait to see if my sudden attachment to furniture was worth screwing us out of a house deal.  A house deal that would, for the first time since we had owned this home, have us relatively debt free.  Oh God, I changed my mind!  They could have the stupid island.  They were going to walk away.  I went crazy and now they were going to walk away.  Except they didn't.

They accepted our counter-offer, without the island, and scheduled a house inspection.  And then they signed off on the house inspection.  And then we signed papers and everything.  The house was sold.  We had sold our house.  HOLY CRAP!  We'd sold our house.  Whoo-freaking-hoo!!  I started a happy 'sold our house' dance... "We sold our hou-ouse!  We sold our hou-ouse!  We sold our...  Oh crap!  Now we have to a buy a new one!  In just over 2 months' time.  Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap!"  

I think that's when David handed me the paper bag.

Wrong shirt, wrong bra...

You know those days?  The days when you think you look a certain way, but then, when you catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror, you realize that you are overly optimistic?  Yesterday morning was one of those days.  Yesterday morning the armpit pudge was particularly pulchritudinous.  The bastards. 

I was dressed, ready to hop on the treadmill - one of my tightest sports bras and my old Les Mis t-shirt adorning my torso.  Standing at the kitchen island, I was eating my breakfast.   Across from me was our antique window mirror.  I actually did a small spit take of orange juice.  My two extra front boobs - the ones that hide near my armpits, were more than just visible - they were a solid A cup. 

"ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!?"

"What?  What?!?" asks David.

"THIS!"  I point to the offending armpit pudge.  "THESE."  Poke.  Poke. (And then a double-time, cross-torso, more accusatory) Poke-Poke.  I lie across the kitchen island and wail, banging my head on the butcher block top.

"Heather - it's the bra.  The bra is too tight.  That's not usually how you look."

"But it's how I look right NOW!"  Thud.  Thud.  Thud.  "I shouldn't have THESE."  Poke. Poke.  "I exercise at least an hour every freaking day!  THESE shouldn't exist.  How much do I have to exercise to get rid of THESE?!?"

This is one of those moments when David knew not to say anything - it could go very quickly from bad to worse if he spoke.  He just waited.

"Stupid thyroid!   Stupid peri-menopause!"

David remained silent.  Blood, I'm sure, filling his mouth from his bitten tongue.

My head fell to my chest.  I took a deep breath, lifted my head and squared my shoulders.  "FUCK IT!"  I tucked the armpit pudge into the bra.  "I'm getting on the treadmill.  I don't want to see YOU again. " (I gave a meaningful glance to the offending flesh with an accompanying Poke. Poke) "Do you hear that?  I will exercise and I will take this too-tight bra off and you will go back to AAA size.  Got that?!?"  I climbed the stairs.  "I will not perform cosmetic surgery on myself, I will not perform cosmetic surgery on myself..."

And that's when I peed my pants... again.

So yesterday, when I was publicizing the - FLASH FREEZE WARNING - I should have realized that it would come back and bite me in the ass.

By 9:45 a.m. the puddles were already sporting a thin sheet of ice.   I found myself in a a reverse time-lapse of the spring thaw.  In my well-laced Sorels, I picked my way tentatively across the back alley by St. Michael's Church.  I was doing my best to channel Wash from Firefly "I am a leaf on the wind... "  The gusts would not affect me, they would only propel me on my journey.  I was rock steady.  My toes were antennae in front of me, my gaze firmly on the frigid pavement.  I could actually see the crystallizations forming ahead of me in the path of the wind. 

When I was in my early twenties - I'd taken a wicked fall while heading down an icy hill towards my apartment's dumpster.  It was a prat fall of cartoon proportions - the conclusion of which had me landing so hard on my ass that I put a hairline fracture in my tailbone.  For months afterwards, I was terrified to walk on anything but a level surface.

Congratulating myself on my courageous trek across the frozen terrain, I ramped up my confidence and  headed cross-country towards my office.  Stump. Stump.  Stump.  Not slipping here, no Sir, not me.    Stump. Stump.  Stump.  Carefully going uphill.  Stump.  Stump.  Stu....  An instant of footing uncertainty - the adrenaline of catching myself before the fall creating the perfect conditions for a slight panic pee.  Seriously?!?  Steady on my feet, shoulders now slumped, I cursed my lazy pelvic floor.  Okay, no more cross-country for me.  The short cut across the skating rink of a lawn, even in my Sorels, was too hazardous to contemplate.  I walked on the road and arrived alive.

By the end of the day, the wind had picked up.  David had suggested that he could pick me up on his way home from school, but I poo-poohed his concerns.  If I walked I could already be home by the time he even got to the office.  Nope, I was good. I was now confident in my walking ability.  I'd stick to the salted sidewalks.   

I should have just walked on the road, with the cars. Two near falls and two more brief panic pees had me cursing and vowing to do more Kegels at home.  Heart pumping - now doubting myself, I barely had time to register the fall when it happened.  I was up, up, up in the air and then I was down - hard - on my ass. No time even to curse - barely time to acknowledge that the most recent of panic pees was bigger than the previous two.  I lay there stunned, but already finding the bright side.  Though the pain in my ass radiated throughout my entire body and I had peed my pants even more - I knew that I hadn't landed directly on my tailbone.  Small victory to be sure, but so much better than the alternative.

When I tried to get up, my ass and hips wouldn't cooperate.  So I just lay there for a bit - the cold on my ass already helping with the swelling. When I did turn over, my knees slipped from under me and I was flat on my stomach - now I'd knocked the wind out of myself.   I had to laugh. It was ridiculous - I was ridiculous.   Someone should have videotaped it.  I crawled from the sidewalk onto the road.  I'm not sure, but we may have entered a new geological age in the time it took for me to push myself to standing.  It was still another 10 minutes of carefully picking my way along the road before I made it to our street.  Every few moments I would cheerfully call out to the other crazy people attempting to travel by foot,  "Careful!  It's icy down there!"  I would point to where I'd been and then point to my own ass in Canadian Winter Sign Language.

I shuffled towards sanctuary.  The sidewalk in front of our house and the stairs were already salted and safe.  My husband, who had offered to pick me up at work, who worried for my safety, had beaten me home.  The irony was not lost on me.

Wet enough for you?

I'm Canadian.  An Air Force brat, I split my formative years between the Maritimes and Prairies (PEI, Manitoba, Nova Scotia, back to Manitoba - with a brief anomaly in California in '81 and '82 - until I finished high school and then I found myself an Ontarian).

I remember those winters in Nova Scotia and Manitoba where, as I child, I would pray for a Snow Day.  They happened infrequently - they held MIRACLE status in my mind.  Between the ages of 9 and 12, I lived in Nova Scotia's Annapolis Valley  - so many of the kids were bussed in from either the North or South 'Mountain,' that when it snowed, 3/4 of the school population would disappear.   In Winnipeg, heavy snowfall, combined with strong wind-chill, would shut 'er down perhaps twice over each winter.

I'd never had a wet winter until I moved to Ottawa.  November came and the locks froze on our car - we had to jackhammer sheets of ice off the windshield.  I was bone-chillingly cold - could never get warm.  I'd willingly take a cold sunny day in Manitoba over Ontario's damp overcast and icy.  Even with a crappy damp November, come December and straight through to the end of March it was winter - even in Southern Ontario.  There was snow.  It was cold.  Until there wasn't and it wasn't.

Sure, a 1.6 c raise in temperature over 50 years doesn't seem so bad - how can that affect anything?  It's January 6th folks, and it's raining in Southern Ontario.  We have a FLASH FREEZE WARNING.  Flash Freeze Warning?  It should already be frozen - we live in Canada!

"It's just slushy now," said David this morning, as he prepared to depart.  "Only wet.  It's raining.  The sidewalks are fine, the roads are fine."  And then he left.  To drive half an hour away.  And I let him, because I hadn't checked the morning's news yet.  And now I have read the morning's news - seen the warnings from Environment Canada and I've already left my first of what are sure to be several emails for him.

Yeah, sure, right now it hasn't frozen over. NOT YET.  You glance out your window and you see winter slush and actual puddles - nothing to worry about...  I'm not saying that it's a The Day After Tomorrow kind of storm,

I'm just worried about my spouse attempting to make his way back on the 401 at the end of his teaching day and whether or not I should try to drop off Rissa's skates at her school so that she can skate home.

Please be safe everyone.

My cat suffers from dementia.

You wouldn't think her head could do a 360 would you?

Or she's possessed.  It's an either/or I think.

We were all lazing about during the Christmas holidays - comfy and cozy in the family room - in front of the fireplace, and Minuit - the most crotchety of our beasts - went cuckoo bananas.

Not the most sociable of cats, Minuit routinely growls when the doorbell rings before waddling away to hide. This was different.  Nobody at the door.  No loud noises.  She wasn't startled by anything.  She's sitting there - eyebrows pitched in an evil tilt - growling... at... Lola.  Younger black feline Lola, is not a new addition to our household.  She's been here over 2 years now.  But there was Minuit - growling - her fur standing up on her neck. And then Lola, worried that she might get attacked - got her back up.  Deeper growling - yowls - our aged Minuit had morphed into the vocal equivalent of two tom cats marking their territory.  Deep, throaty, ANGRY growls - now at Steve, who wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

So?  What do we need here?  A cat whisperer or an exorcist?

And if it IS dementia - how do we properly deal with her new condition? 'Cause your gut impulse is to say, "Minuit, get a grip!  It's your sister Lola... Don't you remember her? (In a louder clear voice)  It's LOLA AND STEVE... YOU KNOW... LOLA AND STEVE..."  Which is possibly the worst thing that you can say to a dementia sufferer.  If they don't remember at that precise moment, they DON'T remember - calling them on it will only confuse them and make them more anxious.  (It's kind of like saying "No, Nana - you're losing your memory, but I'll badger you about it so that I'LL feel better.)

Not to anthropomorphize Minuit, but she does have a brain - so the next time that she loses it - maybe proper introductions are in order?  Spray the other cats with positive feline pheromones?  Suggestions?

But I'm a university graduate!

Now I doubt my intelligence and smell like cat shit.  Yes it's kitty litter day.

And every single time I forget  that I should be doing this job in a HAZMAT suit so that I don't reek of cat.  I should have kitty litter clothes.  I have painting clothes - the ones that I wear every time I paint - I should have kitty litter clothes so that the fallout from this particular chore doesn't cling to me like fecal remoras.

So much to scoop that I required two garbage bags - one for the crap and one 'just in case' bag because the other one was so full of clumping crap.

Bag No. 1 - not a problem.  Bag No. 2 - a cheap-ass No Frills kitchen garbage bag that tests one's patience, will to survive and mental intellect - had me ready to commit harakiri.  This video was made after I'd already been trying for 5 minutes to open it in the basement.

Hemorrhage in Aisle Three...

WARNING: There is an abundance of female information in this post

There I sit in Canadian Tire, my ass on the lowest rack in the Home Decor Aisle.

Fists in the air...  "THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING!!!"  

"Ma'am?"

For a moment, I morph into a Mesopotamian Demon.   Laser beams from my eyes - poor kid backs up, hands in front of him in placation...

"Do NOT call me Ma'am..."

From The IT Crowd

Sharp stabbing knives in my ovaries.  I growl.

"Are you alright?"

"I. AM. FINE.  I just need a second to... SWEET MOTHER OF... I'm fine.  It's okay.  I'm sorry.  No need to be alarmed."  I pry myself off the rack, just finding my footing before another cramp hits me.  I grab onto a Debbie Travis basket, willing myself not to pass out.  "Breathing.  I'm breathing through it.  
I. AM. BREATHING."

"Is there anything that I can do to help?"

"Can you perform a hysterectomy?"

Blank stare.

"Never mind.  I'm good... really... I just have to... FOR THE LOVE OF...!  Give me a freakin' break here!" 

And that's when my uterus tries to fall out.  Cramping one moment and the next my lower body is doing its impersonation of the monkey from The Fly.  You know how it feels when you walk in muddy gravel in bare feet?  That's how I feel inside.  Wet.  Squishy.  Pointy.  Things between other things.  I catch a glimpse of my face in a mirror.  I am fish belly white - my blue eyes the bluest they've ever been.

I start for the door.  I will Kegel my way out of the building.  100 feet.  I just have to get 100 feet.  Every muscle in my body supports those Kegels for the entire 100 steps.

I'm pretty sure that when I sit my ass in the car I lose consciousness for a split second.  Thank God when I'd noticed a bit of spotting that morning, I'd taken precautions and thrown in the Diva Cup.  I drive home, Wagnerian arias filling the car, every time a cramp hits me. 

Amoeba-like, I ooze my way up the steps to my house. I collapse on the front hall bench.

"Hello, love," David calls from the kitchen.  "Did you have a good..." He walks out to greet me.  "Holy crap!  Are you okay?"

"DRUGS.  I NEED DRUGS!!!" 

"Again?  You're having your period again?" 

"YES."  

"Didn't it just stop 2 days ago?"

"YES."

"That's messed up."

"YOU THINK?!?"

He leads me to the kitchen.  Sits me down at the table.   He then goes to the bathroom, grabs me drugs and pours me about a litre of water.  "Here.  Take these.  Drink this.  All of it. You're dehydrated."

"Can you feel the ounces of blood that are now leaving my body, through my defective cervix too?"

"No, but I do appreciate the graphic reminder."

"I could be more descriptive."

"Not while you're drinking a litre of water you can't."

I'm dreaming of an anorexic Christmas...

How did she do it?  Vera Ellen, I mean.  How could she even stand, let alone DANCE, in White Christmas?  We watched it the other night, the girls and I.

Yeah, we sang along.  Yeah, we rolled our eyes at some of the nostalgic schtick.  Yeah, we got teary-eyed when  General Waverly came into the dining hall.   And yes, watching the horses pull that frickin' sleigh around the road as the set flew out leaving the open barn door to show everyone that there was a true Christmas miracle of fluffy falling snow, made us all go "Awwwwwwwwwwww..."

And yet every time Vera Ellen danced, all we could focus on was how she was doing it, given that she had the Body Mass Index of a cadaver.  I'm remiss - the first real dance, (not in the Sisters floor show) the one with Danny Kaye out on the pier, when she was in a longer skirt, didn't freak us out.  But from the time she appeared in that yellow outfit in the train scene - with her seemingly CGI'd waist - we winced.  I swear to God, that I, with my large peasant hands, could have spanned her middle.

At one point you see her ribs through that top. From then on - the movie became bitter-sweet for me. This beautiful, graceful, accomplished dancer, wearing high-necked costumes in every single shot - her legs so thin that you could see the tendons...  it was like seeing a car crash on the highway, I couldn't look away.

She hadn't always been this emaciated.  If you look at her just a few years earlier - her face was rounder, the waist not quite so wasp thin.  She looked fit.  She looked strong.  She had muscle.

From On The Town

From Wonder Man

circa 1950

Once you've been up close and personal with someone suffering from anorexia, you recognize the signs.  For me it was seeing a girlfriend from high school about 6 months after graduation.  There'd been rumors of her having an eating disorder in school, but until I saw her, with her shoulders bare, I hadn't believed it.  We were at a movie theatre, she was sitting behind me.  I turned around to say "Hi" and could see immediately that something wasn't right.  Her shoulders and collar bones stuck out, seemingly misplaced on her torso.  I stuttered, desperate not to blurt out something inappropriate.  In my head, all I thought was, "Why?!?"  Why did she do this to herself?  Why?  She didn't have extra weight.  Not that I could see.  She'd been sporty - been on teams.  She always looked healthy and fit.  But there, in that movie theatre, she looked frail.  She looked brittle.  I was afraid that I'd break her.

I saw that girl in 1987 - almost 30 years gone now, and the image of her, with her bones protruding, has kept with me.  I kick myself for keeping quiet.

Seeing Vera Ellen dance took my breath away, but not for the reasons it should have, not because she could do things with her feet that I couldn't fathom, not because she made her movement seem effortless, not because she was a spectacular dancer.  And she was.  God, she was talented!

I wish that I could have been there to tell her that.  I wish that someone had told her that.  That someone had let her know that she was perfect, just as she was.  I wish she could have seen herself through someone else's eyes - could see her talent and ability and beauty and believed in it.  I wish that her disease hadn't skewed her perception to the point that she looked like this:

White Christmas has become a cautionary tale for me.  I know, not very Christmassy, right?  It just got me thinking is all. Hold your girls tight - let them know they're perfect as they are. If they can't see it, if their mind is playing tricks on them, set them straight - get them help.  You want to have them around for always, not just at Christmas time. 

You know you're old when...

So this is how it goes is it?  I now injure myself sitting.  I came home the other night, and I ached, oh how I ached.  I could barely walk.  My hips, my knees, even my ankles refused give me support.  Apparently they were going out dancing, maybe speed skating or snowboarding while I was.... what?  Blacked out?  Had my nightcaps begun to excise actual time from my life?

What had I done?  NOTHING!!!  I went over my day.  I hadn't been running, I'd walked to work.  How was it different??  HOW?  The only thing different was that I'd worn heels.  Small wedged heeled boots. And then, later that evening, I wore a part of emerald green heels for an event at which I was performing. Am I reduced to that?  Wearing a pair of 3 inch heels prompts a bout of ... what?   Bursitis?  How is that even possible?  I shouldn't even know about bursitis!  I am 45 freaking years old!  But there were the joints of my legs - causing me such pain that silent tears rolled down my cheeks as I crawled up the stairs to find anti-inflammatories.  What had I done?  It couldn't just be the heels... could it?

Didn't hit me until yesterday when I was sitting in the family room, in front of the ottoman, gearing up to wrap more Christmas presents.  My hips and knees complained as I descended.  It didn't feel right - put stress on my already sore joints.

My lightbulb moment happened when I reached for the ribbon.  Oh, sweet merciful Jesus!  I had injured myself wrapping presents. That is what I've come to.  Sitting on the floor causes too much strain on my body.  I look like this hardy, stalwart girl - broad of shoulder - with now matronly hips, strong thighs...  but in actuality I am Camille - one sit away from rheumatism and one breath away from consumption.

So, here's what I'll be required to do from now on.  Calisthenics in the morning.  You know, to limber up so that I can... SIT.  I'd better start doing something.  Women in my family are long lived.  It'll be a painful next 50 years if I don't get my shit together.

And here I'd thought I'd just been horny...

Period.  Last week.  Mon - Friday.  Growling, irritable, drugged up, clutching the heated blanket.  Then the weekend arrived, and I felt GREAT!  Fantastic even.  Randy.  Giving David those looks - waggling of the eyebrows - half-smiles and suggestive telepathy.  Couldn't get enough of him.  We'd finish one bout of naked wrestling before, barely giving him time to breathe, I wanted more.

Should have recognized the signs.  I always get horny... right before my period.  So I shouldn't have been surprised Monday morning when I discovered that Aunt Flo was back.

WHAT THE?!?  OH COME ON!!!

Two days people.  Two frickin' days.  After months of relative regularity, the roller coaster seems to be back.  Not quite the Leviathan, but definitely Behemoth-like in annoyance level.  Irritated by everything.  The cats meowing, the kettle taking too long to boil, David asking me, "What's wrong love?"

"NOTHING!  NOTHING IS WRONG!  I have NO reason to want to weep inconsolably NONE!!!  Other than the fact that my hormones have apparently decided to go on freaking WALKABOUT! and I can't do ANYTHING about it!!!"  I then face planted onto the keyboard.

David made a move as if to come an hug me - though better of it and stayed where he was.

"I need to watch something stupid with animals in it."

Feeling like WRATH personified?  Try this instead:

Heather, the pug-faced girl.

Last winter, to ward off cold air chest pain, David purchased me my very own Cold Avenger / Darth Vader mask.

 

Well, it's winter once again, and though Ontario's November was pretty damned temperate, December has been colder than a witch's tit the last little while.  Not generally a problem for most stalwart Canadians, but cold air for Heather?  Cold air, in my lungs, precipitates chest pain.  I was a bit late on my way to work one morning, so I decided to run.  BAD IDEA.  When a person runs, they breathe air faster into their lungs.  Which, come winter time, is cold air.  And my lungs?  Are cold air pussies. I arrived for our staff meeting tinged a little green.  My boss took one look at me and said,

"You're not having a heart attack are you?'

"No, no heart attack.  Just chest pain.  We're good."  I gave a weak thumbs up.

"Chest pain...?"  The rest of the table then turned to look at me.

"No, no, it's okay.  It's not cardiac related.  All good.  See?"  I pummelled my chest like a silverback gorilla to show my strength.   Then I had to stop because I really wanted to lie down and die.

So the Cold Avenger / Darth Vader mask came out again.  It actually does help warm up one's breathing air... you know, the face-accessory equivalent of sand-bagging for an impending flood.  The only problem is,  I'm pretty sure I have the wrong size.  I didn't think that I had a ginormous face, but  if I wear my Cold Avenger mask so that the nose part is in the right place, it only goes down to right below my bottom lip and I get chin chafage, and if I wear the cup thingie below my jaw for comfort, the nose part smooshes my nose down and I become a pug with all their attending breathing issues.  Which, if you're already having chest pain, makes it kind of hard to do anything physical on account of the fact that you already want to pass out from not being able to breathe through your nose.

The plus side for all this, is that I can't help but laugh at myself when I'm walking.  Chortling, snorting, at times braying, laughter.  And laughing?  Even with the attending chest pain, always makes me feel better.  I'll willingly cop to being a little Sally Sunshine, 'cause there are worse ways to start my day.  Besides, if you can't laugh at yourself, you're pretty much fucked.

Put the garland down!

Our cats, who usually maintain relative order in our home, lose their minds when the Christmas decorations come out.  They dance on counters, bask on top of tables...  We routinely find the dining room table cloth all askew, salt and pepper shakers asses up, chairs knocked over.  All three cats looking up and saying "It wasn't me."  Apparently, I need to cut a piece of carpet pad - you know the non-slip kind - for our dining room table.


We have three cats.  Minuit, the crotchety, Steve the mellow and Lola the sneaky. The Christmas trees went up last weekend.  (If I could afford to have a tree in every single room of our house, I would.  Why?  Because Christmas makes me crazy. CRAZY with HOLIDAY JOY!!)   Every waking minute since the erection of said trees has been spent policing the impending destruction of them. The Dining Room tree barely up, Lola was 5 feet up its trunk, golden eyes peering at us from its faux greenery depths.  This is a cat who likes to sleep on top of the pointy edged Victorian radiator in the bathroom, so I guess that balancing on wire spoky branches poses her no challenge.

"Ha-ha!" she meowed.  "I am here!  IN THE TREE!!"

David and I shared a glance.  "We're going to need heavy-gauge fishing line."

Remarkably - I came back from Canadian Tire having only purchased the fishing line.  Do you know how hard that is for me to do?  Especially when they have colour-coordinated aisles of Christmas decorations?!?  It took everything within me, not to grab the white 7-footer under my arm, scan it in the self-checkout and run wildly about in the parking lot shouting "TREE NUMBER THREE!  TREE NUMBER THREE!!!"

Instead, I came home sans extra tree (cue sad Charlie Brown music) and David secured screws to the tops of door frames and underneath the fireplace mantle so that we could tether the trees, you know, just in case...

"LOLA!  Get down!  DOWN!!!"

"You are no fun."

"STEVE!! DROP IT!!"

"But it feels so good in my mouth."

And Minuit there, sitting in the POÄNG sniggering at me and them, licking her paw and running it along her ears.  Lying in wait.

Rustle... rustle... rustle...

"MINUIT!  Put the garland down!"

Best Christmas Present Ever...

I have been taken in by British department store John Lewis.  I didn't even know that  John Lewis existed before today, and now here I am tearing up - TEARING UP - at an animated commercial.  Albeit an animated commercial that celebrates Christmas with woodland animals all to a lovely soundtrack by Lily Allen, but it's still a commercial for Cripe's sake!

What is it about the holidays that gets us all so sentimental?  Are those early Christmas memories imprinted on our DNA?  Does wonder, joy and excitement become part of our cellular structure, providing that we've had wonder, joy and excitement in our lives during the holiday season?

Getting nearly apoplectic with excitement when you see the first snow?  Opening the gift that you thought only Santa knew of?  Watching a parent/friend/partner/spouse/child open the perfect present.  And by perfect present I don't mean expensive - I don't mean put yourself into hock to get your honey a diamond encrusted watch.

The best Christmas present that I ever received was a calendar.  We had just moved to a smaller town from Toronto.  Rissa was only about 2 1/2 years old.  David handed me this thin, poorly wrapped gift - I could tell from its dimensions that it was a calendar.

"Open it up," he said.

He had booked babysitters once a week for three months.  Friends, relatives, local teenagers - all booked from January to the end of March  - 12 dates.  He'd arranged babysitting for 12 dates.  He didn't just know what I wanted, he knew what I needed.  I needed to get out.  I needed not to be the one to plan things.  I needed to remember what it was like to be a person and not just a parent before I lost my mind.

He knew.  He still does. 

Best present ever.

ps. if you're not quite in the holidays spirit - YouTube the rest of John Lewis's Christmas commercials - if they don't bring tears to your eyes you don't have a soul.

I am THIS kind of geek...

The smallest of things can make me happy.  Watching a dog cavort in the snow, smelling gingersnap body lotion, hearing Grantaire sing those four notes in his part from Red and Black, "I have never heard him 'ooh' and 'aah.'  If you were to have those notes, plus the character Annas from Jesus Christ Superstar singing "carpenter king" from This Jesus Must Die on loop you could just leave me in an orgasmic puddle on the floor.

 Listen from 1:25 to 1:37 - Clive Carter's last four notes in the phrase - KILLER

 Play from 2:45 - 2:50 and listen to the genius of Brian Keith

Okay, that pretty much lets the cat out of the bag right there.  I am a geek of the musical persuasion.  A sing-along kind of gal, a waiting for the high-note harlot, who gets wet when a tenor hits a B flat.

The Sing Off is back.  In case you're not the same breed of musical geek such as I, The Sing Off is a talent show not unlike The Voice or Canadian Idol but instead of solo artists, it features groups who sing... A CAPPELLA!!!!   For those who aren't versed in Italian, that means singing with no freaking instruments.  If one wanted to be accurate, it would be "in the manner of the chapel," but in music when you sing a cappella, you sing without instruments, because I guess that they never used to let you bring your bassoon into the chapel.

The opening group number came on and I almost started crying I was so happy.  Over 100 wireless mics onstage with what must have been a deity for a sound technician, creating the most full, balanced and perfect mix of music.  I actually did salivate because the sound was so delectable.  I made 'nom, nom, nom' noises. Singers listening to one another, finding their place, giving and taking... It's the Olympics of singing.

Music can get me to my happy place faster than any other thing.  It's quicker than liquor AND foreplay.  Why wait, when you can hear Pavarotti sing Caruso or hear those incredible 'grab you by the ovaries' basses in Muse's Super Massive Black Hole?  The Violent Femmes' Blister in the Sun starts me dancing instantaneously, Arvo Pärt's Spiegel im Spiegel can bring tears to my eyes from its very first notes.

Some visuals will get me too - you know, the clichéd sunsets or spotting a fox when you're walking on the beach - but music's pull is immediate.  You want something that alters your mood?  You don't have to take drugs, you just have to find the mood you want and listen to it.

The Boob Cage

Luman L. Chapman's design, 1863

When the words left her mouth - it was epiphanic!  "Boob Cage."  That's what Rissa called it. "Boob Cage." What a revelation!  'Cause that's exactly what a bra is.  A cage for your boobs.  It is the perfect description.  It completely brings to mind the sensation at the end of the day when the underwire is digging into that place between ribcage and armpit and the strap's dermatographia is indenting your skin with patterns that will take hours to disappear.  In my mind's eye I can hear the nearly-orgasmic sounds that fall from my mouth when my cage comes off.  "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...."  And for those who don't worry about giving themselves a black eye, the shaking of the girls when they are finally free range, the way a shampoo model shakes out her hair.

It got me to thinking about women's undergarments and wondering when the shift from corset to brassiere actually happened.  From the 16th century up until the late 19th, the corset reigned supreme.  That was the go-to for support - at least for the upper classes.  Working class women knew better than to invalidate themselves with something that would stop full breaths, possibly damage ribs and/or internal organs and gave you bowel disorders.  Yes, they might be poor, but they didn't swoon and could poop properly.

Just imagine the noises that you'd be making if you were taking one of these babies off at the end of the day:

In case you can't tell from Mr. Lesher's 1959 patent -
this is basically like wearing armour.
The bits that look like metal... ARE.

Feminine garments such as the above are the reason why Elizabeth Stuart Phelps cried for women to "Burn your corsets" - in 1874!  Although there wasn't much to burn in these early support garments - melt down might be more appropriate.

Olivia Flynt - a Massachusetts seamstress of 25 years, and also a proponent of the Clothing Reform Movement,  created the Flynt Waist in 1876.  In the patent for her Improvement for Bust Supporters she writes:  

"This garment fits the person closely; there are no objectionable seams; it does not need whalebones or steels to keep it in place; the body is allowed to move with perfect freedom; the garment is a most comfortable and pleasant one, and by reason of its cut, as described, the shape of the garment is always preserved, and is not liable to be distorted or strained."

In 1882's The Manual of Hygienic Modes of Underdressing for Women and Children Flynt states:

"While the Waist permits natural circulation, perfect respiration,and freedom for every muscle, it imparts an artistic contour and elegance of motion, that all corsets utterly destroy."

In 1889, Herminie Cadolle, a famed Parisian corsetière, designed the first "bien-être," a "well-being" for your boobs.  A garment in two parts, the lower, a corset for the waist and the upper, a support for the breasts.  The top soon was called the "soutiene gorge" - which is what your modern woman in France still dubs the "bra."   (Though the direct translation is throat support - which begs the question, how high up are French women's boobs?)   But even Cadolle's first kick at uplift still bore closer resemblance to corset than of the modern day brassiere, so full of stays and ribs was its construction.

Marie Tucek turned the world on its caboose when she patented this breast supporter in 1893:

This is NOT porn, it's a patent.
It took everything in me NOT to colour her nipples pink.

Tucek's patent involved a metal supporting plate, not unlike the underwire support from the "up and outers" that every lingerie company in the world now shills.  Just think of the posture that you'd have to have to maintain to ensure that the metal supporting plate didn't literally cut you in half, thereby offering you the starring role as the unsuspecting victim in a magic trick gone wrong. No slouching at a keyboard for women wearing this breast supporter. When I showed David this illustration, he was terrified - he thought that the cup support was also metal and had serrated teeth.

And then Mary Phelps Jacobs changed everything.  In 1910, Mary purchased a daring evening gown, under which, her regular corset was visible.  What to do?? She and her maid fashioned an undergarment from two silk handkerchiefs and some ribbon.  Et Voilà!  The brassiere was truly born.

She patented it in 1914 and sold the patent to the Warner Brothers Corset Company soon thereafter.  A lot can be inferred about Mary Jacobs and her silk handkerchief brassiere - of this you can pretty much be certain - she was a B cup or less - there is no way that anything C or above could be adequately supported by two silk handkerchiefs and some ribbon.

Tomorrow's research shall be on the athletic supporter.

Stop me before I adopt again!

I've started trolling the Humane Societies.  The Rescues.  The Dog Associations.  I've got the bug.  And once I've got the bug - I can't be stopped.  We may as well just say that we'll have a dog for Christmas.

Butch - possibly my undoing...

On a recent walk, David and I both agreed that we'd be willing to bring another dog into our lives.  (I might have put the idea in his head, but he didn't fight too hard.)  Provided that it was the 'right' dog.  Provided that said dog was a senior canine, calm, good with cats, good with kids and no bigger than medium-sized.  Those were the same criteria we had the last time we did this.

That's when we adopted Sheta, a shepherd/husky cross, who was at least 10 years old - she'd been surrendered when her owner went into palliative care.  She met all the criteria except she was HUGE, but I knew the moment I saw her that she was right for us.  We'd looked at a few other dogs and they didn't fit, they weren't right.  It's funny that...  I'm a lover of all animals - could sweep them all up in my arms and cuddle them.  Show me a litter of kittens and I could pick almost any of them at random, blindfolded even - I wouldn't need to bond.  Maybe because I know that cats generally don't give a rat's ass about their owners.  Dogs though... dogs bond.  And finding a dog is akin to falling in love.  Sheta was a great dog for our family, having her for the last 2.5 years of her life was a privilege.  

Last night I was looking at head shots - a lab here, a bloodhound there... a bearded collie...  I have this thing for hairy dogs.  I have this thing for ugly dogs.  Ugly hairy dogs?  My undoing.  I grew up a cat person.  We did have a dog, Paws, from the time I was 11, but our family sucked at being dog owners.  We never walked her enough.  We never played with her enough.  As a grown-up, I know what to do with dogs now. Sheta had some pretty sweet golden years.

I don't exactly know why I have the bug now.  I did babysit a sweet little dog a couple of months back, but I didn't immediately feel the need for one.  I would have been cool with just babysitting.   Now, though, my gut's saying it's time.  And as a person who generally goes by her gut, that pretty much means it's game over.

Last night as David and I were in the office, I kept sending him links to dogs.  I didn't say a word.  Didn't want to distract him too much from his work.

He just sighed.  "You're hopeless."

"No I'm not, I'm hopeful."

I have a sneaky suspicion that we'll be visiting the local shelter and Humane Society this week.  You know... just to see.

The Billion Dollar Advent Calendar.

It was supposed to save us money in the long run.  This tiered, wooden grouping of minature stacked presents Advent Calendar that we found at Canadian Tire.  24 wee little gift boxes with adorable hinged doors and one larger gift box for Christmas morning.  It was PERFECT!

No more throwing the old cardboard chocolate receptacles in the recycling box, no more starting Rissa's day with a sugar high that would then plummet her into a crash as her glycemic index hit bottom.  David's Mom had found us a wall hanging version when Rissa was very little, with plush  pieces that you could then Velcro onto the scene - creating a beautiful Christmas setting by the 24th. Our three cats LOVE that Advent Calendar.  Over the years, they have absconded with a majority of the plush pieces.  Can't really blame them, they do resemble cat toys.  So we needed something new.  Something cat proof.  We would reuse this table top Advent calendar every year, fill it with treasures and create joy every single day in this December and the Decembers to come.

I think we were in a dissociative state when we bought it.  'Cause let's do the math:  $34.99 for the calendar itself, add to that HST - your grand total is $39.54.  Which, given that your average non-crap chocolate Advent calendar runs you about $10.99,  it will take us a little under 3.59 years just to get the calendar to pay for itself and that's not including the stuff we put in it.  That will take Rissa almost to her 16th Christmas.  That's okay though.  Heartfelt gifts in each of the wee boxes will make it so much more personal and we can tailor it specifically to fit Rissa.  And maybe when she's in university we can use the Advent Calendar as bait to get her to stay with us over the holidays.

Problem is, the wee little boxes into which you're supposed to stuff these heartfelt gifts are VERY wee.  The internal dimensions of the boxes are 1.5 " in height, but only about 1" in width due to the adorably hinged doors.  Unless you have something incredibly malleable, like say the Day 1 gift this year: a finger catapult rubber chicken,

it's hard to find things small enough to fit into the wee boxes.  We bought a whole lot of gifties only to find out that about half of them wouldn't fit into the wee boxes.  So then we had to go out again to find things that were small enough but not total crap, because that was kind of the point of this endeavour in the first place, NOT to have a crappy chocolate Advent Calendar.

We went out again, seeking malleable, or at least teenier gifts for the wee boxes.  You know why most of these Advent Calendar are stocked with chocolates?  Because you can get chocolates that are wee enough to fit into the wee boxes.  So what did we end up doing?  Buying small chocolates to fill some of the dud boxes.  We tried, we really tried to be frugal and heart-felt - which, if you're doing the math, would generally mean that you'd end up spending at least $25 a year to fill the sucker if you're going to the good Dollar Store - say the larger of Dollaramas.

It's totally different buying gifties for a 13 year old girl than a 6 year old girl.  The 6 year old version of Rissa would have been thrilled with cut up pages of stickers in each of the boxes.  I could have filled the entire calendar for $1 - maybe $2.  Exept that I really couldn't, because my OCD would come to the fore and I'd want to ensure that the sticker sheets were cut in straight lines or perfect circles or ovals or folded into some... origami... (Note to self: next year, do miniature origami - like the dude from Blade Runner.)  Yes, there were rows and rows of crappy barrettes and hair elastics in colours that Rissa would never touch.  Pouffy things and princess things - pretty much the antithesis of who Rissa is.  (Hence the afore-mentioned catapult rubber chicken.)  And none of those things belong in her Advent Calendar.

I'd love to have enough disposable wealth that I could go to the local artisan shop and purchase beautiful ornaments or charms or earrings or bracelets for my daughter that would fit beautifully within the calendar.  We don't have disposable wealth.   And you know what?  I am still missing one box.  Two really, because I haven't filled the 25th day - although, come to think of it, the 25th day can just be crammed with all the originally too-large presents for the wee gift boxes.  It can be a cornucopia of Christmas on the 25th!!  Rissa will open the door and things will come tumbing out at her!

Running total for the calendar: $39.54 + $25.99 (initial gift purchases) + $14.69 (Secondary purchases to fit in the boxes that the first gift didn't fit into) + $10.93 (Tertiary purchases of useful gifties in colours that Rissa would actually use and not just throw away or give to younger cousins.) 

This year's Advent Calendar cost us (drum roll puh-leeeeeze)  a whopping

   $91.15!!

Yeah Baby!  Can we budget for Advent or what?  Okay, NEW GOAL: Next Christmas try to spend less than $91.15.  Also, I have to fight against my urge to build a completely new Advent Calendar that would be big enough to put things into, 'cause that could quickly evolve into a yearly one-upping of the last Advent Calendar and I'm not ready to get a second mortgage on the house yet.

Help! He's too hot to touch me!

* The names have been changed to protect the innocent, but that only works if you haven't personally been to this particular clinic.  If you HAVE been to this clinic, you know EXACTLY who I'm typing about.

"Which physiotherapist would you prefer?  Justin is available..."

"NO!  NOT JUSTIN!!! ... Uh, I mean... how about Walter or Jamie...?"

"Sure we can set you up with Jamie..."

And it's not that Walter or Jamie aren't attractive young men in their own right.  Fit, muscular, nice guys - the pair of them.  It's just that Justin, the owner of the sports medicine clinic and head physiotherapist, is drop dead gorgeous.  Like movie star gorgeous.  Seriously. 

People palpitate when in close proximity to his beauty.  I can't have a guy that good looking, who I'm NOT married to, manipulating my shoulder and massaging into my arm pit for my torn rotator cuff.  One well-timed twitch on my part and the guy's got his hand on my breast.  And then after he's accidentally been touching my breasts.. See?  Do you SEE how it could quickly escalate?!?

I've been told there are other women who bring their husbands with them as chaperones if they have appointments with Justin.  Seriously.  He's that good looking.  Tall, dark and handsome.  I'd be spending all the time when he was ultrasounding my injury having lewd and lascivious thoughts.

Lee Pace is CLOSE to as good-looking as "Justin."

I was going to try to surreptitiously get a photo of him, to prove how I'm not crazy and that he does, in fact, live up to my near-worshipful reports of him, but felt that might push me well into stalker territory.

There are few real life guys who will make a gal's heart stutter with nothing other than an introduction.  Sure, after you've gotten to know someone, they might become drop-dead gorgeous to you, but that instantaneous response?  It's only happened a handful of times in my life.  In university, a guy from the French side of the Theatre Dept. had pheromones that nearly drove me out of my mind; Cosmo the clown, from California, whom I met when I did a Fringe tour in Saskatoon with my Shakespeare company in the mid 90s, who was diabolically piratical; meeting my husband in the loading dock of the theatre where we eventually married and... Justin the physiotherapist...

I become stuttery around Justin.  I purposely schedule my visits with other physiotherapists on days when I won't have to see Justin on account of my urge to giggle girlishly when he is peripherally within my vision.  One time, I had to switch from a Tuesday to a Wednesday and I forgot that Justin would be there.  He walked past me and my mouth literally turned dry - the complete opposite of what my other body parts were doing.  

He says hello to me and I can't respond verbally.  I lower my eyelashes like some twitty Southern Belle and offer a nervous smile. He probably thinks I'm mute.  I'm waiting for him to start up a conversation in ASL with me.  I had to get up, go in to the bathroom and slap myself across the face to get it together.  "No more Wednesdays!  No more Wednesdays!"  Glaring at my torn rotator cuff,  "Mend, damn you!  MEND!!!"