What's bigger than SUPER PLUS?

"Do tampons come in anything bigger than SUPER PLUS size?" asks Rissa.

"I didn't even know they came in a SUPER PLUS size..." I answer.

"They do."

I only pick up Rissa-sized things.  Having fully converted to the Diva Cup a while ago - I haven't purchased tampons for me in so long.  I do my best to recall the Shoppers Drug Mart Feminine Hygiene shelves: lite, regular and super... you know that box, with all three sizes all together - purple, yellow and green... IS there a SUPER PLUS?  What colour is it?  I'm thinking about how much cotton would comprise something bigger than a SUPER PLUS tampon and the logistics of said tampon's insertion for a woman who hasn't given birth yet.

"Really?  There's a SUPER PLUS?  You're not just making that up?"

"Nope.  They're orange."

"Huh...  Okay then.  SUPER SPECTACULAR PLUS size?" I suggest, with accompanying jazz hands.  I'm already envisioning a 30 foot high marquee celebrating them.  I feel it warrants song.

"SU-PER SPEC-TAC-U-LAR PLUUUUUUUUUUUS!!!"

Rissa snorts.

"WHEN THE PLUS - JUST AIN'T ENOUGH
AND YOU NEED MOOOOOORE...
HEAD DOWN THE STREET - MOVE YOUR FEET
GET TO THAT STOOOOOORE

YOUR MENSES - WILL BE RELIEVED
PROTECTION - SURELY ACHIEVED
ALMOST A PLEASURE NOW TO BLEEEEEEEEEEED...

SU-PER SPEC-TAC-U-LAR PLUUUUUUUUUUUS!!!

(Now with added SPARKLE and PIZZAZZ!!!)

The Human Broiler

My Mom?  She used to make 8 grilled cheese sandwiches at the same time by putting them under the broiler.   The oven door would remain open, just a few inches, so that the sandwiches could be monitored - ensuring even browning.  My Granny used to do the same thing for breakfast, with open-faced hamburgers buns.  The broiler would toast bread to perfection.  The broiler was a secret toasting weapon.

I'm dreaming of grilled cheese.  At 5:45 a.m. there is a cookie sheet of buttered sandwiches in bed with me.  Dozens and dozens of sandwiches, evenly toasting at first, but then I remember that the oven door isn't open, I haven't been checking on their progress - they are turning to charcoal under the blankets.  I am turning to charcoal...

"SWEET MOTHER OF INTERNAL THERMOSTATS!!!"

"What?!?  WHAT?!?"  David starts awake.

"Hot flash!  HOT FLASH!!"  I flap, flap, flap the blankets around me, desperate to stop the toasting.  "TOO HOT!!!"  My torso is seconds away from spontaneously combusting.  "THIS IS HOW IT ALL ENDS!!!"

Then, my human broiler shuts off.  "Oh thank God..."  I have 32 seconds of comfort before my skin chills and my teeth start to chatter.  The blankets back on - I now huddle next to David for warmth.

I thought I had it all figured.  I know my triggers... caffeine... alcohol... if avoid them, if I only have that one glass of scotch, I'm usually fine.  Wait a second!  I didn't even have scotch last night!  What the hell is going on?

I think I might just have to face it. I'm 46 years old, this could just be the next stage in Peri-Menopause. Yes, I've been 'flashing' since I was 36, but my Mom, now 69, still gets the occasional flash.   Upside, Heather.  There has got to be an upside...

It's autumn in Canada - won't need to wear that light jacket outside.

My hot flashes can augment our house's heat!!  Our gas bills won't be as high!

If I am my own 'sweat box,' I will be able to burn body fat with this process!

When I reach the combustion point, eggs can be cooked on my torso, which means that less electricity will be used in the home, PLUS I'll be able to hire myself out to side shows for some extra cash and we'll be able to pay off the mortgage just that little bit faster...

See?  All I needed was a perspective shift.  It's all good.

Lick my Phlegm

There's a difference between mucus and phlegm.  I mean beyond the spelling.  Although, frankly, just spelling  'phlegm' gives me a sick philologist's thrill.  That 'g' - it is so tasty.

Basically, mucus is supposed to be there and phlegm isn't.  Mucus relates to actual mucoid tissue - like say in your nose or eyes or genital areas - where it's good to be that little bit moist.  Phlegm, on the other hand, is more related to disease.  It's like MUCUS PLUS ++.  It's thicker, coats the back of one's throat and makes you feel like you're going to choke to death in the middle of the night.  Gives you that chronic throat clearing that drives people nuts.

But then I've been driving people nuts since I was a child.  My running tally of chronic conditions makes me sound like an Edwardian Artist -  infections of the throat, ears and lungs, migraines, dizzy spells, hypoglycemia, back, chest, neck - and now - shoulder pain.  My father frequently threatened to take me out back and shoot me - you know, to put me out of our communal misery.

"Heather, you're very sensitive to your body."  This from my mother, usually as she shakes her head, wondering where the hell I came from.  My mother - healthy as a horse.  Me?  Not so much.

My present ailments thrust me deep into Catch 22 territory.  My right shoulder, hindered by pain, with a side of next-to-no-mobility, should be treated with anti-inflammatories for pain and... well... inflammation.  (Along with icing, and physio.)  As instructed, I've been throwing anti-inflammatories at the problem for the last couple of months.  Turns out, these same anti-inflammatories, can eat away at a gal's stomach and leave her with ulcers and GERD, which in turn, give her blinding nausea, phlegm and difficulty swallowing.

NOT COOL ADVIL!  NOT COOL!

Last night, I found myself at the pharmacist's counter, begging for wisdom.

"Is there anything I can take, other than anti-inflammatories to help with inflammation?

"What's the issue?"

"I have inflammation in my shoulder."

"And you can't take anti-inflammatories?"

"I cannot."

"Why not?"

"Because they give me ulcers. Is there another way to deal with inflammation that doesn't involve a pill?"

"Topical Creams."

"Like Arnica?"

"Yes."

"Doing that."

"Is it helping?"

shoulder shrug

"Cortisone shot?"

I hold up my prescription bag - "Doing that."

"So you're doing the topical cream and you're having a cortisone shot?"

"Yep."

"That's as far as I can take you."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"You don't have a hush-hush Shaman-like herbal remedy that I could cook over my stove, leaving me with a stinky mess of unguent to apply to my bum shoulder?"

"I do not."

"What if I slip you a Sir Wilfrid Laurier?"

"Are you attempting to bribe me?"

"Not at all.  How do you feel about Sir. John A.???"

Life was so much less expensive before I had taste.

A slightly bigger cross-body bag.  In a fancy colour.  That's all I wanted.   Slightly larger than the bag already slung across my shoulders, my affordable purple Kipling bag, the physical representation of which gave me a template for the size the new bag needed to be bigger than.  'Cause unless you have a small tape measure with you at all times (another reason why I needed a bigger bag), you need to have the old purse with you, because you'll look at new purses and, on first glance, they will appear to be bigger than your old purse.  Zippers all over the place, secret compartments, places to put things, sections that are separated.  They look like they'll fit things.  They won't.  My Kipling purse, purchased to see if I could downsize,  resembles an overstuffed sausage when I carry everything I 'need' in it.

wallet
glasses
sunglasses
medication
keys
makeup
notebook
phone
hand sanitizer
ballet slippers
tampons
a book or my e-reader
compact shopping bag
tweezers
nail clippers/file
hand wipes
extra underwear

Sure, you can try to eliminate items.  Only my car and house keys. No slippers, no extra underwear, no compact shopping bag, one lipstick, no books, no tweezers or nail clippers/files, no hand wipes, no tampons.

For 2 days I managed.  Less strain in carrying.  I could totally manage this!  Until I got my period unexpectedly and had no tampons and no change of underwear.  I broke a heel on my work shoes and had no ballet slippers.  Was the only one to the office, with no office keys.  Had three hairs in my neck without tweezers and broke my thumbnail beyond the quick - reaching for nail clippers/file that no longer travelled with me.

I was done.  I needed a bigger bag.  I didn't want black.  Everyone has a black bag.  I wanted something sassy, something bright - something that I wouldn't mistake for anyone else's.  I wanted to have something reasonably priced.

For 55 minutes I wandered the Handbag Hall at the Bay, killing time before my train ride home.

Back and forth - wending my way from section to section.  I must have passed the same bags 7 times.  From Guess, to Kate Spade to Fossil to Calvin Klein.  There are probably 5000 sq feet of displays on the first floor that are devoted to moderately priced purses and bags.  Then there is this other side, say another 2500 square feet - adjacent to the jewellery section, perpendicular to the moderately priced purses and bags, a section that is brighter and shinier and much more like travelling to Oz.  I knew.  I knew as I stepped across the divide that my shoes couldn't afford to touch the carpet.

Don't lift the tag, it will just make you cry.

The colours were stunning on that side of the aisle. Buttery leathers, crisp felts and elaborate fabrics calling out to me...

"Heather... Heather... just touch us.  Just feel us.  Look over here, Heather... Look over here..."

As in a dream, I lifted the price tag on a turqoise bag.  $525.00?!?  I could buy a new dishwasher for that!!!  I couldn't contain my bark of laughter.

Two young women, probably early 20s - but to my eyes, still in high school - said, "Beautiful bag, isn't it?"

"Yes.  Yes it is."

"Would you like us to show you any other bags in that line?"

I couldn't help but laugh again.  "No thanks.  I shouldn't be here.  Really, I shouldn't.  I feel like I owe you money just for lifting the price tag.  I'll just go back to other side of the aisle."  I gestured with my chin as I backed up.  "You know.  Over there, where I don't have to amortize a purchase to make it worthwhile."

I nonchalantly meandered back to the other section, trying not to yell out to the other shoppers as I passed them, "ARE YOU INSANE?!?  IT'S A FREAKING PURSE!  A PURSE!!!  YOU COULD MAKE AN EXTRA MORTGAGE PAYMENT INSTEAD!"

As I moved back, it occured to me that there were bags priced far beyond the $525 mark, I just hadn't lifted the tags on them yet.

In the moderately priced section I spied another turquoise bag - this one leather, with studs on one side. Not thrilled about the studs, but I could turn it around - kind of messengery in style and... $225.00.  Having just been to the other side, this was a bargain!  I should buy two and just hold the other one for 5 years until the first one wore out!

And that folks, is just what they want you to think.  They have their shiny designer side all well laid out with their perfectly dusted shelves with the make-you-gasp price tags... They know that the regular shopper isn't going to pay that much for a bag.  I don't spend $225 on anything - unless it's a winter coat.  Even then, I'd be balking and trying to figure out how many years I could get out of it.  $225.00  I was doing the math as I took my cheap-ass Kipling purse and measured it against the new bag.  The bag was almost the same freaking size!!! 

On my next pass through Handbag Hall I had my current purse out in front of me - sizing as I went.  Only when the prospective bag was bigger, did I turn over the price tag.  $295.00?!?

"Oh, COME ON!!"

$295 was considered moderately priced?!?  That just didn't compute.  I looked around at other shoppers - trying to make eye contact, trying to say without words, "Fight the power!  Together we can make a scene, let them know this is unacceptable, we won't take it any more!!"   I suspect I just came off as socially inept, suffering from a glandular disorder that made me wide-eyed.

I left without buying anything.  I showed them.  I showed them all.  And then the next week, I sourced another cheap-ass - slightly larger than my original - cross-body bag for a tenth of the price of the first bag I looked at.  Sure, it's not as pretty,  isn't exactly what I wanted and probably won't last many seasons, but it didn't cost me an extra mortgage payment and I can carry an entire box of tampons in it.

Causing cardiac arrest in caterpillars

I don't do it on purpose.  It's just that in my capacity as impulsive animal saviour, I may, on the rare occasion, leave them with PTSD. 

There you are, a woolly bear caterpillar or a fat earth worm, trying to make your way across the asphalt bike path, when you suddenly find yourself rolled, pushed, nay verily, road-rashed to safety.

It's fall and it rains a lot. There are wee furry caterpillars and earth worms all over the freaking place. Were my finger nails long, I could use them as pincers to grasp the fur of the woolly bear caterpillar (or the full width of the earth worm) and lift it into my hand.  However, my finger nails are not long, which is why I generally make several failed attempts in my catch and release manoeuvre.   I end up having to roll them around a bit before I can gain purchase upon their carcasses and then I walk them over to the grass and set them back a good 4 feet from the bike path.  I worry that after I release the wee furry/slimy little bastards their compatriots have to rush over with wee defibrillators to stave off the cardiac arrest I've set them headlong into.

"I was just out for my Tuesday stroll... heading to the Country Style for coffee and a bagel...  From out of nowhere, a great, hulking shadow appeared above me.   I was squeezed and lifted a good centimeter off the ground before I was dropped - 4 times.  Then I'm rolled like some cheap carpet, over and over again before I find myself in its hideous grasp - travelling at MACH 10 to the grass."

Oh God.  I'm probably seeing the same caterpillar over and over.  A poor woolly bear caterpillar that struggles to make its way back onto the path after I've moved it.  It's probably trying to cross the freaking road.  And there I am, every morning, forcing it to re-enact its very own version of Groundhog Day.  I'm a monster!!

I just have to streamline my rescue process.  I could spray the animal with some sort of topical anasthetic - you know, to sedate it.  If I laminate some small pieces of very thin cardstock - I could use those as rescue boards for the transport, getting them underneath the body so that they don't have to be rolled so much.  I could play Holsts's Neptune the Mystic, not the ominous beginning part, but later, like 6 minutes in when the angelic chorus starts... I could shroud myself in an ethereal cloak - so that the beast believes it's having a religious encounter.  Then, and only then, may I transport it safely across the road...  To a caterpillar playground/spa...   I may have to leave the house earlier in the mornings. 

Craving cutlery

I missed being the small spoon.  If I didn't really throw my arm over David's side, I could almost manage the big spoon. But small spoon?  Months had passed since I'd been able to lie on my right side and claim that privilege.

Heavy sighs.  Discomfort.  Near tears... a new nighttime ritual.

"What is it love?" asked David.

"I can't be the small spoon." I whispered.  Another protracted sigh.  Pain, less manageable at night, turned me into a whiny adolescent.  I hate being a whiny adolescent.

"Let's change sides," David said.

I drew in an epiphanic breath of air. Change sides?  WE COULD CHANGE SIDES?!?  "Quick!  Quick!  Help me up!"

"No, you just scootch over.  I'll run around."  And then he did, circling the mattress, as I used my good arm to drag myself across the sheets to his side of the bed.

The blankets lifted for a moment as David settled himself back into the bed.  He then pulled me into the curve of his body, the warmth of his chest upon my back, his right arm looping around my waist, one hand routinely cupping a breast, sending me headlong into Nirvana.

"Oh my God.  So good.  This is soooooooo good."

He murmured assent into the back of my neck.  His breath, on the back of my neck?  I thought I might expire from joy.

"This is better than sex."

He squeezed me closer.  "Yeah."

I snuggled back against him, attempting to glue our bodies together.  "I can't believe we didn't think of this before now."

"Your ask is my demand, my love."

Try to get this one past your filters...

SPOILER ALERT!

The soft porn had been unexpected.  From what I knew of the books, I'd gleaned that there'd be kilts, horses, time travel, romance to be sure - but the soft porn?  A delightful bonus.

The opening allusion to sex in the  first episode of Outlander - was just that - allusory.  Squeaky bedsprings groaning - first from carefree, laughter-filled bouncing, and then from actual unseen lovemaking.  The scene was charming and let you do your own imaginative heavy petting.

Later on,  David and I sat up a little straighter as oral sex filled our screen.  We exchanged glances.

"I didn't know we got this along with the good acting," said David.  He shot me a grin and waggled his eyebrows.  I waggled mine back.  Not only was there oral sex on the tv, but it was man-on-his-knees-in-front-of-his-loving-wife oral sex - some might say the best kind.

"Who produces this?"

"starz."

"...You're making that up."

"No seriously.  There, up in the corner, starz."

"For a company like that, I feel that instead of the well-scored sountrack we are hearing, it should be of the "bown-wown-chicka-wown-wown" variety.

"I'll bown-wown-choica-wown-wown you."

"I will take you at your word sir."

Choking the chihuahua

"Get out of her!"  Firm shake.  Firm shake.  "OUT!  YOU. GET. OUT. OF. HER!!!"

My hands around her throat now - Chi-Chi's eyes bugging out even more.  She's making gagging sounds, but I can still see it's not her.  "GET OUT!  OUT!  OUUUUUUUUUUUUUT!!!!"

"Heather."

"GET OUT!!!"

"Heather..."

"YOU. LEAVE. MY. BABY. RIGHT. NOW!"

David's hand firmly on my shoulder.  "HEATHER."

My eyes pop open.  I've been crying.

"My chihuahua was possessed."

David pats me consolingly.  "It's okay love, I'm sure she's alright now."

"She was possessed."

"I know."

I'm still hyperventilating a bit, wiping away tears  "She was... She was...  I had to... (beat)  We don't have a chihuahua do we?"

"No love."

"Oh thank Christ..."

Good thing she's cute.

Butt.  Butt.  BUUUUUUTT.

She is the smallest of our cats, but she packs a punch when she's headbutting you first thing in the morning.  Her small feline cranium careens into my temple, followed by little cat teeth attempting to groom me.  Then this:

"Puh!  Puh!  Puh!  Gaaaaaaaag!"  as she realizes that shoulder-length human hair is much more difficult to clean than cat hair.

"Lola!  Dude."  My arm pushes her off my head.  I crack an eye open to look at the clock.  I can still sleep for another 5 minutes.

Butt.  Butt.  BUUUUUUTT.  Her lower cat teeth now failing to comb through the back of my skull.  "Puh!  Puh!  Puh!  Gaaaaaaaag!"

"Seriously, cat."  My hand pushes her off the bed.  Almost before she's hit the ground, she is back up on the bed, headbutting me with added ferocity.

BUTT.  BUTT.  BUUUUUUUUUUUUUTT.

"You are killing me cat."  I open my eyes and she's at my face, all sweetness and light, before headbutting into my forehead.  She then rolls on her back, displaying the tummy she's licked bald.  Oh, look at me, I'm too cute to strangle...

Sleep has abandoned me, I might as well enjoy the bath.

"Give it your best shot, cat."

Butt.  Butt.  BUUUUUUTT.  "Puh!  Puh!  Gaaaaaaaag!"  Butt.  Butt.  BUUUUUUTT.  "Puh!  Puh!  Gaaaaaaaag!"

We made her!

Rissa's clear, perfectly pitched (to our ears) soprano drifts down the stairs.  She is in the shower, as she is every night after her dance classes.  For the grace that she exhibits as a dancer, this child, after 3 hours of sweating, smells like a dead goat.  David and I are both working on our laptops on the sofa at the bottom of the stairs.   Rissa belts out a rendition of Lean On Me from above us.  David and I look at each other with parental pride. 

In the next instant, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer joins the playlist.  Rissa sings at the top of her lungs - putting a jazzy twist on the holiday classic.

"We made her..." I whisper, afraid that if she hears me, she'll stop singing.

"We did," David agrees.

How can an egg and sperm make something so remarkable, I think.

From Rudolph, she moves onto Chrisine Lavin's Doris and Edwin: the Movie, I Dreamed a Dream from Les Mis, Blues Traveller's Hook, It's a Hard Knock Life from Annie and then a reprise of Lean On Me to finish the set.

She's in the shower for 20 minutes.

"There's no way I'll have enough hot water for a bath."

"You might have to wait another 45 minutes for the tank to fill."

"I'm okay with that."

Things you should NEVER say to new mothers...

People say the stupidest crap to new moms.  One of my close friends just welcomed her first baby to the world and people have been saying truly moronic, unfeeling, make-a-new-mother-doubt-herself, crap to her.

To these morons I say: Yes, you have had a baby yourself.    THIS baby, however, is not YOUR baby.  THIS baby is different from your possibly decades-long remembrance of the baby you had.  THIS baby, when it (insert action here), might not want whatever the hell you think it wants. You just met THIS baby.  You don't know THIS baby.  THIS baby is an entity unto itself.

If THIS baby is using a soother, do not say, "Oh, you've chosen to use a soother?" in the most condescending tone possible.  Yes, the new mother has chosen to use the soother - that's why the baby is sucking on it.  The appropriate answer to this rhetorical piece of tsk-tsk, judgemental crap should be:  "Oh, we haven't chosen the soother, the baby chose it.  We left random items in the crib, you know, soother, teddy bear, switch blade, nun chucks - he decided to go with the soother.  We're a little bummed."

If the new mother has decided not to breastfeed, 1) it's none of your frickin' business, and B) DON'T say, "Have you tried..." and then list things.  She has.  She has tried.  She knows that breast milk is best.  She knows about the antibodies.  She KNOWS.  The next time this comes out of someone's mouth - make up the worst possible thing you can think of.  Coat your breasts with jam, lift your shirt and bra and say, "My mastitis was worse than most..."

"That baby is too young to be out visiting people!"  

"What's the alternative - shoving him back in, until he's cooked more?"

"Are you tired?"  

"Yes, yes, but not because of the baby.  It's all this spare time I've found I now have. I actually have more spare time than before the baby! I have learned to knit, paint watercolours and speak Italian - and that's just this week!  Next week, we'll be doing some tandem hang-gliding..."

"You have to get that baby on a schedule!" 

"As soon as I figure out how and when this time-sucking remora eats, sleeps and craps, you'll be the first to know."

"Oh s/he's not (insert verb here) yet?"  

"Yes, s/he is smiling/laughing/teething/crawling/walking/running/reading/writing/reciting the periodic table - (sad smile and wince). I don't think s/he is comfortable enough around you to share her/his talents."

"When's baby #2 coming?"  

"That depends.  How long did it take you after recuperating from the episiotomy, hemorrhoids, post-partum, self-doubt, lack of sexual interest/lubrication to get back up on the horse?"

Oh, and when the new mom phase has shifted to toddler mom...  If a toddler mom looks like she might possibly be pregnant?  Never ask,"When are you due?"  Ever.  In fact, don't say that phrase to any woman -  even if she looks like she has three basketballs inside her.  Don't say it.

When first hearing this phrase, an exhausted, overwhelmed, teetering-on-the-edge of sanity toddler mom will probably internalize it, dying just that little bit more inside.  The second, third or fourth time she hears it?  She could lose her shit, I know I did, with varying degrees of meaness depending on the tone of voice that the stranger (and it always seems to be strangers) used.

"Nope, not pregnant, just fat from the first one."
"Nope, not pregnant, stomach cancer."
"No... (sob)... not pregnant... I lost the baby at 7 months...

Give the new mom a break.  Let her lead the conversation - remember what it was like when you were a new mom - remember that.  Be there for her, be a sounding board, check in on her, brush her hair, let her shower, take the baby for a few hours so that she can do whatever she wants...  I know, I know, you've been there, you know it all, your child has turned out perfect.  No, she hasn't reinvented the wheel, but to her, it's still a brand new wheel.

This is it, I have dementia!

"I love you," says David as we snuggle in under the covers.

"And I love you," I return.   I contentedly sigh.  "Life is good."

"Life IS good."

"Yep." 

Smooch.  Smooch.

You know how sometimes your brain  goes off on these weird tangents?  One minute, I'm kissing my husband and the next I'm doing math.  Rissa is 14.  In 4 years she'll be 18.  She'll be leaving home in 4 years!  David will be 45.  I'll be 50.  We'll be celebrating our 20th Wedding Anniversary!!!  Last year, to celebrate all these events,  we had a huge party - The 45-40-15-13 PARTY.  We invited all our friends and family, rented a fancy hall - David did the lighting design.

Sometime in the midst of all the math, I realize that David's still smooching me. 

"What did we do for our anniversary this year?"

"We went out to dinner."

"We did?"

"Yeah.  You have the most beautiful blue eyes." Smooch.  Smooch.   

"Where?  Where did we go out for dinner?"

"Hmmm....  Wasn't the Northside... Wasn't Cafe Marca...  El Camino...  It was El Camino."

"It was?"

I have a moment of sheer terror in the pit of my stomach.  I can't remember our anniversary dinner!  I don't remember going to El Camino!!

"Was Rissa with us for the dinner?"

"No.  Just us."

More terror pools.

Rissa had come home with homework from her English class, she had to recall a sense memory of food.  Maybe food would jog my memory...  "Quick!  What did we eat!?!" 

"Tapas."

"Yes, but what tapas?  What exact tapas?!?"

"I... don't know..."  Now David's eyebrows are down, he tilts his head, swings it a bit, trying to knock free the menu.  "I know that I got you a card..."

I remembered his card.  "And I forgot your card..."

We usually forget the anniversary.  Almost every year.  We're always doing other things when it comes around: moving, travelling, renovating.  We high five each other if we both come down with cards in hand on the actual day.

I close my eyes. I will the terror to abate.  I can do this, I can do it.   Calming breaths...  There, just there... in the back of my mind, behind my left ear, almost there...  almost there..."

"No, we didn't!!"

"We didn't?"

"No, our anniversary was on a Friday, we were driving to my parent's place, I think we stopped and had A&W at the On Route."

"You're right.  You're totally right.  We had a glass of wine and toasted when we were in the family room in front of the TV.  You parents weren't home yet.  I must have been thinking of the Father's Day Brunch we did in June."  He looks sheepish.   "Sorry, didn't mean to Gaslight you."

"Oh thank Christ.  It's not dementia."  I feel the panic slide away.  "I totally get my Auntie Laraine now."

"You do?"

" 'Certain things you remember with no recollection at all.'  We're there now.  At least I'm there now.  You, Sir, are so screwed.  You better pray that I become one of those happy senile people."

"Every day."

What 80s movie are you?

What 80s movie are you?  What's your old person's name?  Which  Dwarf are you? What breed of dog?  What Harry Potter Character?  What ice cream flavour?  What Shakespearean heroine?  What turn of the century inventor?  What Norse God?  What Titan?  What Dr. Seuss book?  What Mathematical Equation?  What Scrabble letter?

Okay, I admit it - when these quizzes pop up in my Facebook feed, I am just as guilty as the next person.  I'll take the 2 minutes to do them. Hell, I'll take the 2 minute quiz that guesses your age based on what three drinks you like.  For some reason, I drew the line at What breed of dog.  I don't know why.  "Oh please, oh please, oh please, let me get Weimerander!!!"   (Fingers crossed, eyes shut.)  

What breed of dog??  I found myself channelling Sally from When Harry Met Sally.  "I am the dog?  I am the DOG?!?"

Then I was thinking - great, next one'll be: What type of slut are you?  Are you a dirty, DIRTY slut - or just a dirty slut?

If a hacker was going to to try infect someone's computer with a virus - all they'd have to do is attach it to one of these quizzes.  Anyone from Generation X is already pre-disposed to eagerly waste time, desperate to grab a quick shot of nostalgia, because apparently, life in the new Millennium is too... much. 

Way, WAY back, when... quizzes were done in magazines...  Does anyone else remember having to sharpen a pencil? 

He was probably dead by the end of the movie.

It was my favourite day.  MOVIE BINGE DAY.  It's right up there with Christmas Holidays with family and Front Row tickets to Violent Femmes.  MOVIE BINGE DAY has to include at least three, if not four movies.  (Just seeing two isn't nearly decadent enough.)  David's even created an app so that you can plan your day, figuring out the best way to see as many movies as possible while optimizing travel times between different locations and possible healthy food breaks. 

We were on movie three. As I was waiting for Rissa and David to come out of the bathroom, I spotted this guy at the edible petroleum product dispenser in the lobby.  I was on the other side of the lobby.  For some reason, I started counting when he began adding the "butter" to his small popcorn.  I counted to 32.  I wasn't 1-mississippi-ing it, but pretty close.  He held his finger down on the button for a count of 32.  I'm just guessing here, but I figure that you probably get at least 1 tbsp of topping per second.  That would be 32 tablespoons of topping on his small popcorn.  2 cups.  He put 2 CUPS of topping onto his small popcorn.  I think I just threw up a bit in my mouth.

I love movie theatre popcorn.  I adore it.  The salt, the oil.  LOOOOOOOVE it.  I will monitor my food all day so that I can share a large popcorn with David and Rissa.  It becomes a meal for me.  But when they ask " Would you like butter or topping?" I say "Just a little please..."  and then I watch them with an assassin's eye across the counter, shouting after the third squirt, "THAT'S GOOD THANKS!  THANK YOU!!!"

A small movie theatre popcorn, sans topping is about 400 calories.  With two added cups of topping?  This dude was preparing to ingest close to 4500 calories in his small popcorn.  I would be puking my guts out, or at the very least, becoming very acquainted with the feel of a toilet seat for long periods of time.   How many napkins would you need to wipe your hands after ingesting that much topping?  Fats and oils can send your body for a loop.

This one time, David came home from work, looking really green.

"What's the matter, love?" I asked solicitously.

"I was sick.  I had to get off the subway and throw up into a garbage can and then get back on."

"WHAT?  Are you okay?  Do you have a stomach bug?  Food poisoning?"

David couldn't meet my eyes.  "Mumble.... mumble...mumble...mumble..."

"I'm sorry?"

"I ate a few shortbread cookies."

It was becoming clear.  "How many?"

"Maybe 15."

What do you reckon?  1 tbsp of butter in each short bread cookie?  This dude at the movie theatre ate double that amount.  I wouldn't want to be the usher to clean up after that movie.

Trapped in my sports bra

I'm going to have to invest in new sports bras.  More of the kind that do up in the back.  Because, although I can clad myself in one of the pull-over-the-head types, if I very carefully manoeuvre around my damaged shoulder, getting this same sports bra off when it's completely sodden with my post-exercise full-body sweat?  Nearly impossible.

copyrighted to above artist...

It's a couple of months now since I had to start spinning my back-closure brassieres so that I can wear them.  David still needs to help me disrobe at the end of the day, because, by bedtime, my shoulder has said "Fuck It!" and its mobility has vanished.

My preferred sport bra, of which I have a 1/2 dozen, is the pull-over-the-head type that you buy at least one size too small, the type that squooshes your girls near-flat; so that, if you needed to run, like from a tiger or something, you actually could without giving yourself black eyes.  These are the good sports bras.  I feel supported in these bras, I can jump up and down without holding onto my boobs in these bras. Unfortunately, those sports bras, the working ones, if you attempt to get out of them while sweaty, are the equivalent to a spandex, bolero-style, straight jacket.  I remain trapped in its damp clutches until David is around.  Rissa just doesn't have the upper body strength to get me out of the suckers.

At present, I have three crappy, do-up-in-the-back, sports bras.  You know the ones, the ones with no real support for any gal above an A cup. They come on a hanger, in a set of three - originally they were white, but after years of washing they are now a grey dinge.  "This bra comes in white, nude or grey dinge."  Seeing as a frozen shoulder can take up to 24 months to heal, I'm either going to have to buy some more do-up-in-the-back sports bras, shell out some cash for front closure sports bras, or, horrors of horrors, I'm going to have to... hand wash them.  (shudder)

Why not just throw your exercise clothes in the washing machine after each work out, you ask?  Well, in Southern Ontario, unless it's after 7:00 p.m. or on the weekend, you can't just willy-nilly throw loads of laundry in.  They charge you an arm, a leg and 3/4 of your torso for pulling that shit.  I am not a freaking millionaire.  Plus, the idea of running the washing machine with a partial load?  I'm already feeling my mother's hand  smacking me on the back of the head.  "YOU DON'T JUST WASH THREE THINGS IN THE WASHING MACHINE!!!  SOME PEOPLE DON'T EVEN HAVE WATER!!!"

So I'm down to spending money for the convenience of having enough accessible sports bras to last me the full week, or hand washing the three I have in the kitchen sink.  This is the perfect time to tap into my inner 1950s housewife.  I'll make it a game.  I'll put on some of my vintage clothes, tie on an apron and... oh for fuck's sake, I can't tie on an apron, not by myself... wait... wait... I could probably spin it though.  Problem solved!

Sorry, I didn't mean to kill off civilization as we know it...

I was just brushing my teeth.

Brusha, brusha, brusha, brusha...

Tongue a little pasty - better brush that too.  Out comes the tongue!  The toothbrush makes contact...

Brush..... 

If this had been an animated film, you would have seen the bacteria on my tongue hitting the air, not unlike the spores from the kick-ass fungus that almost killed Scully and Mulder way back when.  A puff of self-produced, poisoned, nearly-sulfuric air - exits my mouth.

"Save yourselves!!"

I could imagine the fallout from this stench... covering the room, the 2nd floor of our home, curling down the stairs to escape under the door - out into the world.

This is a Breaking Story from CBC News ...
A small Southern Ontario town has been quarantined after a local woman brushed her tongue.  The woman and 23 residents from her block have all been hospitalized after they succumbed to the bacteria that was released when it was dislodges with a toothbrush.  Although Health Officials are assuring the public that the bacteria has been contained, a steady exit of vehicles can be seen utilizing the nearest 401 exit.  Though the woman and three of the other initial victims remain in critical condition, no deaths have yet to be reported...

"Smell my mouth!!"

Rissa recoils.  "I am NOT smelling your mouth!"

"Oh come on!!  I just want to check something..."

The carpet's not charcoal - it's beige, covered in cat hair...

"Minuit!  Minuit!  For the love of....  Scoot!!  SCOOT!!"

Minuit lies upon our bedroom floor, a vision of feline pulchritude.  She splays every splayable part of her body.  Rolling onto her back, she raises an eyebrow.

"Menh...?"

"Seriously?  I just vacuumed.  How can you produce this much hair in 2 hours?"

"Menh..."

"Plus, I just brushed you this morning."

"Menh..."

"I took a small Siamese worth of cat hair off you."

"Menh..."

David wanted the wall-to-wall carpet in the bedroom.  You know, for the cushiness under one's feet,  for the warmth in the winter, for the monochrome colour.  From the instant that carpet went down, Minuit spent her every waking moment rolling on it, leaving cat versions of crime scene outlines all over it.   On her back, with her left leg thrust against the wall and front right paw on her ear.  On her right side, curled into a little ball - but she must have been dreaming because her tail has left a windshield wiper swath of hair behind - sort a cat hair angel on the carpet.   I am this close to shaving her.

You're supposed to live in a house for a year before you make any big changes.  I don't think I'll make it.  Either I will have to devise a vacuum in a backpack that I can wear at all times when I'm in the bedroom, or I will I rip up the wall-to-wall with my bare hands in a fit of psychotic OCD, before manically installing laminate with a small multicoloured - easy to camouflage cat hair - area rug under the bed that doesn't require vacuuming every 12.3 minutes.  Not 100% sure, but I it's just possible that my hormones may have coloured my rationality.  I'm going to pour myself a Scotch and see if it comes back.

When in doubt, add moustache!

"It hurts when I smile," says Rissa, as we're chatting before bed.

She'd mentioned it earlier in the evening.

"The zit?" I ask commiseratively.

"The zit," she confirms - pointing to the right of her nose.  She then does a Vanna White flourish.  She tilts her head to the side and flashes me her best 'fish lips.'

Yep, there it is.  Poor kid.  Day before she starts high school.  For me, it would have been life over.  The wailing and gnashing of teeth would have been EPIC.  I had been very concerned about what other people thought.

"You could always camouflage it," I suggest.

"Balaclava?" she puts forth.

I take a breath to tell her that no one will notice, that everyone else has zits, that the state of 'beside her nose' in consequential in the 'First Day of High School' scheme of things.

"... or a MOUSTACHE.  If it gets bad, I'll just draw a full-on moustache in sharpie.  That'll distract from the zit plus it will give me an air of mystique!"

"Like a little John Waters moustache?"

"NO!" she scoffs.  She then mimes the most elaborate, surpassing Jaime Hyneman, moustache - but hers, of course, would be more well-groomed and waxed to within an inch of its life.

"Definitely the way to go," I agree.

"I'll be a hit with the entire student body..."

"And the teachers..."

"But for the teachers I'll add in this certain je ne sais quoi..."  she raised her eyebrows and looks at me intensely.

"Awesome.   You could throw in your double wink too."

Rissa dislikes the traditional wink, except when Cat Deeley does it.  She therefore created the DOUBLE WINK, which is like a blink, but slightly longer and with much more personality behind it. 

"Oh yeah..."  She demonstrates.  "Okay.  I think I'll be good to go."

Yes, she will.

Music in my vulva...

"OH MY GOD THIS IS SO GOOD!!!  Turn it up!  TURN IT UP!!!"

Muse's Supremacy is playing in the car.  David cranks it.

"Best dirty guitar ever!!!  You know where I feel this?  IN MY VULVA!!!"

"MUMMY!"

"But I do.  Every time those dark notes from that guitar kick in - right there in my..."

"MUMMY!"

"Sorry, but that's where I feel it.  I bet you that Daddy totally feels it in his..."

"You are NOT normal!"

"Actually, I feel the good stuff in my fingertips," David says.  "Like light shooting out of my body."

"See?  Everyone feels music in their bodies! You're a dancer.  You probably feel it all over the place!"

"Well, I don't feel it THERE!"

And then it hits me... This is why those douchey guys drive around town with their UNCE-UNCE-UNCE bass blaring through their car speakers.  They think they're going to attract vulvas.  They think that girls are just going to dive into their open windows, or at the very least - wave them down and beg for a ride. What they don't realize is that UNCE-UNCE-UNCE sound will turn someone off as much as it will turn someone on. Plus, to a gal just walking down the street?  That UNCE-UNCE-UNCE sound, combined with the inevitable hole in the muffler and/or squealing of tires just makes me think that the dude is overcompensating for a really tiny penis.

With Supremacy, it's not just that rough guitar that gets me - when Matthew Bellamy goes into falsetto (freaking falsetto!) just before the chorus?  Say around 2:11?  YOWZA.

Combine that bit with the musical intro for Michael Buble's Cry Me A River? Game over.  Bubbles doesn't even need to sing.  I'm already done.  Alan Chang's arrangement of the strings and bass for the opening 29 seconds has liquefied my lady bits.  By the time that lone guitar strums at the 30 second mark? I need a cigarette.

On second thought... I'd be more than okay if Rissa feels the music in her neck... or not at all.

Peep show on the 401...

Utterly exhausted, I climb into the back seat, voluntarily giving up 'shotgun' to Rissa.

"Really?  I really get to sit in the front?!?"

"Sleepy.  So very, very sleepy."  My mid-afternoon doze is kicking in, in a major way.  Peri-menopause and thyroid disease make for insistent bedfellows.

One pillow is under my head, plus I've added a travel pillow around my neck to counteract any sudden jostling.  Knees folded to my chest as my 5'6" body attempts to utilize every inch of space in the back seat.  Windows are open as we hit the highway, airing out the car before the AC can effectively begin to cool anything.

The open windows are producing quite the breeze.  It fills the car, ruffling clothing.  I can feel it against my...  nether regions?  I glance down.  My skirt, when I am bent into this particular pretzel-shape, doesn't allow for a lot of rear coverage. I'm basically bending over... sideways.  My ass, clad in my cotton cheekinis, is pretty much on show for any car that might pass us.

"Ummmm...  it seems that I am offering a peep show back here."

"Mummy!!"

"Sorry, I can't help it.  I should have worn pants, I guess.  And perhaps visited the esthetician..."  I try to shift to my back, but the geometry of it in our hatchback, combined with the wearing the lap part of the seatbelt makes it difficult.  Eventually, I manage to put my feet against the window, but that just offers a greater view of my under-the-skirt goodies.  In this position, any car to our right could give me a driveby gynecological exam.

"Pillow.  I think I need an extra pillow, you know, for camouflage."

"No worries love," says David.  "We're on two-lane roads for the first hour.  When we hit the 401, I'll just make sure that we stay in the right hand land.  NO problem!"

That's my husband... always looking out for my ass.

Not the sexy kind of goosebumps...

"Well, HELLO there..." says David.

"Hiya.  Don't get excited.  This isn't for you," I say, standing naked in our bedroom.

Even though the weather in Southern Ontario this summer is not steaming hot, it's still humid.  The kind of humid that starts you sweating not 30 seconds after you've had a cool shower to get rid of all your sweat.   Add to that a half-assed attempt at drying your hair before you go to work, and you have the perfect storm for full-body sweats - every single pore wet (even your freaking shins) - right before you need to clothe that sweaty body in workplace attire.

A 'quick fix' solution leaps into my head.  It nearly convinces me to roll on the carpet to dry myself off; the cat hair from my elderly shedding feline which covers the carpet's surface (even right after I have just vacuumed it), and would also leave me resembling Sasquatch, makes me pause.  I refuse to waste a newly washed towel to soak up the sweat...  so I now find myself buck naked, ass-end presented to the standing fan which I have set to a near-gale force level - NUMBER 3 - on the control panel.  The fan blows so hard that my entire body has developed goosebumps.  This is, of course, when David walks in.

"I'm quick drying so that I can get dressed."

He looks crestfallen.

"Find me a supply of shammies and we'll talk."

Fetish Night in Middle Earth

"Is there such a thing as 'Cosplay?' " I ask.

David raises an eyebrow.  We're still lying in bed, the alarm has just gone off.  He yawns.   "Uhhhhh.... yeah.  Costume Play.  Like people who dress up from Star Trek or Anime or Marvel characters."

"I was having this dream last night and it was all about a 'Cosplay' club.  It was this huge mansion in downtown Toronto.  Except it wasn't people dressing up as super heroes it was people dressing up as fantasy creatures... fairies, elves, pixies..."  I pause when it hits me...  "Oh wait... it might have been a kinky kind of club... some of the costumes were topless."

Both of David's eyebrows are now raised.

"So I was at the club, and I got separated from my friends and I came upon this giant hamster run.  So I was playing with the hamster..."

"Wait, was this a guy in a hamster costume... or....?"

"No, this was an actual hamster, they weren't those sort of costumes.  But wouldn't it be kinda cool to have a giant hamster run for people?"

"Be kind of hot if you had to wear the hamster costume though..."

"So they warned me not to play with the hamster..."

"But you played with it anyway..."

"Well, yeah...  And as I was snuggling with the hamster, it poohed all over me.  But it was sick and it kind of had diarr...."

"Thank you.  Got it."

"But the weirdest part..."

"We haven't gotten to the weird part yet?"

"No, the weirdest part was that I was even at this club."

"What do you mean?"

"The club opened at 2:00 a.m."

David doesn't even have to let that sink in.  "Oh yeah, that'd never happen.  You could never start your partying at 2:00 a.m."

"Well, not unless it was on a Saturday night and I had several naps during the day beforehand.  Plus, I don't have a good topless Galadriel costume on hand."

Bring It...

"Two piece or one piece?"

"Are you going to need to pee at any time during the day?" asks Rissa.

The thought of having to visit a public washroom while attempting to drag down a wet, clingy (to the point of achieving adhesion to my body), one-piece swimsuit, makes me shudder.

"Point taken.  Two piece it is.  I'll wear a cover up."

I wiggle my ass into the - surprisingly-tighter-this-year - crotch of the bottoms.  Once a year swimming offers new corporeal discoveries.  This spring/summer I discovered that my inner thighs had suddenly, expansively.... developed.

I do up the swim top, sqwoosh my breasts into the appropriate cups and then get them somewhat level; my bodacious bits pushed nearly up to my chin, near-to-choking off my air supply.  I turn my back to the mirror to sneak a peek at my rear view...

"Is that my back?!?"  HOLY CRAP!"  I slam it against the wall to hide  from my own gaze and the world at large.

My back now has the articulated appearance of a caterpillar, all rolls and bulges, from where the supporting back band has tightened - enhancing my extra back and armpit boobs.  On a caterpillar, these bulges can be sexy as hell, but in my twisted female eye?  I resemble a swamp troll.

Quelling the immediate urge to weep, I instead repeat my new mantra, "No problems, only solutions."  I grab my multi-coloured, Pucci-esque, cover up and drag it over my person.  "HAH!"  I place one hand on my hip with insouciance, and flash a smile in the mirror.  "Take that, back boobs!"

Welcome to Peri-menopause - your second adolescence.  Strange that we're not as excited about those developments later in life.    We are SO excited about getting those boobs when we hit puberty - we compare cup size, band size - try out different bras - feel all feminine and grown-up.  Why is it that when our 36 Ds morph into 38 DDDs, we aren't all doing a happy dance in the change room of the bra boutique, giving high-fives to the woman who just measured and then manhandled our breasts into the appropriately-sized bra?

"38 DDD!  YEAH!  WHOO-FREAKING-HOO!"  The confetti cannon will then explode with glitter and streamers.

"What do you plan to do with your new breasts, Heather?" the colour commentator will ask.

"Well Sandy, I'm taking them to DISNEYLAND!!!!"

"And your new inner thighs?"

"I'm going old-school Sandy.  I'm bringing back the 'bloomer.'  Let me show you here what I've done.  These used to be a pair of seersucker pajama pants... I've cut them off to mid thigh, you can choose to hem or not, because no one will see them.  I wear these under all my summer skirts and dresses, entirely eliminating inner thigh friction.  I've brought an extra pair for you to try, go ahead and put them on to see how they really work!"

"Wow, Heather, these are amazing!  I have ZERO thigh friction!"

"That's right Sandy.  And if you buy now, folks, you'll get two free pairs of bloomers along with your initial purchase!  Plus I'll throw in a shirt that actually fits you - no muumuus, no XL t-shirts, and NO club wear.

Peri-menopause is a shocker. Our bodies change - in spite of our best intentions.   I exercise every day.  I try to eat healthfully.  I'm doing squats and and lunges and planks and triceps lifts.  And you know what?  I still have extra boobs and newly voluptuous inner thighs.   Am I thrilled about them?  No.  But I'm 46 years old, folks.   Given how long the women live in my family, I probably have at least another 46 years left on this planet.  The thought of complaining about my physical appearance for all that time?  It's exhausting.

So I'm going to do the best that I can.  I'm going to continue to exercise and eat well and I'm going to wear clothes that actually fit me - not the 24 year old version of myself that media outlets tell me I should cling to.  And the next time my husband and daughter say "You look so beautiful!" I'm going to listen to them.  I'm going to accept their compliments graciously, without a grimace.  I'm going to fight back the judgy-judger inside my head, square my shoulders and say "Bring It!"

It's not a tee-tee...

It's a vagina.  Say it with me folks.  VA-GI-NA.  Vagina.  Half the people in the world have them.  You might have your very own.  Check now.   If it's an 'INNY" it's a vagina.  If it's an "OUTY" it's a penis.

That's not to say that, as an adult, I haven't used comic euphimisms to get a cheap laugh.  I frequently do.  My favourite is "hooha."  But as I was never raised with euphemisms, my daughter hasn't been either.  Rissa's known she's had a vagina since she could ask about body parts. 

We didn't baby talk with her.  We didn't ask if she needed to 'tinkle' or 'make poopies.'  Although the phrase, 'Who just tooted?" did have some traction in our house. 

When I was pregnant as a surrogate for another family, Rissa was 4.  We had some very pointed discussions about how babies were made at that time because it was important that she understand the general process of insemination (ie - that I did NOT have sex with the father of the baby), and why we weren't bringing another baby to our home.  In my 2nd trimester I had an ultra sound.  I explained that the ultrasound would tell whether I was having a boy or a girl.  Rissa had a friend 2 years her senior who said, "I know how they'll be able to tell!!  If it's a boy, it'll have short hair, and if it's a girl, it'll have long hair."  Rissa looked at this girl like she was nuts.  With a slight eye roll, Rissa said, "If it has a penis, it'll be a boy, and if it has a vagina, it'll be a girl."

Words have power. A great vocabulary goes hand in hand with great knowledge.  I had a friend whose kindergarten-aged child was reprimanded in school for exclaiming, "My penis is stuck in my zipper!"  "We don't use words like that," the teacher later said when she had the inevitable conversation with the boy's mother.  Why not?  They're body parts.  We don't have euphemisms for other body parts - other than because we aren't all doctors and don't know the proper Latin names.  Femur for most people is 'leg bone.'  Your rotator cuff doesn't get all 'niced up' for everyday conversation.   It isn't called a stretchy joiny bit for arm support.  But if that body part or bodily function has anything to with sexual activity or reproduction - the euphemisms pile up - puritanically clad in 'cleaner' language - lest we give kids knowledge.

Fact:  Women are supposed to bleed once a month from puberty through to their 50's.  It's called menstruation.  They bleed... from their vaginas.  They use pads, tampons or Diva Cups to catch the blood.  The phrase "on the rag" comes from a time when women had to use and then wash rags specifically fashioned to catch menstrual blood.  At this point in human evolution, menstruating should no longer come as a surprise to anyone.

Fact:  Babies are made when sperm from a penis, meet an egg from an ovary.  The fertilized egg then matures inside a uterus.  The baby then exits the female body via the vagina, or in some cases, through the stomach, via a c-section.  The stork does not bring babies.  Pregnant women do not swallow a watermelon seed.  Babies are not made when Mummies and Daddies love each other very much.

Fact:   The Rhythm Method, pulling out, or peeing right after will NOT protect against pregnancy.    You know what protects against pregnancy?  Not having sex.  But since we are all genetically programmed to want sex, the next best thing to protect against unplanned pregnancy is to use condoms, spermicidal foam, a cervical sponge, a diaphragm, an IUD, the patch, the shot or the pill.  Using the first three together, might ruin the mood, but a gal probably won't get pregnant.

Fact:  If a woman wants to be protected, she needs to protect herself.  Those of us with daughters need to make sure they are armed with knowledge, because other than carrying a condom and maybe some duct tape to attach it to his penis, the dude who wants to screw your daughter ain't all that armed - even if he plays "Just the tip."  Yes, it would be wonderful if everyone waited until they found a partner they loved, who respected them and they explored the mysteries of intimacy together.  In spite of my best intentions, I lost my virginity at 16 in the back seat of a Duster.   It's sheer dumb luck that I didn't end up pregnant or with an STD.  You get tingly, you get wet, things feel good -  if the person knows what they're doing, things feel freaking fantastic... You lose your mind a little bit.  You play Russian Roulette.  You  can recommend abstinence all you want, but remember what it was like when you became aware of sex... Remember that?  Remember how great that was?  How great it felt?  How much you wanted to do it?  This is the time to eschew embarrassment.  Have the talk about birth control with your daugthers EARLY. 

And that's why my new boss had to undo my dress in the parking lot...

"Are they going to fit in?"

"I'm trying to make them," says Rissa.

"I swear to you that these breasts were not this large in June."

"I think you might be right."

"What is going on?!?"

"I don't know, Mummy."  Rissa huffs, as she places her knee in my back to gain leverage.  "You can't help at all?"

"Dude!  My right arm might as well be amputated at this point."

"How long will it take for physio to work?"

"I think maybe by 2016 I'll be able to dress myself again."  sigh "It's fitting everywhere else but the boobs, isn't it?"

"Yes.  Blow out all the air in your lungs."

"Maybe... I... shouldn't be..."

"Almost got it...  all... most got it..."  Stay on target... STAY on target...

My boobs are now practically up to my chin.  "This is not natural.  That lady at the bra shop must be right.  It's freaking peri-menopause that's causing this insanity."

"Probably...  There!"  Rissa is triumphant.  "Ta-DAH!!!!  Can you breathe?"

"I'm trying."  I glance at the clock.  "Oh crap!  I'm going to be late!"  I glance at my profile in the entryway mirror.  My breasts are somehow almost up to my chin, and yet, they have morphed into a weird-ass uni-boob under the dress.  "Gotta go baby!  I'll see you before I head to physio."

"No you won't!  I'm heading out to the mall with my peeps!" she yells as I get into the car.

It's not until I arrive at work that I realize I am trapped in the dress.  As my now flattened, yet still bodacious ta-tas tickle my chin, I start to panic a little bit.  I am now channelling my inner debutante -  a bad case of the vapours is seconds away.

"Side zippers.  Only side zippers from now on," I'm muttering to myself as I walk into the office.  I keep my breaths shallow so that I don't displace a rib.

"What's the matter?" one of my co-workers asks.

"Trapped.  I am trapped in this dress.  And my boobs have apparently grown 22 cup sizes since June."

"Pardon?"

"Have I worn this dress this season?  I have, haven't I?  You've seen this before, right?  Oh crap!  Maybe it's the other vintage-y turquoise and green dress that I'm thinking of...  Maybe my boobs aren't on sterioids, maybe it's been a full year since I've worn this dress!  But even so...  if my boobs are this much bigger - shouldn't my ass be the size of Texas?"

Everyone is now looking at me like I'm nuts.

"How did you get into the dress?"

"Rissa managed to do it up.  But I'll never be able to undo it on my own, and I have a physio appt. right after work."  I attempt to reach my right arm up to hold the zipper at the top of my neck...  "Nope!  NOPE!  Sweet merciful... Cut it OFF!  Cut the arm off!"

"What if we rig up a string to the zipper tab and then you can just pull the string at the end of the day?"

"I'm still going to need the other arm to stabilize the zipper.  There's nothing else for it.  One of you is going to have to undress me before I leave the office.  I'll drive home half-dressed and then change before physio."

"Why can't you just have your physiotherapist undress you when you get to your appointment?"

"I am not wearing my best underwear."

The security camera footage in the parking lot should be awesome.

And that folks, is why I chose HIM...

"Just so you know, if they tell me I have to amputate the arm to save my life, I'm not going to fight them."

David doesn't even pause.   "Damned straight, you're not.  That sucker's coming off!"

"For the first little while, until I have a proper prosthetic, I'll have arm proxies.  Like when I have to go shopping, and something needs two arms.  I'll just have to rely upon the kindness of strangers, like say, the really cute stock boys at No Frills."

"You'll be able to use it for sympathy too, at other social settings.  Someone'll ask you, 'Hey can you pass me the salt?'    'No!' sob 'I can't!'    'I'm so sorry, let me get it myself and pay for your dinner as well!' "

"Ooooh!  Ooooh!  When I have to have this arm amputated, you can set me up with a good robotic arm, right?" I ask.

"You betcha.  Articulated fingers - the whole deal.  You'll have the Swiss Army Knife of prosthetics.  Attachments galore!"

"And I'll be all... 'Here let me get that can for you', and then I'll CRUSH that can with my powerful robotic hand.  'Sorry, you mere mortal - you can't do that because you just have a regular arm!' "

"Is this a pop can or a can of diced tomatoes?  Because I can already do that with a pop can."

"Diced tomatoes, of course!  Oh, I'll need a can opener attachment for the arm too."

"Yes."

"And a hook!  I'll definitely need one of those!  You know, for when I want to be fancy."

"Diamond-encrusted?"

"Hell, yeah..."

"You do realize that the x-ray and ultrasound are probably only going to show some tendon damage, right?"

"I want to be prepared.  I'm all about the bright side."

Cat Fanatic.

"Rissa!!! BEST WALK EVER!!!"

"It was?"

"YES!!  One cat on the way there... Three, no wait!  FOUR cats on the way back..."

"Two cats there, Mummy.  You saw two cats on the way over."  We had walked Rissa over to her friend's house.

"I did?"

"Yes,  the long-haired dark grey one and a tabby."

"I can't believe that I forgot the tabby!  You're right, there was that tabby, too!  It must be all the other wildlife that's throwing off my counting."

"All the other wildlife?  What did you see?"  Like any other child raised watching Zoboomafoo, in Rissa's mind I was walking hand-in-paw with a panda bear who, in turn, had a duck-billed platypus riding upon its back, with a couple of cabybaras thrown in on the side.

"Some crazy-ass squirrels, and you remember that basset hound that you and Daddy wouldn't let me veer off course to pet?  Him.  We somehow just managed to walk down that street to come home, I don't know how it happened, it's like I have some sort of freaky furry radar.  But before we got to him, there were three other cats."  I have now morphed into an addict who got an unexpected fix. 

"Three other cats?"

"Yes.  One on the one side, close to the basset hound.  But then there was another one on the other side of the road - kitty corner to the basset hound.  There was one cat on the sidewalk that I went over to talk to, "I was all, hey cat, how you doin?" And then a second cat came from the backyard, rolled onto its back and demanded that I pet its stomach!  Plus, the other day - bunny right on the sidewalk!!"

"Plus a bunny?"

"No, the bunny was the other day, but up until today, that had been my best petting spree because there was the bunny, which didn't let me pet it, but did let me get really close to it, but then there was a cat, plus two other cats who all let me pet them - all on the same block.  It was a magical block.  But then today - BOOM - record broken!  Because on top of the all of those animals - that same long haired dark grey cat was still out and ran over to meet us when we came around the corner!!!  He ran,  from his house, all the way to the corner when he saw me!"  I'm holding my hands out - soaking up the feline spirit into my palms.  Eyes closed, thankful for the gifts I have been given.

"So, you like animals, I guess?" says Rissa's friend, who up until that moment had been standing slack-jawed at my rant.

I run back the soundtrack from the last minute and a half in my head.  Crazy Cat Lady ALL over it.  I shrug, now playing at nonchalance.  "Yeah.  You know.  Whatever."

"So the same dark grey long-hair came to you?" Rissa asks.

"HE TOTALLY DID!!!"

DOWN!! Put the bread down!

When I was younger, I worshipped at the altar of white flour.  My Mom would get these crusty Kaiser rolls - the ones you could select with the fancy tongs in the bakery dept.  I would devour them - butter slathered all over their fluffy insides.  No protein anywhere to be found.  Just bread and butter.  Two, three rolls at a time.  They took me to a happy place; a place where simple carbohydrates were converted to sugar.  Over and over I made this trip.  And pasta?  I could be half way through a plate of spaghetti, already anticipating my second plate.

When I hit puberty I started having dizzy spells.  I was taken to doctors who told my parents that the dizzy spells were brought on by hypoglycemia and that I had to change my diet.  This was in 1982, so mostly what the docs said was that I had to give up foods that converted quickly into sugar.  White bread or anything made with white flour was no longer an option.  Potatoes were discouraged.  Wait a second, potatoes... discouraged?!?  Life seemed over, or it would have been had my diet been truly altered.

Because my hypoglycemia wasn't life-threatening, diet restrictions didn't seem all that important to follow.   I'd never actually passed out - never had a seizure - didn't even flirt with comas - I got just a little bit flaky - or in my case flakier - the consequences didn't seem too dire.  Or at least, that's how I convinced my Mom that I could still eat potatoes.  Because it didn't really get worse, I sailed away into the rosy carbohydrate sunset - oblivious to consequence.

Fast-forward 15 years and a bit. You know when things come back to bite you in the ass?  Well those toothy chickens came home to roost.  I'd have managed, but David, who'd never seen me in the midst of a good sugar crash quickly became horrified and dragged me to the ER.  I saw doctors, dietitians and naturopaths who pointed me to the straight  and narrow.  The doctor said my blood sugars were borderline.  The dietitian reminded me to eat smaller meals more frequently and told me to include whole wheat in my diet - I couldn't just have a microwave dinner at work, I also had to have a whole wheat roll along with it.  The naturopath said to avoid all things wheat - stick to brown rice or quinoa for my grains - Rice crackers, rice cakes for fiber.   Soy milk instead of dairy.  "Should I go gluten-free?"  "YES.  Definitely."

Rice crackers, rice cakes, rice pasta - for years now they've been the vehicle upon which I devour my protein.  Because a lot of people have now leapt onto the gluten-free bandwagon,  not eating wheat is a little easier.  There's a dedicated section of the No Frills filled with high-priced, sawdust-tasting, gluten-free options. Sure, I succumb to the call of the wild Timbit now and again, but mostly I've been towing the line.

Which is why I've been a little confused as to why my blood sugar has suddenly decided to swan dive.  Used to be I could go 3 hours between fuel stops.  Now, at the 2 hour mark, I'm thrown back into graphic reminiscence of first trimester nausea and dizziness.  Upon research - I'm more confused than ever.  Could be hypoglycemia, could be peri-menopause, could be thyroid...  Place your bets!  Place your bets!

As a hypoglycemic of the new Millennium, I've learned that I need to be concerned about the glycemic index and glycemic load of foods.  Anything in the "HIGH" range should be avoided.  Turns out that  the carbohydrates I've been consuming for the last decade or so are some of the WORST things I could be eating for my blood sugar.  And last summer a Naturopath friend found out I was on thyroid medication and freaked out when she saw me drinking soy milk.

"YOU CAN'T HAVE SOY!!"

"I can't??"

"NO!   It will render your thyroid medication ineffective."

"It will?"

"It will."

So the foods that were supposed to help me 15 years ago are now screwing with me?  Not cool advances in dietary restrictions!  NOT COOL!   I go in to talk to my doctor to get a referral to a dietician.

I tell him about the worsening dizziness and the new nausea.  He tells me I don't need to talk to a dietician.

"I can tell you what you need to do.  You need to have three small meals and three snacks."

"I do that."

"You  need to have protein with your carbs and/or avoid all carbs.  Avoid root vegetables..."

"Uhhhh.... what about what the Canada Food guide says?"

"No, carbs are bad.  I rarely eat any carbs..."

"I think maybe I should talk to a..."

"Almonds!  If you feel like your blood sugar's dropping, have a handful of almonds..."

"I do that.  I'm not so much worried about the dizziness... it's dizziness's sidekick, nausea, that's worrying me."

"Why didn't you mention the nausea?"

"I did mention the nausea.  That's why I wanted to talk to a dietician."

"Well if I'd concentrated on the nausea - we wouldn't be going down this path about the dizziness.  This is a waste of time.  I've now wasted my time.  If we're talking about nausea with hunger, that's a different thing.  That's possible stomach tumors."

Always great when your GP threatens you with stomach cancer to shut you up.

I refused to cave.  "Maybe it's best if I talk to a dietician."

"Good eating habits, if you follow them, can deal with all of this.  If you track your food patterns.  There this website that..."

"I track my food patterns."

He's circling his wagons now.  "Make sure you have protein with every snack.  You could do soy..."

Okay, we're back to the protein are we?  "I've been told to avoid soy because of my thyroid medication."

"Told?  Or did you READ about it?"

Ah yes, now I'm the hypochondriac who diagnoses herself over the internet.  Hold your ground, Heather.  "Told.  A licensed naturopath told me.  MAYBE. IT'S. BEST. IF. I. SEE. A. DIETICIAN." You patronizing, unlistening rat bastard... 

My eyebrows raise slightly.  This is ON...

He heaves a resigned sigh and grabs his tape recorder.  "Patient has been  having issues with possible hypoglycemia, worsening dizziness and nausea.  I have spoken to her about eating smaller meals with snacks, tracking her food patterns.  Patient would still like to speak to a dietician..."    He finishes with the tape recorder.  "It'll still probably take several weeks to get a referral."

"I can wait."