Bad Rhymes at Bed Time

In pre-production for PETER PAN this weekend, so please enjoy this from earlier in the summer...

Sometime in the last couple of years Rissa and I started cracking each other's toes.  It's my friend Shawn's fault.  He cracked my toes while we were in a play together (not actually during the play but rather while we were in the dressing room) and then I did it to Rissa and she giggled like a mad fool about it so it became a thing for us.  David, just in case you were wondering, wants NOTHING to do with the whole toe cracking fad. The whole process hurts, REALLY hurts, but it must be a good pain I guess, because we will beg each other to do it.  Usually at bed time.   "Mummy, will you crack my toes?  Please??"  Then I begin and she shrieks and yodels with the pain and release of the toe cracking.  Then she does mine and I'm even louder than she is.  It's our own twisted version of This Little Piggie and it's all a great way to end the day.

It's Rissa's storm before the calm.  It happens pretty much every night at bedtime.  She loses her mind a wee bit and needs to release energy before she can finally settle down.  It's always with me.  Never with David does she turn into a complete looney bird.  Only with me.   I wonder what that signifies?

Last night was no exception.  Rissa had been off with her GrandMer and GrandEl this weekend while David and I were up at a friend's cottage.  As is usually the case when we have been separated from Rissa for a few days - she needs to tell us absolutely everything when we see her once more - usually right away without breathing as she speaks.  Apparently it's genetic.  I now understand why my parents used to say to me,  "Heather, BREATHE!"

I called Mom one time, hoping for commiseration.  "Mom - she NEVER stops talking."  There was a brief pause before maniacal laughter rang out from my mother's end of the call. 

So last night, Rissa was talking about having overheard a bunch of teenagers using an interesting bad phrase.

"What kind of phrase?" I asked.

"Penis Butt," says Rissa.

"I'm sorry?"

She gave me a look of utter disdain.  "Mummy, I can't SAY it."

Right, because for the most part, my daughter is a rule follower and she's not supposed to use bad language, so she doesn't.

"Penis butt?"  I'm trying to work it out in my head.  "Penis butt?  Do you mean Cock-ass?"

"No Mummy.  Another bad word for penis."

Now there are LOTS of bad words for penis.  I know many of them.  I'm not entirely sure that I should be playing this game with my 12 year old daughter.

"Schlong-Behind?  Dong-Bottom?"

"Mummy."  Again with the disdain.

"Dick-Ass?"

"YES!!" 

Well, that made sense.  Dick-ass.  It's colourful - doesn't rhyme though.  Which then had me trying to make an anatomical phrase that rhymed.  Again (and I fully realize this),  NOT the best thing to be doing with my 12 year old daughter.

"PENIS-ANUS!!"

Whereupon we gales of giggles hit us.  And of course I couldn't just leave it there.  I was in rhyming mode now.

"Vagina Angina!!"

Without a pause, Rissa came back with "Pussy-Stress??"

I gave her a look of utter shock before almost peeing myself and then giving her a high five.

"EXACTLY!!!   But you can't use that with ANY of your friends.  Promise me!!! None of these phrases with friends!  Their parents won't let you near them if they start sounding like dock-workers."

Again, a look of disdain.  "Mummy.  I know that!"

Our is a different Mother-Daughter relationship.

Don't Mind the White Trash

I live in an amazing century home.  Built in 1906, by one of the prominent local builders in my town, it is a bonafide grand home...  2.5 stories...  Triple brick... It has a formal front staircase and two, count them, TWO, back staircases.  A butler's pantry, claw-footed bathtub, original stained glass, french doors.  I love it.  Have always loved it.  Can't really afford to live in it.

We are the House Poor.  Those who own century homes/money pits will know whereof I speak.  Every job that needs to be done costs at least $1000.  Last year we replaced the chimney - it was $3000.  You want to make money?   Rebuild freaking chimneys!  Hoping to eliminate our crazy debt load, the house has been on the market a couple of times in the last two years.  Lots of activity.  Many people came to see our house.  Many people LOVED our house.  Never once did we get an offer.  And it has nothing to do with the house.  It's the location. 

You see, across the street a little ways down looks like this:

Shouldn't be a problem right?  Looks fairly tidy, well kept?  What you don't realize is that from May until October, usually there are about 4 guys without shirts on, drinking beer, perhaps in front of a chiminea, possibly playing loud redneck music and more than likely yelling at one of their dogs "PRINCESS - SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

One of our next-door neighbours is a delightful family of three - we occasionally enjoy a beverage or meal with this family.  This is our other next-door neighbour:

There are approximately 8 apartments in this building.  This is an old Google Maps photo - it doesn't show the dingy white plastic lawn furniture that decorates the back entrance and the front doesn't show the near waist-high monster dandelions that are there presently.  Sometimes, for additional colour, there's a No Frills shopping cart left in the parking lot.  When our house was on the market, I would frequently hide the No Frills shopping cart behind the house - thinking to myself "Do you not SEE the for sale sign on our lawn??  Can't you help us out here??"  There's a drunk woman in the front left apartment who sounds like Harvey Fierstein.  She threatens to call the cops when she hears kids with skateboards on the street.  She is also convinced that she can hear all of our phone conversations. "I'm hearing things I shouldn't be hearing.  PERSONAL things,"  and that these personal conversations interfere with her cable.

These are the things that potential buyers sometimes (ALWAYS) notice when they come to view our house.  I say this because our real estate agent called us this week and asked to show our house even though it isn't presently on the market - her buyers were looking for a century home.  So we tidied and vacuumed and went to the library for an hour during the showing.  And sure enough.  They loved the house - hated the neighbourhood.  It's like they don't see the other good houses on the block, they only notice the white trash. 

But you know what?  In the 7 years we've been living in the house?  We really haven't ever had a problem with ANY of our neighbours.  Sure, I've had to call the police when there were fisticuffs - okay, really one guy pulled another guy off of his bike and started beating the crap out of him... but that was down the street - had nothing to do with us.  (A friend was over at the time.  He said "How come you never sit out on our front porch?"  It was quite literally the NEXT minute when the fight broke out.)  There was the time that the drunk lady next door (different one) fell off her bike and knocked her teeth out on the curb and I told Rissa to gather up tea towels while I called 911.  Rissa  learned all about first-aid - so really that was a teachable moment.  Oh, and maybe for a time there were some nice young men selling dope out of the back apartment next door.

The loudest it really gets (apart from the "PRINCESS - SHUT THE FUCK UP!" moments) is when one of the 'good' neighbours' children is having a melt down in the their backyard.   4 year olds have really big lungs.

But all of that is completely inconsequential - we open our back door to this:

A mature maple tree, stunning deck, swing, zip-line, woodsy play structure and marshmallow roasting area. This is where we spend our outdoor time.  This is where we live.  This is our home.  White Trash Neighbourhood or no, we love it.  And when thinking about potential neighbours - please remember - the white trash doesn't live WITH you.  They live NEAR you.  It really does make a difference.  One day, in the oh-so-distant future, we'll be out of debt and will truly be able to call it ours.

Death-Mask Barbie

For the longest time, I wouldn't let Rissa play with Barbies.  I was taking a stand.

We bought her Groovy Girls - the flopsy, cuddly, ethnic, pre-pubescent dolls.  She probaby had 6 of them - all sporting fabulous 60s-inspired fashions.   (One had a faux raspberry suede coat with some sort of shaggy fur-like trim - relax PETA - I said faux!)  Rissa would sit the Groovy Girls onto the bean bag chair and snuggle them in their retro sleeping bags.  Then, it all turned to shit.

When Rissa was 3 1/2, all she wanted was a Barbie.  I just couldn't do it.  I could not buy her one.  I had taken a stand!!  Yet it was all that she wanted.  Rissa never wanted anything.  Never.  It's still the case.  For Christmas, it's like pulling teeth getting her to request anything.  So when all she wanted was a Barbie - I admit it - I caved.  I tried to torpedo this defection in my best passive-aggressive way: I bought her a purple-skinned, purple-haired, purple-winged fairy Barbie.  A Barbie which, in no stretch of anyone's imagination, could be confused for human.  But I soon realized it was all down-hill from there.  Now that she had one Barbie, people assumed that I was okay with her having them.  The next spontaneous gift from someone was a regular ballerina Barbie - all sugar-plum fairy-y, blond, pink and curvaceous.

Then, the next thing I knew, she had a clique of Barbies.  I tried to keep them separate from the Groovy Girls because I knew, deep down, that they would make snide comments about the Groovy Girls and mock their clothing choices.  Soon, Rissa wasn't playing with the Groovy Girls at all.  My soul wept.  I had allowed the ruination of my darling babe.  (That being said, I played with Barbies all the time when I was little, I LOVED Barbies.  And  really, apart from an incredibly unrealistic body image, I turned out okay.)

I asked Rissa one day, "Why don't you like playing with your Groovy Girls sweetie?"  "I like Barbies better Mummy."  (Stabbing pain, deep in my maternal gut.)  I tried not to let it show upon my face.  Must be strong.  Must... be... strong...   "Oh?  Why sweetie?  Why do you like Barbies better?"  (I braced myself... I knew she was going to say they were prettier, had longer legs, bigger boobs...)  "Barbies heads are smaller."  And that, folks, it what it came down to.  Barbies heads were smaller.  When Rissa saw Groovy Girls' heads, they just looked wrong to her.  The Barbie head was more proportionate, in her view.

I should have realized when I really watched Rissa play with her Barbies.  She didn't spend a lot of time 'playing.'  She would cut their hair, put tattoos on them.  If a leg fell off she would make a prosthetic limb with a chop-stick and duct tape.  She would strip them naked and make death masks for them.

Death-Mask Barbie

One of my proudest maternal moments was coming down into the family room on a Saturday morning.  Rissa was watching Myth Busters and had a row of about 7 naked Barbies in front of her.  All 7 Barbies were covered in carefully applied kleenex fragments that she had painted onto their persons with water.  7 Barbies in body casts.  It was a beautiful thing.  I could have just about burst with pride at that moment. It still can bring a tear to this Mama's eye.  Yep.  THAT'S my girl!

Multi-Breasted Female of Galaxy NGC 1512

Praise be to every deity in the universe!!!  After a week of insomnia - I slept through the night!!  Halle-freakin-lulljah!! (insert angels' chorus here)  

There's been a heat/humidity wave in Southern Ontario.  A direct result of this is my morphing into the biggest belligerent bitchy bitch in several galaxies.  (I think there's a multi-breasted female in Galaxy NGC 1512 that could give me a run for my money, but really with 22 breasts and a fashion history in her neck of the woods that hasn't allowed for brassieres, you could fully understand her bitchiness.)

Home to the Papilla-Multi-Praeclarus People - a shout out to Big Bessie! (From HubbleSite)

My period is due any day as well.  And not to become a cliched 'female' type who blames moods on her hormonal cycle, but WHAT THE POOH DUDE?!?  It's like I'm losing my mind a little bit more every day.  And I KNOW that I am, and I'm freaking helpless to stop the journey into The Hell of Irrationality.

Yesterday, I burst into tears when David asked me to go down to the beach.  I knew that I should get out of our stifling house, but also knew that I would then have to attempt to thrust my clammy sweaty body into a bathing suit.   (sidebar - I'm NOT a beach person to begin with.  I burn very easily, even with sunblock 9000 on, and I don't like getting wet.)

Sniffing back tears, I went upstairs and started the process.  I stripped off my now-sodden cotton clothing and then forced my sticky flesh into my one-piece bathing suit.  In retrospect, I could have put on my impetuously purchased pin-up girl bikini, (Rissa said "Mummy it looks GREAT!) but my mind was WAY skewed to self-loathing at this point, and no way was my fish-belly white stomach going to be put on view for Victoria Beach.  Instead, I opted for the one piece with attending melon-coloured overskirt.  Imagine if you will - a sausage casing trying to accommodate way too many fleshy bits.  Still in too precarious an emotional state, crying behind my half closed door, I could not see the humour in the situation.  NOW - this morning I do, but last evening at 4:42 p.m. NOTHING WAS FUNNY.

Determined not to give in to the hormones, I waded into Lake Ontario.  I was going to be the well-adjusted wife and mother.  I was going to participate in a family activity.  It was cold.  Not just a little bit cold - but the kind of cold where men's testicles crawl back up into their body cavities - or so David told me.  My legs ached from the temperature.  But I persevered.  I was in the water and I was wet and I was almost enjoying myself.  After about 30 seconds in the water, David looked over at me.  "Your lips are blue."  "Probably," I answered.  It was invigorating though.  The surf was all wavy which is a lot fun - even in hypothermic water temperatures.  After about 3.5 minutes David made me leave the water.  I was okay to stay and be wet even, but I guess my colour looked a little off and I was all goose-pimply and shivery and I didn't have the presence of mind to lie when he asked "Are you having chest pain?"  "Just a, uh, little bit."  If I were more petite, he would have scooped me up into his arms in a romantic gesture and carried me to the beach.  As it was, he threw an arm around my waist and dragged me out, wrapped me in a towel and told me to stay put while he went back in to make sure that Rissa and her friend didn't drown in the waves.

There I was on the beach - in 30+ degree heat and sun, clutching my white terry towel around me, teeth chattering.  He had been right.  It was good to get out of the house.  I was no longer hot.   My mood was vastly improved.  A brush with death will do that for a girl.

The Horror... THE HORROR!

So yesterday evening when we went into the basement and gave Rissa the task of going through her cubbies of long-forgotten toys, she discovered this in her dress up box...

The pic really doesn't do it justice.  It's way more fuschia-y in real life.  The sentiment upon the chest of an adult would be enough to bring the bile into the back of one's throat, but this shirt was manufactured for a child.  A small girl child.  Like a 5-7 year-old girl child.

"Mummy, where did I GET this??"  I had no clue.  I can say with absolute certainty that I didn't buy it.  Never in my life would I have purchased a shirt like this.  1 - because of what it says.  And 2 - Rissa was a child who despised pink.  The feminist in me was bound and determined that she would NOT wear pink at all as an infant, until I realized that, when your 4 month old daughter sports a Friar Tuck monk's fringe of dark hair, and baby acne, you want to give folks a clue before they say "Oh, he's adorable!  What's his name?"  Pink ginham it was.  Plus, she looked pretty frickin' amazing in pink.  But, by the time she was 4 - NO pink.  NO princesses.  HER decision.   I kid you not.  And honestly, at this point, having realized how amazing she looked in the pink?  I was pushing it.  She said NO.

But I digress... Back to my point.  Who, I ask you, WHO in their right mind would think that this t-shirt is appropriate for a child?  Shopping Makes Me Happy?!?  REALLY??  This is what our 5-7 year-old daughters should be modeling?  No child, female OR male should be wearing this.

Is there a line of boy's t-shirts that would be equivalent?  Something equally offensive and gender cliched?  Something that makes him seem stupid yet consumerist at the same age?    Creative Writing Is DUMB!  Bacugan Makes Me Happy?   Farting While Playing Pokemon Makes Me Happy?    Sometimes small things can set me off.  But you know what?  This t-shirt is NOT a small thing.  It really isn't.  This fuschia children's t-shirt encourages young girls to think that they're supposed to be made happy through spending.  Not only is is denigrating to young women, it's setting up a ridiculous precedent.   Shopping Makes Me Happy?  How about Reading Makes Me Happy?  How about Improvisation Makes Me Happy?  How about just wearing a t-shirt that has NO WORDS on it.  The more I think about this shirt, the angrier I get.  I'm snorting and swearing while typing this.  For-fu-grr-rutz-er-frutz-blargh-dee-sadan's-aus!!!

I love a good t-shirt.  I do.  Something that is ironic and makes you snicker - usually with a bad pun.  This thing is - most kids don't get irony.  They're not there... yet.  Sarcasm either.   Please - for the love of all that's good in the universe.  Wait until your child chooses a shirt with a message.  And if your 5-7 year old daugther reaches for a shirt like this one on the rack?  TELL.  HER. NO.

The little grey pill...

 If you knew nothing about me other than the combination of pills I take in the morning, how old would you think I am? 70?  80?  To be fair, most of them are pretty innocuous.   Most of the pills are to up my immune-system so that the colds and flu that I used to suffer from multiple times a year don't happen.  Sure members of my family might shake their heads and think I'm way too crunchy-granola and believing way too much in health shoppe voodoo, but I have NOT been really sick in a LONG time.  (TOUCH WOOD)

The other pills?  Well let's just take a little tour of my supplement trail mix, shall we??  Let's start at the top left and go clock-wise: the big yellowy splotchy pill (that looks kinda like a buttured popcorn Jelly Belly) is a multi-vitamin, the gargantuan blackish one is the Omega-3 supplement (think cod liver oil that our parents used to take), the white one is calcium-magnesium (strong bones and all that), the little grey one at the bottom right is for soothing peri-menopause symtoms (more on this in a moment), the red is my special fancy-dancy iron supplement (that my doctor prescribed because apparently I'm anemic), the orangey one at the bottom left is...  oh sweet caduceus!  What the hell IS that pill?  Frickin' memory loss....  AHA!!   The B stress complex (to aid in warding off colds/flus etc), and the larger grey is Vitex, an herb that helps regulate my period (which means that instead of every 2 weeks I have my period every 24 days).  I know - all you're hearing is blah, blah, blah, red pill, blah, blah, orange pill, blah, blah, blah every 24 days. But trust me - I am not the only one who is glad that my periods are less frequent - David thinks it's a really good thing.  REALLY A LOT.

Until last week I was doing okay with this cocktail.  Then I added the little grey pill - the innocent-looking one that is made of sage and was supposed to help me with my hot flashes one of the 35 attending joys of peri-menopause. (see below)  Since taking it - I have NOT slept through the night.  Apart from the one night when I took a sleeping pill because I'd had a really delicious 2 hour nap in the afternoon and thought - There is no way I'll be able to sleep, I'm feeling too keyed up... By the clock-watching I've been perfecting this week I'm up pretty much ALL freaking night.  1:27 a.m.  1:36 a.m. 1:49 a.m. 1:52 a.m. ... 2:09 a.m. 2:13 a.m.  2:21 a.m. ...  I must get some sleep because I remember really weird-ass dreams.  And I think I might be hallucinating a bit.  Like the towel that hangs on the back of the bedroom door, looked like it might have been an old Italian woman reaching out a hand to curse me.  I also looked at David next to me in bed last night and I was CONVINCED that he was Rissa.  Which means I was probably just dreaming about Rissa and imagining she was there, but it took me a LONG time to realize that it was David.  I may have poked him a couple of times to get him to look at me.  "It's okay sweetie - just checking.  Go back to sleep."

So this is a list of 35 things associated with peri-menopause..  WTF??  Seriously?  Because why??  No REALLY.  WHY???    And what do men have?  Difficulty peeing and they might lose hair.  I just counted.  18.  I have 18 of these.  Well, it could be worse, I could have all 35.  I think I was just possessed by my mother for a second there.  That's actually a good thing.  Mom says things like, "Turn that frown upside down" and means it.  She will always be the optimist.  I am determined to follow in her footsteps.  My glass wil be 1/2 full!!  Given all my weird-ass medical shit - it's a freaking miracle that I don't have ALL 35 of the symptoms!  PLUS, but wait there's more, I have so much material that I can write about because of this 'time of life.'  AND... I can fix this.  I think.  This morning, I didn't take the little grey pill and tonight, I'm taking a sleeping pill to get a good night's sleep and all will be well in the universe.  And if I'm still having No 5. Sleep Disturbances after NOT taking the sage - I will... deal with it... perhaps with near-hysteria, but I'll deal with it.  Because really?  If you can't laugh about this kind of shit...  you turn into one of those older women who looks like they never learned to smile.  And that? Ain't me!

Don't put that last chocolate-covered pretzel in your mouth!

Why, oh why don't we listen to our bodies?  When they're full, I mean.  Of food.  I either need to throw up or ingest vast quantities of TUMS.  I am smarter than this.

This chipmunk is me.  The peanut is the last chocolate-covered pretzel.  I made a bad choice.

I should just know better. 

Yesterday was my birthday.  David made me my favourite seafood casserole for dinner and my favorite 3-in-1 chocolate cake for dessert.  Shawn & Amber brought chocolate stuffs.  I ate little bits of each, but didn't lose my mind.  I had a wine spritzer with dinner and then drank sparkling water.  I was a good girl.

Today, was an altogether different story.  I opened the fridge this morning and to what did my wondering eyes did appear?  LEFTOVER CAKE!!!  The logic fairy came and visited me.  She said, "You know, it's better to eat cake earlier in the day because you'll have time to burn it off when you exercise."  The Logic Fairy can soon become the Faulty-Logic Fairy if she visits you more than once in a day.  After I ate a piece of 3-in-1 chocolate cake for breakfast with a glass of soy milk for protein - I mean, c'mon, I wasn't going to be dumb about it - she visited me again at about 4:00 p.m. when I needed a snack.  "It's better to eat something sweet now when you'll still have time to burn it off..."  Except that I had already exercised and wasn't planning on exercising again before going over to dinner at my friend Nathalie's place.  My protein with the afternoon snack of cake was a handful of pecans.  I recognize that 2 pieces of chocolate cake in lieu of real food is perhaps a bad idea.

I took over some of the marvellous chocolatey stuffs to Nathalie's, thinking that I could at least share my badness.  Chocolate-covered toffee, Chocolate-covered bready peanut-buttery thingies and chocolate-covered pretzels.  I had a few of each before dinner.  Along with the 3 frozen daiquiris "Your glass is empty, you need a top up."  Today was really hot...  The frozen strawberry daiquiris?  They felt really good in my mouth.  All three of them.

I had an amazing dinner of roast pork with gravy and roasted veggies and SALAD.  I saw that the salad was good, knew that the salad was good, ate the salad and it was good.  I needed to stop then.  But the chocolatey stuffs came outside and then there was blueberry pie with ice cream that had those little tiny dots of real vanilla bean...  and then I morphed into the chipmunk above.  And now I need to have TUMS.

I am DUMB.  Because not only did I overeat, but I ate shit that makes me feel bad - chocolatey-covered wheaty pretzel shit that makes my blood sugar go all wonky, but is all salty and chocolatey and wheaty and tastes so frickin' good.  And I drank 3 daiquiris!!  Which means that in bed tonight I'm going to have night sweats.  Because I'm in PERI-FREAKING-MENOPAUSE and I shouldn't drink more than one of anything.   And I know this... and I am DUMB.   I might have to get David to hide those last two pieces of cake that are still in the fridge so that I don't repeat this cycle of insanity tomorrow.