Apparently I DON'T learn...

Okay, so I might need a babysitter.  I know that I keep posting that I don't, but I think maybe... I do.  My hips are hurting... AGAIN... Because why?  Because I jogged on the treadmill and now my arthritis/bursitis is acting up.  (And yes, I'm only 44 freaking years of age, but I was a gymnast, hence the 72 year old hips.)  Last week, when I jogged on the treadmill, they hurt and David said, "You probably shouldn't jog any more."  So leading up to the weekend I totally didn't jog.  Now some of that is because I just didn't have the time to do anything, but I was trying to make sure that I'd be able to dance at the wedding on Saturday, because it would suck not to be able to dance at one of your best friends' weddings.  So I left off the jogging and was able to dance.  YAY!  

But today I jogged again.  I could lie and say that I was just testing to see if my hips hurt EVERY time I jogged, but I won't do that.  I was jogging to burn more calories.  I only had one episode of Buffy on the media player and that only last 41 minutes, so I figured I'd up the cardio ante by jogging.  I kind of thought, if I only jog every other time, maybe I can manage it.  I was wrong.  This is me admitting that I'm wrong.  See that?  Gold freaking star for Heather.

I was wrong on Saturday too.  I ate the wrong food.  With full knowledge of my blood sugar issues, I might have eaten, um, two pieces of wedding cake, and then for the late-night snack, I might have had um, two pieces of Pizza Hut pizza and maybe, a, uh... lemon square.   (The cake part was totally understandable and you would have done it too.  Usually wedding cake sucks!!! But this cake was SO good!   JULIA IS AN AMAZING BAKER!  After the first piece, the 2nd piece just called to me in a siren voice that made me lose my mind a bit.)

I'm pretty sure it's the Pizza Hut pizzas' fault.  Because Pizza Hut pizza is basically pizza toppings slathered onto deep fried white bread - which is apparently my nemesis.  You'd figure that it'd be something WAY more dangerous, involving, say, throwing stars and maybe a mace, but, no it's white bread. That, combined with being exhausted was a bad combo.  There are good combos.  Like ham and pineapple on a thin crust gluten-free pizza or Gene Kelly & Donald O'Connor, but me tired and eating the wrong foods is pretty much a recipe for falling into near hypo-glycemic shock.

The wedding was divided into two camps  One camp thought that maybe I'd just heard that someone had died.  Any light in my eyes faded and I spent a lot of time trying not to cry. I think I might have been mourning the passing of my common sense.  And then the other camp was all, "Look at the drunken Matron of Honour - poor thing can't hold her liquor."  Which, by the way, I totally can, and if I could have actually articulated more than two words together I would have told them that. "I'm Danish by God - I can drink anyone here under the table!  Pass me that bottle of Aquavit!  Skol!!" But when you're basically drunk on sugar, you're pretty much screwed until you can reboot, which for me means having something sweet like orange juice along with some protein and a place to sleep.  It was such a bad sugar crash that I actually allowed David, Rissa and the groom to pretty much carry me to the car.   And this from a gal who refuses help at the best of times.

So, if you see me in public, veering towards slices of deep dish pizza or late night baked goods, lay a hand upon my arm and say "Remember the wedding?"  It might just be enough to keep me in line.

BLARGH!

WARNING: LANGUAGE

Rissa was snuggled into her bed.  I was lying beside her.  From the main floor we heard David:

"BLAAAAARGH!!!!!!  SON OF A FUCKING BITCH!!! ARGH!!  FUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!"

Followed by "I'm FINE!. FUCK!!!  I'M FINE!"

David stomp, stomp stomps back up the stairs.   "Grumble, grumble, grumble..." 

"What happened?" I asked, maintaining a straight face.

"I stubbed both my toes...  at the SAME time... grumble, grumble...."

Rissa and I say nothing. I can taste blood in my mouth from the effort.   David stomps back to the study.

"Daddy sometimes over-reacts to pain," Rissa observes.

"Sometimes," I agree.  "I think you should tell him that.  Go ahead." I make a you do it motion with my chin.

"Nuh-unh.  You!" she says, pointing at me.

"No way.  You!"  I point back.

"Mummy you just have the right rhythm for it."

"The right rhythm?"

"Yeah, your rhythm is all... thump ba da thump, ba da boomp... booomp...    booomp...  snooooooore...  See?  your rhythm is so relaxed it's almost ASLEEP.  You should totally be the one to tell him.  You're a calming influence.  Me? Not so much."

You'd think I'd know better...

So last night was the night before I'm the Matron of Honour in a wedding party.  What time did I get to bed?  2:45 a.m.  Not because I was partying beforehand at the rehearsal dinner.  (Although I did see a friend totally kick ass in a drag king contest!!!  Woo-hoo!)  But I was home at 11 freaking 30 p.m. and made the mistake of checking my email and then my brain woke up.  So I was playing Scrabble and answering messages and chatting.  And then it was 2:45 and I went to bed and David said "ARE YOU CRAZY?!?"  To which I replied "Well, yes...  Oh... but you mean because it's so late."  And then, as I was falling asleep I was totally having anxious bride moments:

OH MY GOD!  WE DIDN'T SET 3 OF THE TABLES (we totally did)

OH MY GOD!  WE DIDN'T CLEAR THE PIZZA BOXES OFF THE DANCE FLOOR!  (totally did and the groomsmen can worry about all that shit today before we get there.)

OH MY GOD!  THE HALL DOESN'T HAVE A CEILING!   (!?!)

OH MY GOD!  RON MCLEAN IS PERFORMING AS A DRAG KING.  WAIT!  THAT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE - RON MCLEAN IS A DUDE.  DRAG QUEEN?  DON MCLEAN?  WHAT IS HE/SHE SINGING?  (that's when I knew I was just confabulating shit.)

Apparently the bride gave me all her pre-wedding anxiety cause she slept like  a freaking baby. You're welcome Amber!

At 7:55 a.m.  Minuit, our VERY fat black cat, decided that I must arise from bed.  David had already put food down for all the cats, but she was adamant that I had to get up.  The thing you need to know about Minuit is that she sounds like Edward G. Robinson when she talks.  Or at least she sounds like how Mel Blanc used to voice Edward G. Robinson.  Check it out for the 2:08 mark - and every time he saysYEAH?  YEAH?  Imagine it's "MEOW,  MEOW."

Palpating my hips, my stomach, my neck.  "Hey."  palpate palpate.   MEOW.  MEOW!!!"  Palpate, palpate...  "MEOW!"  Head butt, nibble on chin, pat, pat, pat on face.  "HEY!"  Climbing over my abdominal aorta and cut off my blood supply for a second.  "MEOW!"    And then I was up. 

But now, it is 3 hours later, and I shall attempt an hour long nap so that I won't fall into a sleep-deprived coma in my platform stillettos later today.   This photo?  This is the photo of Heather as she did a face plant during the meal.  That is baked potato  We had a baked potato bar!  And what's sad?  I can remember being able to stay up for much later and having much less sleep than this and still managing to cope the next day.  Without caffeine either, 'cause I never used to drink coffee.  Okay sure, that was probably in my 20s, although come to think of it if I was up for 24 hours then my legs would just KILL me the next day, even then.   Oh how the mighty have fallen.

I ain't a ballerina...

...but in my dreams I dress like one.  In my dreams I also carry myself like Audrey Hepburn.  The way she glides down a staircase in Roman Holiday?  That's how I imagine I look. In reality I have WAY more linebacker in my presentation.

I salivate as I pass by windows featuring adorable little smock-like dresses.  There was a shop just down the street that had a window full of clothing made for women with no boobs.  I coveted everything in this shop.

This shop had precious clothing for A or B cup ballerina women who can wear something sans defined waist-lines without looking like they're pregnant.   A-line and over-dresses in wild patterns that are made for teenagers or twenty-somethings without  my 36DD chest.  In the 90s, I wore tonnes of clothing that wasn't right for my body type.  Long tunic sweaters that went down almost to my knees.  It's no wonder that people kept offering me their seats on public transit.  With boobs my size, if I wear something waistless I'm going to look 5-6 months pregnant just from the shelf of my rack.

Basically whatever shape you are - you need to wear clothes which accentuate that shape.  I am a generous version of the hour-glass.  I have NEVER been that petite, dude-can-sweep-me-into-his arms, flat-chested girl.  I am more of the emphasize-the-tits-and-ass kind of gal.  But that doesn't stop me from wanting to be able to wear all the pretty ballerina-y dresses that my 12 year old daughter can wear.  Of course Rissa actually IS a ballerina with little to no body fat on her.

I know, I know - women always want what they don't have.  If you have large boobs, you want perky boobs, if you have small boobs, you want large ones.  Curly-haired redheads want to have straight raven black or blond hair.  If you have long legs... okay really, who am I kidding, NOBODY wants short legs. 

Once I knew that I had to wear things that fit my shape, life got easier.  And then when Mad Men came on?  I was pretty much in Nirvana!!!  Curvaceous women celebrated on television?

1960s-inspired clothing actually IN stores?  A freaking dream come true for girls like me.  I embrace my curves.  There are tonnes of women who don't.  Women who think they're hiding what they consider figure-flaws by wearing baggy clothing and un-flattering undergarments.  These women are wrong.

My Mum came downstairs one day wearing a forest green velour upscale tracksuit (just even typing those adjectives make me shudder) she had received from a family friend who was cleaning out her closet.

"Look what I got - it's practically new!!"

"Mum it doesn't FIT you.  It's too big in the shoulders, the bust - the hips -  it's too big EVERYWHERE.

"Oh... it's fine."

"Mum the pants are ginormous on you."

And then Rissa walked into the room "Wow, Mor-Mor - that's a LOT of crotch!"    This observation held so much more weight than anything I could say.  The tracksuit has been retired.

You've got to kiss a lot of a**holes

THERE WILL BE ADULT LANGUAGE IN THIS POST

Every girl experiences it.  Asshole Douchebaggery.  Behaviours that change the way a gal sees the world of potential romantic interests.  It happened to me when I was 18.  I  had a string of bad luck.

First there was "Kevin the Asshole." We met doing summer musical theatre at Rainbow Stage. If you think about it, the odds were that he should have been geeky or gay (or both), not an asshole.  I had an inkling he wasn't terribly committed to a monogamous relationship when he decided that a good way to make us closer would be to have a menage a trois with one of my best friends.  I thought I'd call his bluff, but he wasn't bluffing.  AWKWARD.

So I broke up with him.  Later, at a University of Winnipeg theatre social, I ran into his ex-girlfriend.  Me being the kind of girl I am, I said, "I think we broke up with the same guy."  To which she replied "How long did you date Kevin?"  "About 8 months."  pause, two, three... "I've been seeing him for 2 years."  That there? That would be the sound of the other shoe, which I didn't know even existed, dropping.

Yep - there were at least two of us - if not more.  Turns out Kevin the Asshole explained me to her as "A little puppy who just wouldn't take the hint."  And her to me as "an ex-girlfriend who just won't let go."  He gave us the same Hudson Bay Teddy Bears for Christmas (remember those snuggly white bears with the red scarves?), the Valentine's Day rose I gave to him, he gave to her.  The Valentine's handcuffs I gave to him, he USED with her. It was... illuminating - if that word meant soul-destroying.

I borrowed my friend Heidi's car and the other girlfriend and I drove down to The Keg where Kevin worked.  We found Kevin's section and sat patiently, waiting for an opportunity to converse with him.  To his credit, he was fairly calm when we greeted him.  Didn't panic.  Almost nonchalant as he said he'd "get his stuff and then we could talk."  And then he escaped through the kitchen.  A coward AND an asshole.

The other girlfriend and I drove back to the social, commiserating all the way.  How could we have been so stupid, so blind?  How could we not know??  When we arrived back at the social, Kevin was waiting for us.  "I didn't want you both showing up at my house (he still lived with his parents), so I figured I'd come here and let you yell at me."  That's when other girlfriend and I devolved into shrieking harpies and he stood there, oh-so-calmly taking it.  "You broke up with ME, Heather, I don't see the issue.  How can you be angry?"  At one point, when we had finally taken a breath in our haranguing, he said, "I need a drink.  Why don't you girls wait here to think up other things that you can blame me for."  And he walked into the social.   I, honest to God, saw RED.   I followed him in, shoved him in the middle of his back and cuffed him on the side of his head.  And then I ranted.  I don't remember what I said, but what was important was that it was loud,  incredibly dramatic and crowd-captivating.  I then took another swing at him which he ducked.  After that, he ceased to exist for me.  It was the strangest thing.  I looked at him and had no emotional response to him at all. The sad part?  At the end of the night, I saw him still trying to work his magic with the other girl.  And even sadder?  I saw her falling for it.

Shortly after Kevin the Asshole, there was "Older Dude Who Wanted a Hummer in his Car."  My dad was a Lt. Colonel in the Air Force.  On occasion I might go to events with my parents at the Officer's Mess.  This one time a Capt. who taught with my Dad at the Nav School hit on me.  I was 18.  He was about a dozen years older than me.  AND, (I'm sure you can guess this part)... He was married.  As Rissa would say "CREEPER."

And right after that, there was "Dude with no Moral Compass."  I was at a family cottage, hanging with my older cousins and their friends who were in their mid-twenties.  We were enjoying a nice bonfire - some folks having some laughs - roasting marshmallows, drinking beverages.  I was a bit tipsy, I won't lie.  One of the guys, a good-looking and affable gent, asked if I'd like to go for a walk.  On this walk he became, shall we say, amorous.  As he kissed me, something was kicking around in the back of my tipsy mind.   

Wait a second... this guy is married!!!  And like NEWLY married, like only a YEAR married.
"HEY!  You're MARRIED!"

"Baby, that should bother me, it shouldn't bother you."

REALLY?!?  I mean, Really? 

And then... I didn't date anyone for about a year.  I needed to regroup.  I'd been wounded and had turned into one of those girls who would say "All men are assholes." Finding myself spouting pejorative cliches made me crazy, but I totally had facts to back that shit up.  It was a LOOOOOOONG time before I was willing to trust anyone, but eventually it happened.  I dated again, I even fell in love and eventually,  I found THE ONE and his name was David.  And I can say with complete certainty that David, is NOT an asshole.

Dryer Sheets of Death

Looks so innocuous, doesn't it?

Our laundry/bathroom is on our main floor.  We have two doors leading into it, one from the back hall and one from the back staircase.*  There are occasions where I might bound into the room from either direction.  Did you know that you can slip, in your bare feet, when previously used dryer sheets have been rubbed into the floor.?  Residual fabric softener, it turns out, is a great floor waxer.  Who knew?  Not I.  Until I galloped down the stairs, skittered into the laundry/bathroom, hit a slippery patch, IN MY BARE FEET, and went careening into the door jamb, sliding down the jamb, full weight upon my arm to rest in a pile of legs and arms.  I believe all the neighbours on our street could hear me colourfully peppering the air with Danish expletives.

Åh for Satan da også!

I looked around to see what had caused me to slip and there was nothing there. I mean NOTHING.  Not a piece of clothing, not a rug without a slippy-pad, not a dryer sheet.  So I crawled across the floor and started feeling around the way a blind person might, my hand out in front of me brushing from left to right and back again to feel the floor.  And somewhere around the chrome waste basket (where dryer sheets are supposed to be put), I felt a bunch of really slippery spots.  So what did I do?  I got up and tried to walk over the spot and SLIPPED AGAIN!!!  Which means that I fell on my ass TWICE.  The second time as an EXPERIMENT.  I lay on the floor, laughing at my own stupidity for a few moments as the cats mocked me from the doorway.

I bruise if someone breathes on me so if I actually injure myself, it's a sight to behold.  There will be bruises on me that I don't even remember getting.  I bump into a shopping cart at the grocery store and end up looking like I've gone three rounds with a welter weight.  David frequently looks at me and says, "What the hell did you do to yourself?"    This has happened when I've been massaged:

I trip, slip, scald, goose-egg, gouge, sprain and gash myself... I am THAT clumsy.  I always win the "How many scars do you have?" game.  It used to really put potential boyfriends off because they'd want to be all manly and itemize every wee little mark they had on their bodies and I have literally DOZENS.  I've split my head open, fallen through a glass table, punctured my leg through a snowsuit...   It's only because people know me so well that David hasn't been picked up for abuse. Thank God (touch wood) Rissa seems to have more grace and coordination than I ever had.  Although she does excel at collapsing to the floor in dramatic gestures.

* I thought it would be too poncy to say we had a servants' staircase, but we totally do!  By no means do we have servants, we just live in a century home that once had them.  When we were renovating, we saw what looked to be the top of a run of stairs in the upper hall, so we opened the walls and discovered two sets of stairs in the back of the house.  We found one from the main floor to the 2nd floor and a second staircase from the main floor to the basement.  I felt like Indiana Freaking Jones!  I had always wanted to have back stairs.  One downside to all these various stairs in the house, when a bat finds its way in?   It can be REALLY hard to catch the sucker because it has several escape routes.   

And THAT'S how you burn a house down!

I have a tendency to get distracted.  Like today, when I was making very healthful (HAH!) nachos for my lunch.  I walked away from the oven when I was broiling.  This is a mistake.  'Cause THIS is what happened.   Nothing like a little oven fire to get the angina started.

I once melted the bottom off an aluminum sauce pan because I got all distracticated.  I tried to multi-task while boiling water.  I walked away from the pot, and then the pot MELTED.  It looked like the molten metal thingie from Terminator 2  (another movie that we shouldn't show Rissa yet, no matter how cool it is).


 
It looked exactly like this, except that it was all over my burner drip pans and the stove.   I realized then that I should NOT walk away from the kitchen. EVER.

And I try not to, but today  - I was multi-tasking - trying to clean the house and cook and write and voila!  Parchment Paper Fire.  Thank God that's all it was.

I'm notorious for forgetting to turn the stove off.  They say that if you keep forgetting where you put your keys, but still know what keys are actually used for, you don't have Alzheimer's.  I still know what a stove does, so I think I'm okay,  but this sort of shit happens to me all the time now.

When I can't remember the word "ambition"?  Or the name of a movie star that I KNOW I know?  That scares the crap out of me.  But this?  This could burn the house to the ground.  Usually though, Rissa or David are around and have the presence of mind to turn the oven off.  If I'm the only one in the house and something lights on fire, I'd be the only casualty, so that's a positive.  CRAP.  And the cats.  That would be bad for me to burn three cats.  I better get on this.  AH-HA!!  Oven timer!!  Perfect thing to actually use.  There.  Problem solved.  No krispie kitties nor ashen Heathers. I just have to remember to pay attention to it!