For Your Sanitary Needs...

Yesterday I was in a public washroom.  In one of the stalls, someone had left a makeshift toilet seat cover made from artfully placed toilet paper.  Woman after woman turned away from that stall as if it the Black Death were in residence. I guess they all assumed that someone had done their business and then left the "seat cover" there. And I was thinking, what if this was a 'pay it forward' gift, left as a fresh offering for the next user?  What if it was a true moment of altruistic kindness?  Because logistically, I kind of think that if that toilet paper toilet seat cover had been used, wouldn't it have stuck to the ass of the person who had used it before?

I mean, I'm not sure, because, me, personally?  I have never used a toilet seat cover in my life.  I don't comprehend the whole idea of toilet seat covers.  All they make me think is Why??  What possible use do they serve?  I mean really?  What is your ass going to catch from a toilet seat?  If the seat is wet, can't a gal just wipe it off with a great wad of toilet paper?  You're washing your hands afterwards right?  'Cause if you're not washing your hands?  Then YOU are pretty much the Typhoid Mary, not someone who just haphazardly tinkled on the seat.

If you place toilet paper strategically over top of a sprinkled (with someone else's pee) toilet seat, is that now slightly wet toilet paper, not just going to stick to your ass?  And won't you have to pull that wet paper off your ass with bare hands? Unless you wear gloves in the stall - which begs a whole other set of questions if you're doing that.

This may be simplistic, but isn't the important part of your ass actually NOT on the seat, but rather suspended over the toilet bowl?  What are these toilet seat cover users afraid of exactly?  Are the cheeks of your ass going to catch a disease from a toilet seat? 

(Warning: graphically descriptive passage to follow)
The only people who should be worried about the germs on the cheeks of their ass are the people who spend a lot of time touching their own ass cheeks.  Do they... I don't know, scratch or massage, or just generally play with their ass cheeks and then what?  Eat finger foods without washing their hands first?   shudder  These folks must be worried about what they're going to catch from the seat because they obviously devote considerable time to playing with their own asses.   Practically speaking, even if you had hemorrhoids, wouldn't they too, be over top of the toilet bowl, you know closer to... wait for it... ur...anus?  Wouldn't they?  And before you suggest them... ass cheek zits?  Think about it.  How hard would someone have to sit on a toilet seat to actually pop ass zits that just happened to be in a ring around their ass exactly where they would rest upon the toilet seat?  I'm just sayin' here.

A friend told me that she actually sits ON HER HANDS on the toilet seat.  I was dumbfounded, and it  must have shown on my face.  "But I wash my hands afterward!"  This makes it better how?!?  She would rather have her HANDS touch the seat upon which other peoples' asses had rested rather than her ass?  That makes aboslutely NO sense to me.  Then there's the camp that doesn't ever sit on the toilets, they just squat.  Which, to be fair, is probably great strength training for your legs.  Basically what it comes down to?  Wash your freaking hands. A lot.  Especially if they've come into contact with someone else's pee, or ass.  Washing your own ass would be a good thing too.

p.s. Do not even THINK about hinting that crabs are another reason to use a toilet seat cover.  This from the Centre for Disease Control:

"A common misconception is that pubic lice are spread easily by sitting on a toilet seat. This would be extremely rare because lice cannot live long away from a warm human body and they do not have feet designed to hold onto or walk on smooth surfaces such as toilet seats."

So unless crabs have secret sweat shops that make wee little suction cups for their feet - I think humans and our asses are safe sitting on a public toilet - sans covers.

Shilling for Schools

So it's that time of year where schools do their fundraising and your child gets to sell useless shit to your family and friends.  I'm sorry, that's unfair.  In the past couple of years, at Rissa's school, they've been selling magazine subscriptions which can actually be good things.  They make good Christmas presents and such.  Much better than selling chocolate bars or freaking candles.  She comes home with the special catalogue and I spend immeasurable time tittering over the titles.

There is a Canadian Stamp News and  Canadian Coin News.  There is Dog Fancy and Cat Fancy - which pretty much makes me think of animals dressing up in tuxedos and ballgowns - perhaps with accompanying capes.

Horses are apparently VERY big in the magazine world.  For instance, did you know there is a Canadian Horse Journal (Central & Atlantic Edition) AND a Canadian Horse Journal (Pacific & Prairie Edition)?  There is Horse & Rider, Horse Canada, Horse Country, Horse Illustrated, Horse Sport and Horses All.  I am not making this shit up.    Wait!  Wait!  There is also Western Horse Review!   Sadly I could not find neither Unicorn Style nor Dolphin Fancy - which I think would most definitely sell if all the horse stuff does.   Tween girls and closet stuffie collectors would totally eat that crap up!

My two favourites have to be PREDATOR XTREME  "Predator Xtreme's target audience consists of predator and varmint hunters."  Yes, you read that right "varmint hunters." Yep, Elmer Fudd has a magazine aimed at him.   AND... wait for it... GUN DOG "Tips Training and Expert Features."   And all I can picture is a Labradoodle with and AK-47.  "You'll never take me alive coppers!!"  I am supposed to be ordering magazines right now, and instead I'm making my way through the catalogue... and snorting with laughter... AGAIN.  Wait!  I just found FRANCE "The next best thing to being there."  Sometimes it really is the little things.

YAY!!! YOGURT!!!

We went grocery shopping today at the No Frills and it was an ADVENTURE.  I bribed Rissa to come by saying that she could pick out a treat.  First off, we had the turquoise shopping trolley on account of the fact that we walked.  Rissa was adamant that she pull it along "I..." she paused dramatically, "am a BIG girl!"  She might have then thrown in some jazz hands which sent the cart careening for a bit, but she managed to salvage the situation before she launched herself into traffic.

She was very helpful in the store.  Kept me on track because we were, after all, shopping between the hours of 3 and 5 p.m.

"So I was thinking Mummy..."

"Yes?"

"We already have a lot of treats at home, so I was wondering..." labrador retriever eyebrows "if... um... you know..." more labrador retriever eyebrows "I could pick out a treat the NEXT time we go shopping??"

"You're planning ahead."

"Yes, I am.  You know why?  Because... I ... am a BIG girl."  Toothy grin.

We managed to get home, Rissa dragging the full cart behind her, almost getting killed crossing Division Street, but refusing to allow me to help because, "I AM A BIG GIRL!!!!"

We unpacked the groceries and Rissa made her very excited baby giraffe noise when she lifted the yogurt out.  "Oohoohoohooohooohoooh."  She took the assortment of 16 yogurts and opened the cardboard covering with near reverence and an accompanying angelic "Aaaaaaah-aaaaaaaaah" noise.  She then snap-snapped the 2 tiers of 8 attached yogurts into 4 groups of 4 giving a maniacally-pleased laugh as she did so.  "Heeheeheeheehee."  Those 4 groups then became 8 groups of 2 with more self-satisfied giggling.  "Snap - Titter - Snap - Titter." 

When down to the yogurt duos, she had 8 different ways so separate them: 

Like castanets - "Ssssnap!" 

Over her head, with a flourish - "SNAP!" 

The reveal of a magic trick - "TA-DA! SNAP!" 

Covertly, behind her back - "Snap." 

To the side with a cackle -"heh-heh-heh - SSSSSSSNAP!!"   

Nearly silent, underneath her shirt - "..." 

Meticulously - "s...s....s...nap!"

Nonchalantly, while looking the opposite direction -  "snap"  

Then it was time to colour coordinate her yogurt.  And yes, according to the ROYGBIV spectrum.  I adore my child.

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.