Sex Show vs Home Show

David recently treated me to a romantic weekend away in the big city.  He planned it all. We stayed in a hotel.  We had fancy dinners.  He even packed for me.  He organized (ahem) activities.  And by activities I mean... SEX... and lots of it, without your child's ears in close proximity.  In fact, having sex in a hotel, basically encourages you to be as loud as possible while in the throes of passion.  If you don't have the management knocking at your door at 3:00 a.m. after noise complaints, you're not taking full advantage of your 'activity' time.

The next morning we went to a diner and enjoyed the best of greasy breakfasts.  David gave me a choice of afternoon non-sexual activities before our  fancy schmancy dinner out.  The Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex Show OR The Home Show.  Tough choice, right?  I had never been to either which is bizarre given that SEX and HOUSES are two of my most favourite things.  What to do, what to do? 

Sex Show - lots of interesting toys and seminars vs  Home Show - lots of interesting tools and seminars...  So... pretty much even.

Sex Show - interesting people, possibly in leather, maybe carrying whips vs  Home Show - interesting people, possibly in overalls, maybe carrying leather tool belts...  Sex Show pulled out in the lead there.

Thing was?  We'd recently been to a well-stocked  sex shop where the sales people were incredibly helpful - we'd actually just 'stocked up' as it were.  And frankly?  There's only so much room in my bedside table for further activity accoutrements.  And the Home Show?  Price tags on items available there can launch you into the thousands of dollars realm without breaking a sweat.  It was a conundrum.  I was vacillating.

"Sex Show... Home Show....  Home Show... Sex Show."

David was scanning the list of weekend TO-DOs in the city.  "Hmmmm.... the Royal Winter Fair is on too..."

"It is?!?  Really?!?  With live animals?  And butter sculptures!?!"

"...Yes...."  His glance in my direction - laden with disbelief.

"There!  I want to go there!"

Yep.  That's what we did.  I saw the butter sculptures and I got to feed the llamas...

I was a little disappointed that this sculpture was not the size of a house

Llamas are ALWAYS worth seeing.  ALWAYS.

I pet sheep and felt alpaca wool...  I watched rabbit jumping and calf showings...  I also saw lots of leather and riding crops for the horsey set - making me think that perhaps the Sex Show and the Royal Winter Fair have way more in common than one might think and if they combined those shows, you could really do the two birds one stone thing.

p.s.
On my way to the Royal Winter Fair I got to feed squirrels in the park!!  One of the best activities EVER. 

After I gave the squirrel a nut he took it
up to the tree and ate it upside down like this

"I'm BATSQUIRREL!"

Honestly, the $3.95 worth of nuts that I fed to the squirrels could have probably kept me happy all day.  David had to drag me away to get me to the Royal Winter Fair.  We totally could have saved all that admission money on the Royal Winter Fair and spent the day outside in the fresh air...  Watching the coolest squirrel ever.

Little Granny Grey Bush

Yep... 'for the hair down there'

 WARNING: This post contains too much information

Today, I found it.  A grey hair.  In the bush.  Does the phrase "all downhill from here" strike any chords?  I mean, sure, I've had grey hair on my head for 5 years or so, but my haphazard dye job every 6 weeks usually takes care of those.  I even have a few of those pesky grey peri-menopause neck hairs, the ones that can drive you to distraction when you're trying to pry them out of your carotid artery...

But down there...?  DOWN THERE?!?  I don't think a gal can bounce back from that.  I am now officially old.  It's so disheartening.  I'd pluck it, but I tried that with the ones on my head and that just lead to lots and lots and lots of wee little pokey-outey hairs sprouting at the part in my scalp and in my salt-n-pepa temples.  Bush hair is already fiercely rough and crinkly without adding pokey-outey to the mix.  Nope, the little buggers are here to stay.

Maybe, just maybe if I went grey down there in a classy way...  You know, say if my bush were comparable to what I imagine the Dames Helen Mirren and Judy Dench might sport ... all posh and delicately coiffed, lusted after by those who appreciate women of a certain age.

I just didn't reckon that I'd be a woman of a certain age at 44...

NOT A PROPER CALENDAR!!

Calendars. My requirements:  it must be large, clever, colourful, stylish...  The free one from the local real estate office (while offering a plethora of picturesque homes) just isn't going to cut it hanging on my kitchen wall.  Chagall, Vintage Vogue, Edward Gorey... now THOSE are calendars.  

I found one on sale at Chapters after New Years that would serve my purpose - interesting B&W shots of Paris from the turn of the century to the 70s. Done.  And it wasn't $20.

Then, I got it home.

Turns out this calendar starts its week on Monday.  Okay, what the fuck?  NO.  Unacceptable.  When you look at a regular calendar, you know which box is which.  I can tell you that Thursday is THIS box, just by looking at it.  But on a calendar where they have decided that the week begins on Monday - I'm screwed.

I'm sorry we missed your wedding, you see we thought Saturday was Sunday.

Dentist on Wednesday?  Nope, sorry you must mean Tuesday.

No, I didn't start my period on MONDAY!!!  I started it on SUNDAY - but if I put it where Sunday is now, I'll think I started on SATURDAY!!! I need to circle the right freaking START day you calendar-fucking fuckers!!!  (Apologies.  It's day 2.)

Is this a generational thing? A hipster thing?  Should I be wearing enormous black-rimmed glasses with skinny jeans to decipher this?

There is a case to be made that the work week starts on Monday and then you get to the weekend and the partying begins and all is well in the world. It's a great THEORY.  My brain just can't get its synapses around that concept when I LOOK at a freaking calendar!!  I need to do be able to extrapolate immediately, I can't count back one - I've got enough shit to shovel on a weekly basis without second guessing if I'm in the right place at the right time. 

The calendar search begins once more...

Magical Meerkat

This is a MAGICAL picture. It is a MAGICAL MEERKAT. I have dubbed it thus. You do NOT have to comment, like or share with any number of people to enjoy good luck or suffer bad luck. Why?? Because it is JUST a freaking picture of a meerkat! Have people lost their freaking minds?!?

And while we're at it, how about this?  The next time you see a guilt-ridden chain of anything (picture, quotation, "let's see how many people really pay attention" posts)...   How about you edit the wording to eliminate any sort of indentured reciprocity?  Then, by all means, share to your heart's content.  If people want to do the same, fan-freaking-tastic!  And if they don't - it doesn't fucking matter! 

Cliff-hangers and 12 year olds...

"NO!!! NO!!! Where's the remote?!?  Where is the next episode?  What is going to happen?!?  NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"  (collapse, collapse, collapse...) "Oh WAILEY, WAILEY, WAILEY!"

We were watching the first (and sadly, only) season of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.  Around episode 19 or so they got all cliff-hangery.  I'm pretty sure that's when Rissa started to throw her apoplectic fit.

"We have to watch the next three episodes RIGHT NOW!!!"

"It's bedtime!"

"But what's going to HAPPEN?!?"

"You'll have to wait and see."

"WAIT AND SEE?!?"

"Yes.  Like in olden times, you know... before evolution.  The way we use to watch tv before PVRs and Netflix and DVD Box sets."

"We're DINOSAURS!!"

"Yes.  And I call velociraptor."

And that's when the 2 year old monkey copped a feel...

Rissa had two big firsts over the weekend.  She was french kissed AND felt up.  By a two year old.  In a monkey suit.  The kid got to 2nd base under the guise of a 'tickle fight.' The kissing?  Some good old toddler 'affection.' 

Afterwards we took Rissa out to dinner.  You celebrate milestones when you can, right?   Recent victims of a toddler induced virus, and having just spent several hours in a house with three children under the age of three, David and I weren't taking any chances.  We pulled out the hand sanitizer, slathered our entire bodies in blue sparkly "Dancing Waters" and then rinsed our mouths out with a couple of good long sparkly swigs just for good measure. 

I offered Rissa the sanitizer, but she declined.  "I was french kissed twice by a two year old - I don't think the hand sanitizer is going to help me.  I should just lick the table now."

Seconds after the 'incident.'

You pluck mine, I'll pluck yours...

From Knitting Ole Bag on Etsy

I would like to enter into a pact with all my female friends.  A facial hair pact.

This is my vow to you:  If you suddenly sprout a thick moustache, I will tell you.  If you have a neck full of hairs that are visible-only-in-natural-light, I will tell you.  If you have a fine, blonde hair on your cheek that is a full three inches long and can be braided into the hair on your head, I will tell you.  If your mole has sprouted a hag's hair, I will tell you.  If your eyebrows go Frida Kahlo, I will tell you.   All I ask is that you do the same for me.

We're in this together.  This is more important than letting a gal know that she has spinach in her teeth or that her zipper is down.  Please let us age gracefully together without morphing into elderly Italian women who frighten small children with their hunches and facial hair.