When you're scared...

My friend Lesley B shared a Vimeo video gift with me. She said "This might be the greatest thing ever."   I'm pretty sure she's right.

The film is by Bianca Giaever (who just graduated from Middlebury College in Middlebury VT), entitled The Scared is Scared.  The story is written by Asa Baker-Rouse - a six year old boy.  I have been sucker-punched by this sweet and melancholic short film which kisses brilliance.  Enjoy.

CLICK THESE WORDS:  THE SCARED IS SCARED

Asa Bear & Toby Mouse

Trapped in Virus Land

Oh Noro Virus - you yellow rat bastard... You don't just take the 24-48 hours of hovering near-death from your sufferers, but you take the "still contagious" time after the infected begin to improve.  So even though I'm now only slightly nauseated and achy and could probably handle getting back to work if I were doped up on Gravol, I'm not going to, because I try to follow this rule:  DON'T BE A DOUCHE!

And it's douchey to infect the population with something that gives you explosive diarrhea.  Just accept the fact that you are not the most important person in the universe, the world can survive without you, lose the couple of day's pay and DON'T BE A DOUCHE!

Because it you decide you are going to be a douche? Others are going to hurl when they put plain white rice in their mouths, others will be lying on the bathroom floor, hands clutching the cool porcelain of the toilet as their only connection to life and other people's families will be giving them the "Do we need to go to the ER?" eyes and walking in front of them when they go down the stairs in case they pass out. 

I'm losing the two days' pay. 

Crazy Squirrel House Party

www.ebaumsworld.com

Or raccoons.  It could be raccoons.  Whatever's up there sounds bigger than squirrels.  And I think they brought tools.  Or maybe they're just taking chunks of the old brick chimney and using them as tools to dismantle the boards that we placed over the eaves the last time the raccoons decided to take up residence.

And now, so that I don't work myself into a stroke thinking about raccoons dismantling my roof (WHILE THE HOUSE IS ON THE MARKET!!!),   I will postulate that maybe, there's just a team of them setting up a very innocent Rube Goldberg machine up there... that might account for the rolling bowling ball noise I'm hearing. 

In fact, maybe in addition to the Rube Goldberg machine, there's a whole Varmint Amusement Park up there.  Raccoons, squirrels and maybe a porcupine grabbing their burlap sacks, determinedly climbing a set of stairs (that they've also built) and sliding down the BIG SLIDE.  Maybe some carnie-type raccoons smoking cigarillos underneath John Waters-style mustaches trying to knock up the pretty high school possums before they leave town.  Maybe the next thing they set up will be THE AVALANCHE with loud rock music and the tattooed and pierced porcupine running it will yell,  


"DO YOU WANT TO GO FASTER?!?" 
And the varmints on the ride will squeal and shriek,  "YEEEEEEES!!!"  

(Except for those couple of possums who got bullied by their older siblings to go on the ride in the first place, who are screaming, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" as they cling to the sides of the ride for dear life.) 

At which point, the neighbours will call to make noise complaints and we'll be arrested for disturbing the peace and running a Varmint Amusement Park without a license.

I might have an aneurysm first...

Shoot me now.  Just put me out of my misery.  Our house is on the market.  My OCD is going into hyper drive.  Our house cannot maintain 'spotless' - it really can't.  It's like the opposite of a half-life.  Our environment can remain clean/tidy for about 3.2 hours.  It then reverts back to its natural state of 'lived-in.'  And my version of clean?  Very different from David and Rissa's. I used to be a Molly Maid.  If I missed a spot, I could get have my pay docked. 

I will lose my mind.  There are nicks and dings on the baseboards and people have been coming into my house!!!  I need to get my quart of paint and a detailing brush. Right now!  The bath mats need to be vacuumed.  Fully vacuumed.  Not what happens when I ask David to vacuum them, but REAL vacuuming.

We decided on the spur of the moment to list the house.  "Hey you know what would be fun to do in the midst of all the other things we're doing this winter?!?  SELL THE HOUSE!!!"  (palm slap to forehead) 

All our windows were sealed in the fall and of course we didn't clean between the inside and storm windows. There are freaking cobwebs and dust in some of those windows because boys?  Boys don't see that kind of dirt!  It's winter in Canada, I can't just go willy-nilly and unseal windows and re-clean everything.  What a freaking pain in the ass that would be.  But now that I've thought about it, there I'll be, stripping the removable caulking and vacuuming the window ledges and washing the windows.  FUCK.  David says, "No one notices those things."  I do.  I notice these things.  And I'm sure there are other anal people out there who will too.

Whenever we sold our other houses, Rissa and I would just disappear for a week or so and the house would be sold expediently - zip, zap, zoom!  But this house, oh this house... This ginormous century home in a small town, it's going to take more than a week to sell.  And I can't leave while that happens because I have commitments.  Although...  if I go temporarily insane I could be committed to the psych ward of a local hospital for a month or so?  That would relieve me of all of my responsibilities.  That holds some appeal.

A Week's Worth of Pooh

TI-I-I-IME'S NOT ON MY SIDE... NO IT AIN'T...

What with two house showings this weekend and an all-day Peter Pan rehearsal Sunday - editing time is nigh on non-existent. 

So here are some links to previous posts: Salsa Counts as a Vegetable right?, Underwear Addict, 23 Days Later and The Fabulous Lesbian Muffcrats  and for your viewing pleasure, a picture of Steve the Cat.

I just wanted coffee!

My soy milk refuses to foam.  It takes two failed foam attempts before I grab the tetra pack and double check the label.  Low Fat Soy.  Low Fat Soy does not foam.  And not only does it NOT foam - it tastes like shit.  I check the pantry - there are two more of the wrong soy milks there.  I bang my head on the counter.  I just wanted coffee.

I know, I KNOW... there are worse things in the world than not having foamy soy milk in one's morning coffee.  I am aware that right now I'm coming off as a spoiled, fucking, North-American PRINCESS, I know that.   It's just... it's just.. starting my day on an even keel is becoming a must.  My body delights in betraying me. The least amount of stress immediately kicks me into a 'fight or flight' response.  So wee, simple things that start my day off nicer, are more than just helpful, they are essential.  Yes, it's only stupid foam in my coffee, but it's stupid foam in my coffee that stops me from having my first angina attack of the day before 8:00 a.m.

I'm not coping well with stress.  Our house is on the market, I'm directing the most expensive musical our theatre group has ever produced, I'm about to begin a new job and just found out I have to have another biopsy... any of those could be stressful.  The thing is, my body is reacting disproportionately to regular amounts of stress.  I was making car-pooling plans over the weekend and I had an angina attack.  From CAR-POOLING PLANS!  What the hell is that? 

And although the notion of getting through the day drunk has a lot of some appeal, I recognize that it's not the best course of action.  So I take refuge in little things that make me contented and calm, like my morning coffee.  Therefore, to eliminate one of those stressors, I went to the grocery store and purchased the right type of soy milk.  Problem fixed.  Apparently sex is a good stress-reducer, so as soon as David gets home, that can happen... Blogging is akin to journalling, so me typing this should be helping right now... I just need to add in some self-hypnosis, exercise, listening to music, meditation, and deep breathing and I'll be good to go.  Perhaps even, without my foamy coffee.

23 Days Later...

WARNING: CYCLICAL FEMININE CONTENT

Me in the bathroom, minding my own business, just peeing... I thought.  Until I go to wipe and...

"WHAT THE?!?  It can't have been 23 days!  I just had it!!"

I rush to the calendar in the kitchen and count from my last Red Sharpie-circled days.  I am right on schedule.  23 days.  CRAP.  I had not a clue this was coming.  I am that busy.  You know how gymnasts and other elite female athletes push their bodies so hard that they don't even get periods?  Basically, they are TOO BUSY TO BLEED.  Okay, it might have something to do with their lean muscle mass to body fat ratio but I'm going with the TOO BUSY TO BLEED and wondering why that hasn't happened to me.   Although now, knowing that I was PMSing last week, does explain my several days of wanting choke people - some of whom were small children.

I forget things when I'm busy.  Things in addition to when the lining of my uterus tries to expel itself from my nether regions. I forget to take medicines, go to appointments, collect the garbage/recycling.   I have to have a good 5 -7 reminders on my email calendar.  3 days before, 2 days before, 1 day before, 10 hours before, 6 hours before, 2 hours before.   If I can walk to the appointment/meeting, maybe even 15 minutes before.  Combine regular peri-menopause with my period, and any sort of mental acuity becomes a dumb-ass, muscle car driver being hit by a CN Cargo Train at an un-barriered train crosssing.  Which, coincidentally, is how my lady bits feel right now.

I have forgotten to take my morning pill cocktail twice this week. TWICE.   Some of these pills are pills that ensure that my cycle lasts 23 days instead of 15 days - fingers crossed that that doesn't come back to bite me.