We used to have sex...

We had plans.  Last weekend we were going to get naked.  We were going to waggle our eyebrows suggestively.  We were going to get sweaty from the 'bouncy-bouncy."  We had plans.  You know what David and I ended up doing?  Having an Epsom Salts bath and collapsing into separate sleep comas.

We spent our Saturday groaning while crouched awkwardly on the family room rug... doing NOTHING sexy.  You know what we were doing?  We were weaving squares of fabric through 7x10 foot pieces of plastic chicken wire.  For set decoration.  For 6 hours.  After about the first 15 minutes, my 44 year-old arthritic hips started to ache.  (8 years of gymnastics folks!  Not one Olympic medal and plenty of arthritis.)  After an hour, I turned to David and warned him, "We're not having sex tonight."   All he said was a commiserative, "I know."

We're so busy.  We keep planning to have sex and it just doesn't happen.   By the time we make it to bed, David and I have to stifle our yawns as we lie face to face.  We keep saying that we'll go to bed earlier, that we'll enjoy some afternoon delight and then it's 11:00 p.m. or Rissa's home.  There's no time!  And not just no time for foreplay and hide the salami - I'm too tired take out the Magic Wand and give myself a 2-3 minute quickie!

Soon.  Soon, when the show is over and we have our lives back again - we'll reconvene in our marital bed and blow each other's minds and other body parts, but until then - the only thing I'm humping?  Is my pillow, with my head.

Did I SAY you could touch my stomach?!?

When you're pregnant you become a public commodity.  Strangers ask you your business, tell you whether you're having a boy or a girl and have opinions on what foods go in your cart at the No Frills.

Way back when... when I was pregnant with Rissa - I was working in an office.  I did a lot of work with the desktop publishing department.   I came into the office one day and this desktop publishing dude suddenly put his hands very low on my pregnant stomach.  I'm not a touching-phobe, in fact I'm pretty darned snuggly with those I'm close to,  but if I don't KNOW the person, I'm not really cool with being touched, up close and personal - low on my body, adjacent to my hooha.  I didn't know this guy.

Without a pause, I reached down and grabbed his crotch, firmly... in such a way where he could not extricate himself easily.  I then said this:

"You need to ask first."  I squeezed a little bit.  His eyes got a little wider.  I smiled kindly at him, waiting, my head resting in an "I'm listening" tilt.

"Sorry..."  he strangled out, his eyes watering.  "I'll ask."

"Good man."  I waited patiently, hand still a claw around what manly bits hadn't crawled back up inside his body.

"May I... "  he swallowed and looked a bit green.  "May I touch your stomach?"

I released him and feigned delight.  "Why thank you SO much for asking!  You know a lot of people just touch without asking."  I lifted up my top, exposing the vast expanse of child-incubating skin. I take on a conspiratory tone. "You can even touch my popped belly button if you like, I don't let just anyone do that."

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.