Instant Coffee = Gateway Drug

There used to be a time when I could drink flavoured Nescafe instant coffee and think it was good.  I drank it weak.  I drank it full of sugar.  Really what I drank was a hot milk shake with what amounted to a wee bit of coffee flavouring.  Then it all changed with Alice.  Alice made good strong coffee - and once you've had good you really can't go back to crappy.

I now triple filter my coffee.  I pour double the amount of grounds used for a single cup into the filter, then pour 8 oz of just-boiled water over it.  I then take the weak coffee from the carafe and pour it through into my latte mug and then I do it a third time, draining it back into the carafe (being careful not to tear the, now-sodden, filter), just to try to approximate the taste of what you can get from a barista.  And what about that?  I just typed BARISTA!?!  I can use barista correctly in a freaking sentence!!  What the Pooh?!?   

I still don't drink the really good/expensive coffee. I don't store my own beans in an opaque, airtight container (not in the freezer) before I grind them in a fancy schmancy grinder.  I don't have organic espresso.  I buy President's Choice Decaf Hazelnut/Vanilla coffee already ground because I'm a coffee pussy who likes her coffee to basically taste like ice cream.  I can't handle caffeine because of my hot flashes and I can't do dairy because it makes my throat all mucousy.  So I go through this rigmarole* of triple filtering to get myself a decaf, hazelnut/vanilla soy latte in the morning, going through twice as much coffee in a week all because Alice made good coffee.  Damn you Alice!!!  DAMN YOU!!!!  (Closeup of me yelling into the camera with a long pull-back from a crane.)  Next?  Next I'm going to be buying a freaking French Press. How fucking pretentious is that?!?

* So up until JUST NOW I thought that the word was "rig-a-ma-role"  /ˈrig(ə)məˌrōl/ There is no 'a' after the 'g.'  Although there is the implied short 'e' in the pronunciation.  Who knew?

Communal Germ Box

...AKA a box of Timbits.  I'm not supposed to eat Timbits.  They're full of gluten and sugar and everything that can push me to edge of a sugar coma.

But when they're on a table, right in front of a gal?  And when you haven't had a snack?  And when you're in the middle of a rehearsal and stressed?  That's when you reach into the Timbits box.  Where other people, with other fingers have felt up the Timbits.

I had one.  Okay, maybe I had two... Okay, I had three.  Which really?  Isn't even as many calories as a full-on donut.  But it does mean that I stuck my hand in the Communal Germ Box three times instead of one.  It also means that the next day is when my sore throat started.  And my mouth started feeling a little pasty and the blocked nostril thing began.

Basically, I was being punished for eating the gluten and the sugar by the Gods of Reminding Me to Eat Well.  The Gods said "HA-HA!  You think that you won't be screwed over for three little Timbits eh?  Now we will concentrate all the viruses that have come into even indirect contact with every hand that has reached into this box and you Heather shall feel their winter-cold effects."

But for those 5 seconds at a time that those Timbits were making love to my mouth?  Totally worth it.

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.