These thighs are not made for sconce light.

Sconce light and candle light are not the same thing.  We have these wall sconces on either side of the fireplace.  They are adorned with vellum-type shades which cast a nice glow.  The room looks warm and inviting.  My thighs in this light?  Cottage-cheesy and terrifying.

"Don't look!" I tell David.  "DON'T LOOK!"

"Don't look at what?"

"At anything!  Just close your eyes."  I desperately try to pull down my chemise so that it covers me to my knees.  My knees, at least, are pleasing to the eye.  Trouble is, the chemise really doesn't go down to my knees, so I'm now bent over at the waist, shielding the offending thigh region from the unflattering light.

All David can feel is me wriggling.  "What are you doing?"

"NOTHING!  Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain."

His eyes begin to open.

"NOOOOOOOO!!!!!"

"Would you stop?"

"I'm hideous!"

"You're not hideous.  You're badly lit."  He then gets up and turned off the sconces.  By the light of the tv my legs are spectacular!

Kick-Ass Uses for Crafting Supplies!!

Too much?

I've got boobs.  Largish ones.  On occasion, there'll be a day where I'll get dressed for work and as I'm walking to the office, I'll notice that my attire for the day is a little more low-cut than I had originally thought.  I'm not talking porn low-cut, but enough that as I'm looking down, even I get the urge to motor boat.  You know... 'cause they do look so inviting.  It's the kind of low-cut where it takes every iota of focus for David to have a conversation with me.

Sure, I do my best to make the outfit more public-appropriate.  I play around with the shoulder seams to get the neckline as far back as possible - make sure that my posture is overly straight - all the tricks so that I my co-workers don't get distracticated 'cause let's face it, even in an office full of women - 'out there' boobs can cause some commotion.

Yesterday, I thought I'd try using scotch tape to secure the edges of the neckline to my decolletage.  To no avail.  No matter how tightly you make your tape loop.  You really need double-sided clothing tape - or... OR... those super adhesive dots that you use in scrapbooking or card making!!!  I could have one of those dispenser thingies in my desk and just pop out a line of adhesive dots when a cleavage emergency arises and I'd be good to go! KICK-ASS USES FOR CRAFTING SUPPLIES!!!  Send along your own quick fixes!

What would you pay for this cat?

His name is Steve.  He's an orange tabby.  Sure, exceptionally affectionate and purrs up a storm, but really your typical tom cat.  If I were to put him up on Ebay, or Kijiji - what do you think he'd go for?  Any guesses?   $100?  $500?  How about $1000?  This cat must have freakin' gold in his faulty kidneys, because as of last night, Steve is worth $1232.38.  One Thousand, Two Hundred, Thirty-Two dollars and 38 cents. 

He's supposed to be dead.  If we'd done what we'd said we were going to do, we'd have had the vet call our animal care proxy, and Steve would now be dead on account of the fact that he's past the $500 mark.  Once it gets to $500 we're supposed to get the vet to call our friend Narda and she's supposed to say "Kill it," when we can't.  (She's also our medical proxy in the event that someone has to pull the plug on us; with the proviso that she has to laugh maniacally and say "Revenge is mine!" after we've been declared dead.)

I know, I know, you don't want to put a monetary value on your love for a treasured pet... but for a cat we got FOR FREE... $1200 freaking dollars?  Steve went in to the vet's on Thursday night - and by Friday when I thought to inquire as to the balance, we were at $800 and change.  Which is why Narda didn't get a call 'cause it was already past the $500 mark.  And now we're into increments.

"Okay, we'll do the x-rays to see if he has stones in his bladder, but if he has stones, we're not operating."  (Suitably heartless gesture of  fingers slicing across the jugular, with accompanying gurgling/choking noise).

"Okay, we'll let you 'relax' him so that you can express his bladder, but if you have to catheterize again, he's done."  (Again with the heartless gesture.)

Treating a cat with a bladder infection is kind of like being a compulsive gambler or playing the stock market.  If I play one more round, just one more round, if I make this one last investment, I'll make my money back, except you won't - what you get in the end might be a healthy cat.  Or you might not.  But now, after having poured so much money into the cat, if we stop treatment - we have literally just wasted all of that money.

We could still lose this sucker all on account of the fact that animals are poorly engineered and can't talk.  They can't say "Ummmmm, excuse me?  It's hurts when I pee."  Cats are healthy, healthy, healthy... until they're NOT.  Until they almost drop dead.  That seems like a pretty big evolutionary flaw to me.  You get this close to death from a bladder infection? What the hell is that? 

So that means, as of today, Steve is worth about $3.37 a day over 365 days.  And I think he's worth that.  For the sheer joy that he gives me, when he demands to snuggle down under the blankets at bedtime and curls into the crook of my arm.  Now, if that were to be $13.69 a day?  Not so sure.  We don't have that spare money just sitting around.  The last time one of our cats got really sick, David had just received an inheritance.  We couldn't say we couldn't afford to treat the cat, because at that time?  We could.

Now?  We need to re-roof our house - we're going to have to do that on a payment plan.  I just spent my entire month's wages on possibly fixing a cat.  I had to move money around from our already overly-extended credit line to make sure there was room on my Visa.

There are those who will think that I'm stupid for putting that kind of money into an animal.  There are those who think I'm heartless for even contemplating having him put down, when just another $1000 or $2000 would ensure his health.  I'm driven by guilt and finances and... love.  LOVE.  For this stupid cat who couldn't tell me before he was at death's door that it hurt when he peed.

Trying to love my turkey bum...

WARNING: There is Too Much Information in this post

After the second baby, I ended up with a turkey bum.  The midwifery student was given the chance to practice her stitchery on me after the episiotomy.  I think it might have been her first.  She fucked it up.  I have this extra piece of skin, that, were I a roasting fowl, would be considered a delicacy.   This extra flap - between the IN and OUT doors.  A place that I could maybe hide extra subway tokens in. 

We, as women, are encouraged to accept ourselves.  We are encouraged to revel in what makes us unique, what separates us from the flock as it were.  I find it hard to revel in my lady bits when they resemble the ass-end of a  Christmas dinner.

Is it wrong of me to wonder what would happen if I just wrapped this "Pope's Nose" really tightly with an elastic band... Would the blood flow  be cut off to such an extent that the offending skin might just fall off?  I've read that this can work for hemorrhoids.

Or wait, maybe I could vajazzle it!!!  Little bit of bling on my special thing?  Hold up now!  I'm sure there's a kink out there for this sort of thing.  There are kinks for everything.  This will be my path to making millions!  Who's with me ladies?

Not after you've had a baby vaginally you can't...

We took Rissa to Sky Zone in honour of her 13th birthday.  In case you've been under a rock, Sky Zone is Trampoline Heaven.  It is an indoor TRAMPOLINE PARK!!  Imagine a velodrome, but covered in trampolines!!!!  I know, right?!?  After having seen versions of this mythic place popping up in people's Facebook feed, David and I were so excited to discover there was one a mere hour and 15 minutes away!!   Sure, we were going 'for Rissa,' but really it was so we could bounce ourselves.

I made sure that I peed before I got onto the tramps. (Okay, now I'm visualizing myself either on top of hobos or really drunk chicks, depending on my mood.)  It's a good thing that I did pee before I bounced - otherwise I would have drenched not only my crotch, but my pant legs and probably those tramps as well.

2 bounces.  One to test the waters (oh the irony of that) and one to see how high I could get... Not very high.  It was the 2nd that had me squirting into my panties. (And not in a good way.)  2 bounces folks.  Sure I could do gentle, sorry-ass bounces and not wet myself, but any time I actually tried to show true trampoline form (I used to be a frickin' gymnast for God's sake!) I peed my pants.  I could NOT take a nice wide stance before bouncing high into the air, legs coming together, toes pointed.  I couldn't concentrate on pointing my toes when I was concertrating on NOT drenching my pants with urine.  I couldn't bounce from tramp to tramp, because every time I gathered enough kinetic energy to leap, I'd pee a little.

David was bouncing all over the place like that freakin' Jackalope from Boundin'.  He was bouncing off the side walls and leaping ALL over the place, chortling like a mad man.  He was giddy with joy. It was a sight to see.

Next time, I'm totally wearing a pair of Depends and I'm doing a frickin' routine - with my toes pointed.

  NOT what I looked like yesterday
This is Rosannagh MacLennan

How many times must I pee to get a control line!?!

WARNING: THERE IS FOUL LANGUAGE IN THIS POST

I bit the bullet.  I bought a pregnancy test.  Even though I'm in peri-menopause and David is fixed.  I used it yesterday afternoon, right before my Mom, Dad and brother Michael came to visit.

I peed for "at least 3 seconds" and "no more than 5."  I counted my Mississippis to make sure, just as the doorbell rang.  I put the test on a flat surface and let my family in.  Hellos all around.

I think that Dad was the first to notice the test on the counter.  At this point we were at the 2 minute mark.  It showed nothing.  NOTHING.  After 5 minutes - still NOTHING.  Not even a stinking control line!  The paperwork on this sucker said that if I hadn't seen anything after 10 minutes that I should take another test.  10 minutes came and went and still NOTHING.  I knew I should have bought the frickin' two-for package, but nooooooooo,  I had been logical at the drug store.  Why would I buy two pregnancy tests when I only needed one?  I wasn't going to need more than one test.  Not me!  Nope!  One would do!  And I sure as shit wasn't going to spend $27 on a test.  Which means that I spent $9.99 on a single bastard dud test.

No matter how hard I looked at that sucker there was still nothing in the control window.  I internalized my cursing and did NOT say, "I fucking paid $9.99 for you, you rat-fucking pee stick - now show me a fucking control line and tell me that I'm not fucking pregnant!"  Instead I grumbled under my breath "bastard pregnancy test," with Dad mocking me saying that my moodiness surely was a 'sign.'  When I offered my visiting family muffins, Dad queried,  "Are they dill pickle and ice cream?"   "Har-dee-freaking-har Dad."

By the time David got home from work there was still nothing.  After dinner (an hour later) there was a band of red approaching the windows but still no discernible line.  Then, after my family left, I checked  the test and there was a single line - in the control box.  Which should mean that I'm not pregnant, but all the literature with the rat-fucking test told me that I shouldn't trust the test after 10 minutes, which means I'm still going to have to buy another one.  Even though I know that I'm not pregnant.  (In spite of the fact that I haven't had my period for over three months, I'm weepy, gaining weight and my nipples hurt.)  Even if I could convince myself with sound logic that this is all peri-menopause, all that went right out the window with the stories Mom had recounted during her visit of at least 2 instances where she knew folks (personally) who'd had post-vasectomy "oopses" years after the fact.  "Not helping Mom - that is not helping."

Any bets on how much I'm going to spend before I get my negative test result?

This is not the Magic Sword I thought it was...

I used to go to Saturday matinees at the CFB Winnipeg movie theatre.  Between the ages of 5 and 8, I'd get dropped off with a girlfriend (probably Kristen), we'd enjoy our 2 hours with snacks and then late in the afternoon we'd emerge bleary-eyed into the sunlight seeking out our parents' waiting arms.

When I was about 8, Kristen and I went to see The Magic Sword. Our parents thought it was the Disney version.  They were misinformed. This Magic Sword was the one with Basil Rathbone as an evil wizard and Anne Helm as the beautiful princess he was going to feed to a scary-ass dragon.  It was made in 1962 with all its attending camp and cheesy special effects.  It was the one where George (Gary Lockwood.) went on a quest to save the princess and people's faces melted off and there were vampires with electric green eyes who morphed into hags.  George's attending knights kept dying, in more and more hideous ways.  First Sir Ulrich of Germany and Sir Pedro of Spain are slain by an ogre (which in retrospect I can now totally see is a dude in a Planet of the Apes-esque suit filmed so that he looks like he's 25 feet tall).  Then Sir Anthony perishes in a swamp, followed by the deaths of Sir Dennis of France,Sir James of Scotland  and Sir Patrick of Ireland. All dead.  All of them.  Dead knights everywhere.

Crouched behind the seats in front of us, our hands over our eyes, Kristen and I glimpsed the movie...  Unable to breathe for terror, knees sticking to the gum and pop-encrusted floor of the theatre.  Hearts pounding, near-vomiting with fear.  Running to our mothers after the show was over, pale-skinned and wide-eyed.

After seeing The Magic Sword, my already over-active imagination went into overdrive.  I could relive every image from that movie as soon as I closed my eyes.  Two bald dudes in a Siamese-twin outfit, 2-headed dragons, a chimp in a suit...  some weird-ass shit.

My Mom came to kiss me goodnight and I wouldn't let her near me.  She had green eyes, just like the morphing vampire.  I was pretty sure that her eyes were glowing - I knew that she was going to suck my blood.

"YOU HAVE GREEN EYES!!!  YOU HAVE GREEN EYES!!!" 

I was in hysterics before my Dad, who didn't usually do bedtime, rescued me.  That might have been one of the times that they gave me cough syrup to aid in knocking me out.  After that Magic Sword fiasco, my Mom learned to double check what movie was playing at CFB Winnipeg before dropping me off on my own.

I was pretty good at avoiding things that would feed my imagination until  The Exorcist was shown on primetime network television when I was 12.  I was at a sleepover - I think her parents were out - I have a sneaking suspicion we were left with her older brother.   That shit messed me up.  I had post-traumatic stress after seeing it.  Seriously.  I slept with my little brother for 4 months afterwards, and to this day, if I even see a picture of Linda Blair from the movie, I want to throw up.