I am not your sink whore!

4 days.  I left them for 4 days.  I tried.  I really did.  I was making a point.  My point: do your own frickin' dishes! There weren't even that many:  a frying pan Rissa had used for scrambled eggs, cutlery, some serving utensils, that green, silicone, paint-stick-style stirrer and some wee ice cream bowls.

I couldn't take it any longer.  I couldn't.  The stench got to me.  I can only hold my ground until there's a stench.  I caved.  I washed the dishes.  I couldn't leave them another day.  It was the stench.  I had to eliminate the stench.

Basically, it comes down to this - I am the only one in the house who cares when it is clean.  Just me. In our living room there is a box of old media - VHS tapes and DVDs with a couple of universal remotes and cables thrown in for good measure.  David put the box there 2 weeks ago.  It is not my box.  I didn't put it there.  And yet, I have this preternatural clairvoyance that tells me I will be the one moving it.  Because I will go crazy before the others do.

If I'm cooking in a mad dash and David comes in - he is horrified by the state of the kitchen mid-dinner  prep.  He'll put things away and say things like: "How can you work like this?"  But the house as a whole?  Neither he nor Rissa really give a rat's ass about it.  But if I try to play the 'let's see how long it takes them to notice' game - I'd be waiting until the SECOND FREAKING COMING before it would occur to them to clean up their shit.  'Cause that's the thing - it's THEIR shit.  NOT mine.  THEIRS.  Okay it's mostly their shit.  The chicken wire in the living room is mine, but that's there for a reason.

Dear Abby: I think my cat's into kink

Steve didn't show up for breakfast on Saturday morning.   Which worried the crap out of me because the last time Steve didn't show up for food, he almost died and we spent $1400 at the vet.  My heart sank.  I was going to find him dead.  I was going to go down into the basement and find my cat dead from a recurrent bladder infection.  Stupid cat.  My shoulders slumped.  I took a deep breath and made my way downstairs. 

"Steve?  Steve honey?  You okay bud?"

I peeked around the corner into our rec room.  My eyes widened.  Steve was lying by David's drum kit...  with a clear plastic bag on his head.  I thought he was dead until he let out a single pitiful meow.

"WHAT THE... STEVE!  STEVE!!!"

I rushed over and took the bag off his head, he didn't fight me, didn't look freaked out - kind of looked stoned.  I don't know exactly how long his head had been in the bag, but the bag...  it had water in the bottom of it from where, I'm just postulating here, Steve drooled into it.  I didn't technically find the cat with his pants down, 'cause cats don't wear pants, but I think we can safely say that this is what it looked like:  Feline Auto-Erotic Asphyxiation.  I know, I know... what grown cats do in their private time should stay private, but Steve's kink almost got him killed.  9 lives.  8 lives.  We're on life #7 folks, and if these things come in threes, I shudder at what I'll find him doing next.

HELP! I need a good psychiatrist!

Is what my friend, the OR nurse, thought I'd emailed her about.    (I'd sent an email message to a couple of my nursing friends, because I figured that they are the ones on the front lines and know the good vs bad doctors.)

My friend responded via email. "Very good news that your cardiac issues have been resolved, and about the referral, I am at a bit of a loss.  I work in the OR, so I don't work with any psychiatrists, but I know that the hospital does have a mental health division.  I can look into it more if you still need me to."

What I'd actually wanted a recommendation for, was a PHY-SI-A-TRIST.  Not a mind doctor*, but rather a doctor who deals with optimizing the body as a whole.  All the bits and pieces together: bones, nerves, muscles.  A physiatrist is your go-to doc, to get your body back on track when it's fucked up beyond all measure (dealing with post-stroke victims, pain management etc), but regular specialists (?!?) still can't figure out what your deal is.

What's really awesome, is how completely blasé she was about my having been labeled  a hypochondriacal fucknut, and then subsequently abandoned by a broad spectrum of the medical profession (which is kind of how I feel a lot of the time).  I'll bet that if I had asked if she knew anyone who could help me get rid of a body, she'd have said "When does it need to disappear?"  She's good people.

*ps - By the by, seeking out help for any illness (mental or physical) is one of the bravest things that you can do.  I don't happen to need a shrink right now, but when my existential angst kicks back in, I just might, and I hope to God that I'm brave enough, if/when that happens, to get the help I need.

I love when my boobs sweat.

This is a sarcastic dance.

You know what I'm talking about ladies.  It's awesome, right?   You're sitting at the computer before bed, trying to get some work done or at least check in on the state of the universe.  You're in some sort of nightie/chemise/tank top - sans bra - because wearing a bra in this heat would make you kill puppies.  You've got the overhead fan on full-blast, moving the hot air around you.

After about 30 seconds, you feel it start to trickle: boob sweat.  You pull out the front of your nightie/chemise/tank top and see the wet spots that have appeared underneath your boobs.  First they're just small - like the size of a quarter or loonie, but after about 5 minutes they have grown to the size of pancakes.  The last time I had to deal with wet spots that size on my torso was when my breast milk first came in.   After the wet spots appear, it's usually when you reach into your clothes, you know, to test the temperature underneath your boobs.  I took a thermometer and stuck it under my girls: 104.5 F!

And then you realize that your ass, too, is sweating.  And your inner thighs.  And your shins.  How can shins sweat?  There's nothing to a shin!!!   How are sweating shins even possible?!?

I found myself wishing that the semi-shag rug in the office was made of terry cloth so that I could tear off my clothes and roll on it.  I was this close to doing just that when I remembered that I hadn't vacuumed lately and if I did tear off my clothes and roll on the semi-shag carpet, my sweaty body would then be covered in cat hair and carpet lint.  Although, if someone took a photo essay of me doing that, maybe I could make it into 'art.'

How Rissa almost expired from playing soccer...

From a distance, she looked like a cartoon character - those big white paws grabbing for the soccer ball in that massive net.  It was kind of like watching Mickey Mouse as goalkeeper.  She made some incredible saves and had some kick-ass kicks.  When she was in net, my heart was in my throat.  Under my breath, I may have threatened the safety of several  'Under 15' girls who seemed a little too 'gung ho' with their cleats around my little girl when she was reaching for the ball.  Rissa ain't so little, but once a Mama Bear, always a Mama Bear.

After the post-game shaking of hands, she came off the field  - looking a little ill.  In fact, pretty much all the girls on the team looked like they were going to drop dead.  It was 39 degrees with the humidex - I was worried that maybe she was suffering from heat exhaustion.  I knew she shouldn't have played!  It was too hot!  She looked like she might puke.  She staggered towards me.  I reached out for her, ready to catch her if she stumbled.

"Mummy... Mummmy..."

"What is it sweetie?"

"My hands...  My hands..."

"Yes, sweetie?"  Oh God, I was going to have to take her the ER!  She couldn't even speak properly!  That's one of the signs of heat sickness!

 "They... They..."  She tottered a bit more. I grabbed her shoulders, steadying her.   "MY HANDS SMELL LIKE FEET!  They smell like (gag)... FEET!"  She thrust the offending appendages near my nose and I too, almost woofed my cookies.

In the 2nd Half of the game, as goalkeeper, Rissa had worn the 'team' gloves...  After another girl had sweat in them for the 1st half and every other goalie on the team had sweat in them for the previous 6 games. I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that I don't think these gloves get washed.  EVER.  These were Satan's Gloves.

So yes, her hands did smell like feet.  I smelled twice, because I couldn't believe how bad they were.  Rissa, on the drive home, kept smelling them and fake gagging because she thought it was so frickin' hilarious.

When did I start needing face spackle?

It appears that I can no longer sleep on my side.  Because when I do?  My face develops sleep craters.

I get up, well-rested, thinking all is well with the universe, until I look in the mirror.   My face, which had enjoyed the delicate sqwoosh of the pillow beneath my cheek, now has a sleep crater around its eye.

And you know what?  They don't make face spackle.  Not for eye craters, not for forehead lines, and even if they did, you'd have to buy it in a tub - not a tube.  Seeing as eye cream generally goes for $20 or more for 15 ml of the stuff, I know I couldn't afford a freaking tub of it.

I've even attempted to convince my face to  go back to where it's supposed to be with intricate facial exercises, but I'm realizing that you pretty much just have to wait it out until your face bounces back on its own.  This can be tough going, given the elasticity a gal's face retains after the age of 40. 

I'm lucky if 'bounce back' happens after my morning decaf and breakfast... but there are days I just have to use my hand to make it look like I'm deep in thought well into mid-morning.  Plus, that way I can pull everything up and out of the way and I look really alert.

Specific Rim

I was making my case to go see what looks like the BEST summer movie EVER - Pacific Rim.  Rissa needed to do her due diligence. 

"Who's in it?"

"Who's in it?   Who are you?  Roger Ebert?"

"Who's Roger Ebert?"

*face palm*

"I don't know," says David.  "It looks pretty cheesy."

"Come on guys - it's a crazy-ass,  summer action movie,  pretty much MADE for teenaged boys."

David shoots me a look.

"I'm serious.  Guillermo Del Toro said he made it for 12 year old boys."

Rissa starts to perk up.   "I like crazy-ass action."  Then she looks a little chagrined.

"If I'm being honest, I thought it was Specific Rim."

"Oh, you mean like, 'This is the specific rim where the massive robots are going to fight the ginormous alien monsters.'  That kind of specific?"

"Yep."

"Totally makes sense."

ps:  DO NOT see Pacific Rim, if you are the type who wants realism or high art in your movies - this is not the film for you.  DO see Pacific Rim if you enjoy grand fromage in your summer cinema.  This is possibly one of the cheesiest - we're talking a wheel of Brie, some Gorgonzola and Wensleydale shoulder to shoulder with Gouda and Emmental and then slathered in Chèvre - kind of cheese.  There are lines that are unintentionally laugh out loud funny with acting delivery that is... Independece Day-esque.  There's heart-felt with gumption with a twist of Henry V's St. Crispin's Day speech.  This is like Top Gun, but instead of fighter jets you have big-ass robots and instead of Russians, you have big-ass alien monsters.  And damn was it fun to watch!