Lumberjack in Drag

"Have you decided what colour you'd like for your nails?"  The esthetician points with her chin over to the selection of nail polishes on the counter as she massaged my calves.

I pick up the nail wheels, vacillating between the reds and the pinks. Seduce Him (although that should really be Seduce Him/Her - I know plenty of gals out there who love it when their partners wear bright red polish on their extremities.  Blushing Bride - HAH!  Royal Tease - Seriously??

Holding the wheel down near my feet to check out the colours in context to their eventual placement, I startle when she says,  "What about your fingernails?"


"Oh, no, I don't do fingernails," I immediately say.

Because I don't.  Not with my hands.  I have big strong 'peasant' hands.  Or so I've been told.  I can't ever buy vintage gloves because my hands won't fit into them.  The girth of my hand is a whopping 8.25 inches.  If I place my hands up against David's, his hands are just slightly larger than mine.  And he's got big hands.

"Nope.  No thank you.  I'd just feel like a lumberjack in drag."

"What?  No!" The esthetician admonishes me.  She grabs my hands.  Splays them out for all the world to see.  "You have strong hands.  Nice long fingers.  Your nails are in good shape.  Don't let anyone tell you that you can't wear polish."

It was revelatory.  'Don't let anyone tell me...'  Nobody, had told me I couldn't wear nail polish.  That was all on me.  A passing comment from years before had apparently scarred me.  The same way when your 4th Grade Art teacher tells you you can't draw, or a relative says you're 'big' when they mean tall.  These things stick with you.  You absorb these comments into your psyche.  You become them.

The time had come for me to say "Fuck it!" and embrace my strong, capable hands...  To adorn them in girly glitter, delight in their durability - to feel the same joy as when I look down at my spectacularly sparkly pink toe nails.  I'm a magpie at heart.  Sparkly things make me happy.  I spend most of my days typing.   At the office, at home - I type.  My hands are in my peripheral vision all day long.  They should be tipped with glitter and glam!  They should make me grin.  Do I like them?  Damned straight, I do!    I'm 45 frickin' years old - it's time to grow up - to own what makes me... ME. 

David, Paladin against the APOCALYPSE

We are all just part of the Matrix folks.  We are all just cogs in a wheel… frickin’ useless, tech-reliant, cogs in the wheel of the Internet.  Come the Apocalypse, we are totally fucked. 

We were completely cut off Sunday night.  We lost all knowledge, all connection, all ability to interact with humanity.  Our modem died. 

   

We don’t have cable, ergo we don’t have cable t.v., which means we don’t have network news.  I hope that nothing important has happened over the past few of days.   Without the Internet, there is no Weather Network, no updates from CBC.ca, no reminders from my calendar on Gmail. 

There was no Netflix.

 

Our 'landline' is VOIP (Voice Over Internet Provider) "Why would we pay for phone service when we can get it for almost free?"  The only trick?  Sans working modem, you can’t call out, can’t receive calls in.  Our cell phones only work (sporadically) in the north-east corner of the living room.  You also can't get phone messages on VOIP without a modem, say like from a dental clinic receptionist, who might be trying to get ahold of you to remind you that your daughter is missing her dentist appointment, right now at 4:15 p.m. (which you would have known about, had your 3 Google reminders come through), because she can't leave a message on your 'landline' because it no longer really exists.

The first night was nothing to worry about.  It was kind of like camping.  It was the ‘Olden Days.’ We all read books.  We watched a… DVD.  It was charming, it was quaint.  We would just grab a new modem from Staples the next day after work.

Turns out?  You can’t buy a modem from Staples.  And before you deny it wholeheartedly merely out of hand... Yes, it is possible to buy one from Staples online, but you cannot go into an actual Staples and actually purchase a physical modem that you can actually take home with you.  Routers, yes.  Modems no.   

Not a problem – we’d go to the mall to The Source and get one there.  The Source does not sell modems.  "Try Bell."  Bell does indeed have modems in their store, but they will not sell you one.  Because why?  Because they want you to sign up for an Internet subscription.

“But we don’t need an Internet subscription.”

“Unless you have a Bell Internet subscription, we cannot sell you a modem.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you have actual modems, right there, in the back of your store, right now, but you will not sell me one?”

“That is correct.”

In the Tarantino film version of this moment, David then had to pull me off the Bell customer service agent when I started slamming the back of her head into the floor.

David did not want to make the trek a ½ hour away to the closest Future Shop or Best Buy just in case when we got there, they too, did not stock modems.  We went home.  We found a phone book, an actual honest-to-God paper phone book.   He called Future Shop – no modems – "You can order one online…"

“I don’t have a modem!  I can’t GET online!!”

He called Best Buy – “Yes Sir, we stock modems!  You can order a modem online and it’ll get to you in a couple of days.”

Determined not to be foiled, David started maniacally scrounging around in our various tech baskets and bins; cursing and throwing things, until finally...

“A-HA!!!”

“A-HA?!?”

He brandished a wireless Rogers Hub – which we had purchased 2 years ago, when we had been working in Toronto for a week and needed to be connected.  We had kept it active with a nominal fee... for emergencies.  The only wee little snag was that the data usage that you got with the Hub was ridiculously expensive.

He  powered up his Mac.  Shoulders back, he cracked his knuckles and turned on the Hub.  Then he surfed to every tech supply store in the western world – you know, to do a cost analysis - as fast as he possibly could, to minimize our bandwidth consumption with the Hub.  And then he ordered a new modem from Amazon.ca - out of spite.

Sprung from my loins...

Have been experiencing technical difficulties... (will explain later) posting on the fly...

Rissa gave me this card for Mother's Day...

Fun times for an only child

"Hey look at this!" says Rissa.  She's just received her "prize" pack for selling a shit-load of magazines subscriptions for her school fund raiser.  They give the kids a bag chock full of items they must get in bulk from higher end dollar stores.  They're all pretty much craptastic, but it is, after all, a loot bag - it doesn't matter. 

Her favourite item?  A rubber ball attached to an elastic string.

"Look!  Look!"  She whacks it against the wall and comes back to her.  "Oh yeah!  I can do this ALL BY MYSELF!"  She whacks it again and does a spin in the air before catching it.  "Yeah, baby!!  This it the perfect toy for an only child.  I could be the poster child for this toy!" 

Whack... catch.  Whack... catch.  Whack... catch.

She whacks it harder and somehow it becomes a weapon rather than a toy.  It doesn't come back to her, but instead careens off a secondary and then tertiary wall, scaring all three cats and making me duck all before it comes back to whack her in the head.

"It's okay... I'm alright.  I'm ALRIGHT.  Do not panic...  But if I had a sibling who actually lived with us, it might be easier to play ball."

My boobs are growing.

Is one of the by-products of peri-menopause bigger boobs?  Because I'm pretty sure that my boobs are growing.  Swear to God.  I feel like I have pregnant boobs.  I'm ALL boobs.  I look in the mirror and they're just... there...  I mean really, there.  Like  KAPOW there!!   I walk into the room and they get there a few seconds before I do.

They feel... more... substantial.  And they're more, well, sensitive. Like in the nipppular and sidal regions.  Which is how they were when I was pregnant, and seeing as I just finished my period - I know that that's not the case, so what's the deal?  Anyone?   Anyone???

On the 34 symptoms of menopause site (which is really a misnomer - because menopause really means that you've ended all that shit - it should be peri-menopause.  It's like nauseous and nauseated.  Everyone says nauseous, but that means that it causes nausea in others - so if you say "I'm feeling nauseous" that really means that you're making other people want to throw up.  The word you want is nauseated - that's when you want to throw up.)  (Another by-product of peri-menopause is irritability - with small things - like improper word usage.)

So... two years ago, when I went to the 34 symptoms of menopause site, I checked off 18 of them.  Now I have 30 of them. Once I fill my peri-menopause card do I get a prize?

Heather, you've just won an all-expenses-paid vacation for 12 to... HAWAII!!!! 

I'd love to go to Hawaii.  After I've hit menopause.  If I went now, the heat and humidity would drive my irritability levels through the freaking stratosphere.  And the volcanoes - those would piss me off.  And the heat of the sun...  Safer for everyone if I go then.   Then I'd be able to lounge around in bright floral caftans with large floppy sun hats - because apparently after menopause you turn into an elderly Floridian woman.

"Bernie!  Bernie!  I said 3 olives in the martini!  THREE you bastard!"

The treadmill is trying to kill me.

"The treadmill is trying to kill me!"

"Kill you?" David asks skeptically.

"Well, it's, at the very least, trying to Gaslight me."

"And it's doing this, how??"

"Because I can't load Netflix."

David gives me the eyebrow equivalent to a face palm.   "And this is driving you mad?"

"Yes.  Yes, it is driving me mad."

David waits.

"It takes me forever to log in to Netflix on the treadmill."  (I watch Netflix via tablet when I'm on the treadmill.  It is the perfect way to distract myself from the fact that I hate exercise.  I could read a book, but it is not as distracting - I am therefore less content.  That's not to say that I don't LOVE reading books when I'm not on the treadmill - reading while I'm not on the treadmill makes me very content.)

 "How long is forever?"

"Between 5 and 22 minutes."

"That makes no sense.  I haven't had any problems with Netflix." 

"I'm telling you - it's the treadmill."

He shoots me another look.

"Only when you're on the treadmill?"

"Yes.  Only when I'm on the treadmill."

"Does it just pause momentarily... or...?"

"It goes into an endless buffering cycle.  It tells me that it can't access the network.  It stalls completely.  I was on the treadmill for 66 minutes today.  The tv show is only 42 minutes long - it took me 8 minutes to load the sucker and then it kept cacking out.  I'd get 25 seconds of video and then it would buffer for three minutes." 

"Have you tried disconnecting and reconnecting to the Internet in the tablet settings?"

"YES."  

"Have you used the memory boost function that I added the other day?"

"YES.  I have used the memory boost function that you added. I also rebooted the modem.  Twice.   IT IS THE TREADMILL."

"It just makes no sense.  There's no issue anywhere else."

"I KNOW that there's no issue anywhere else.  IT IS THE TREADMILL.  I'm not making this shit up."

"I know, I know," he says.  But really, he thinks I am.  He thinks that I'm overreacting to some minor technical difficulties.

"I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP!!"

"I know.  We need to go at this from a scientific perspective.  Figure out the variables.  You need to turn it on while you're off the treadmill, then start the treadmill.  You need to carry it around the house and see if it cacks out in different spots..."

"Carry it around the house??  My 43 minute morning walk turned into 66 because I had to disconnect from the net and reconnect SEVEN times.  I boosted the tablet's memory.  I logged back in to Netflix.  I logged back out.  I hopped off the treadmill, went  upstairs and rebooted the modem. Only on the treadmill, this happens.  If I want to sit down on the couch and watch the extra 13 minutes that I couldn't get to in the morning because I ran out of time and had to go to work, it's not a problem.  It took me 8 minutes to log in this morning. A full 8 full minutes!!"  (I may or may not have grabbed him by her shirt front at this point, my temples were definitely throbbing.)

"Hey... hey... it's okay."  He smooths my shoulders.  "We'll figure this out, I promise."

Awesome, I have now turned into completely irrational woman, all because I don't want to read and exercise at the same time.  It wouldn't be so bad except that in the old house I had NO problems with Netflix while I was on the treadmill.

Later...

"So you're not the only one who's having issues with Netflix on the treadmill," says David.

"I'm not?"  Hope sprouts in my heart.

"Nope.  Apparently the electronic cycling from a treadmill motor can interfere with wireless connectivity."

"It can?"

"Yes - we used to be grounded with a battery backup at the old house - that's probably why you didn't have this problem there."

"So I'm not crazy?"

"Oh, you're still crazy - it's just not because of this."

My OCD knows no bounds

During renovations, in a desperate attempt to control the visual chaos of my environment, I've lost my mind.  I've gone round the bend folks.  My obsession this week?  Ensuring that, when I open the shower curtain, all the shampoo, conditioner and body wash bottles complement one another.   Hello Ma'am, we've got a lovely little jacket for you here, fits nice and snugly around the waist and shoulders, and ensures that your arms stay in one place.

I have little loyalty to personal grooming products.  Sure, I could  go out there and spend $25 on an organic, paraben-free, get you to smell like ambrosia shampoo, but  that ain't gonna happen.  Because why?  Because I'm not made of money and there are shampoos, conditioners and body washes out there that will do the same thing for a fraction of "Are you fucking serious?!?" prices.

As a result of my common sense and general stinginess, I buy things when they are on sale.  Love, love, LOVE Olay body wash, but it's a titch pricey, and unless it goes on sale, it doesn't get to ride shotgun home with me.  When there's a moisturizing conditioner on sale for under $3 - I buy it.   If there's a different moisturizing shampoo that's even less expensive - I buy it.  Same goes for body wash, although I do have a predilection for nicely smelling body washes and will sometimes splurge - you know, when I have Christmas or birthday money burning a hole in my pocket and my Mom's given me the directive to spend it on "something you love, just for you."  That's when I head to the local body care shop and avert my eyes when the cash register totals the sale.  I come home with things that smell of gingerbread or lemon scones and line them up on the ledge of my shower and revel in my delectability. 

Problem with buying all these different products is that when they eventually make their way to reside in my shower - they look like this:

Which for a normal sane person (who knows that the shower curtain can just be shut and you don't have to see anything, that you won't even be aware of the fact that nothing matches in size or colour), wouldn't be an issue.  For me, until the house ceases to have a layer of drywall dust over everything, it's made me wiggy.  Sure, you can get fancy-dancy bath containers that cost you an arm and a leg so that everything matches, but I  haven't lost my sense of frugality with my sanity.

So off I went to Dollarama, seeking the perfect body care receptacles.  Small enough to fit on the shelves, but big enough and of such pleasing shape that they would be practical and (in my present state of psychosis), pretty.  I bought cheap-ass hand soaps that looked like the labels could easily be pulled off.

In hindsight, I'll still be picking little bits of glue off them until Armageddon (nail polish remover can take most of the gumminess away, but not all of it apparently), but until then, things will match.  Although, there had been some milk bottle style body wash bottles for $2 a pop that might look even better and would add a whole turn of the century feel to what's behind the curtain...