Some things have to be documented.

"You guys just don't understand!!"

"Nobody else's mother does this, you know..."

"Yes, but this needs to be documented!  I've been suffering for at least two weeks now!"  I'm sitting at the computer with the web cam.

"She's right Heather, this is weird... even for you."

"Why are you guys laughing?"

"Why?  Because not only are you taking a picture of an ingrown hair you pulled from your neck, you're taking a picture of that ingrown hair, while listening to I'm Kissing You from Romeo and Juliet."

"I'm multi-tasking!"

"But this," I say, brandishing my tweezers, "was in my neck!  THIS!  A freaking Brillo Pad hair!  Feel it!"  I run over to David, thrusting the closed tweezers at him.  "Feel this!  Just FEEL it!!"

Eyes wide, face covered with 'just humour her,' he feels the hair caught between the tweezers. He raises his eyebrows.  "That is, indeed, a Brillo Pad hair.  I can see why having it in your neck would bother you."

"I know... right?  Rissa, you should take a look at this!"

"No, I"m good thanks."

"Just feel it.  So you understand my pain."

"No, really...  I'm okay Mummy...."

"Heather, stop terrorizing her."

"I'm not terrorizing her."

"You are chasing her around with a neck hair held between tweezers."

"You guys just don't understand.  I've been waiting at least 20 minutes to even see if this was what I thought it was."

David looks at me like I'm nuts... again.

"During the movie (we'd been watching Terminator 2), I was picking at it and felt something, and I looked down and thought that it might be an ingrown hair, but couldn't be sure until I did a proper examination in brighter light, so I waited a whole other 20 minutes, with it balanced on my index finger, until I could go upstairs and grab the tweezers and make sure."

"You sat, holding a potential ingrown hair on your index finger for 20 minutes?"

Even I, at this point, realize that I'm sounding a little... odd.

"I'd been losing my mind - it was like I was growing a second head, out of my neck."

"And that's what was causing you to lose you mind, huh?"

"This time, yes."

Don't think of it as an infestation - think of it as having hundreds of new pets...

What's most difficult, is telling them all apart.  I've had to invest in a high-resolution magnifying glass in order to differentiate.  I'm thinking of sewing wee little smocks with their names on them.  Alistair, Bernice, Connal, Dee, Ernest... I'm going for asexual in style - I don't want to limit them.  Should they decide in 20 days that they don't like the names I've given them, they can let me know what they'd like to be called and I'd be cool with that.

If I were truly practical, given their numbers, I could farm them.  Raise them, kill them humanely and then create a new niche Canadian niche food market, but who am I kidding? Now that I've named them, I can't just lead them off to slaughter.  I'm just too darned attached.  Who can resist Freddi with the little red eyes and luminious coat?  And George - sweet little George with the maginificent forelegs? 

I'm feeling a kinship with Snow White - although my human-to-wildlife ratio doesn't have bluebirds, bunnies and deer.  She'd have one lousy bluebird on her finger - me, I have easily 3 dozen fruit flies perched upon mine.  I even have them lining up all colour-coded in their wee smocks.

"No Hank, you're there, next to Iggy, who's beside Jem...  That's right... Who's a good fruit fly?  Who is?"

I've been keeping the fruit bowl full, just for them, but I wanted to give them a real treat - something to show them I cared.  I've been known to stop drinking the last inch in a beer bottle, just to set it out for them, but now... sob... I realize that their appetite for hops is killing them.  Let's face it, in the summer the wine and beer flows more freely in our home, I find them hanging out around the empties - determined to grab what ends up being their... sob... last taste...   I knew I'd have to say goodbye, just not this soon...

Where can a gal get extract of bourbon?

My friend Matt made me a drink a couple of weekends back: bourbon, ginger ale, lime juice, mint, a sugar cube and ice - you know, to cool it all off and make it perfect for sipping in the backyard.  Just typing the ingredient list sets my salivary glands headlong into a sweet drool.  I made the drink at home and miraculously managed to replicate its golden goodness.  Problem is, thanks to my purgatory in peri-menopause, bourbon (and all of its  alcoholic friends) gives me crazy-ass hot flashes and my hyper-sensitive hypoglycemia turns ginger ale and sugar cubes into glycemic spiking insurgents.  Although on the plus side, I can drink something made of lime juice, mint and ice.  File that away for later.

The sugar's not a problem - I can work around the sugar - club soda, ginger root and stevia can replace the ginger ale and sugar cube.  It's the bourbon.  I want the taste of bourbon without the alcohol.  Obviously I just have to figure out a way to make extract of Bourbon!  Come on Internet - don't let me down!

"How to make extract of bourbon?"

 

I don't want to make bourbon-flavoured vanilla extract - I want to make bourbon extract.

"bourbon extract"

I don't want to buy bourbon extract, but just for the sake of comparison... HOLY CRAP!!!  4 oz of bourbon extract is $8.25?!?

Wait a sec - to get extract, one usually uses alcohol as the liquid vehicle to concentrate the flavour.  How can I concentrate the flavour of bourbon without keeping the alcohol?!?

Do a reduction!!  Okay, no problem...  This sounds good...

"how to cook alcohol out of bourbon"

Take just a moment and let your gaze fall upon #3 in that instruction list... "Quickly touch the flame to the surface of the liquid and remove your hand from the pan."  Shall we place bets to see how long it takes Heather to light herself on fire attempting that manoeuvre?

ALL I WANT IS THE TASTE OF FREAKING BOURBON!!!... 

Okay, wait - just wait!  Extract might actually work!  It offers a highly concentrated taste of whatever flavour you're jonesing for.  Which means you don't need the same amount to give the full flavour of the actual item.  So... 1 tsp of extract of bourbon for flavouring would be equivalent to... no freaking clue, because NO ONE IN CANADA USES EXTRACT OF FREAKING BOURBON!  But Canadians do use Rum extract - which if you're substituting for light rum is a 1:5 ratio - unless you're supposed to use dark rum, in which can you need two times as much rum extract to get the taste of dark rum - in which case you might as well buy the bourbon and deal with the night sweats.  I'm going to err on the less is more side and bet that 1 tsp of bourbon extract might equal 2 tbsp of actual bourbon - which is a full oz of bourbon!   And one tsp of bourbon extract would have only 16% of the alcohol found in actual bourbon - surely to God that couldn't be enough to give me hot flashes! 

Except that I'd have to special order the bourbon extract.  What can I substitute for bourbon right now??

SERIOUSLY??  We're back to vanilla extract?? 

I'm not saying it's even close to bourbon...
but it might just make do until I hit menopause.

They need a warning label for this!

Just a while back, I had a bra-piphany.  I was saved.  I learned that I could spin my bra so that I wouldn't have to do it up in the back, thereby saving me from further damage to the rotator cuff on my right arm and also saving me from having to replace my entire bra collection with front-closure brassieres.  Only took me 35 years of bra wearing to be set straight on this account.

"Bright girl, shame about the stupidity..."

This new-fangled bra spinning worked spectacularly through the late spring... "Hey look at me, not needing my husband or child to help me into my bra!!  Boo yeah!!"

Now though, it's summer, and summer is Strapless Bra season.  The modern strapless bras?  The ones that work?  Have this sticky pseudo-gel stuff (akin to what they use to keep perfume samples in magazines or on the tops of stay-up stockings), on the inside of the underband to keep your girls supported, with minimal re-adjustment of your bra.

Strapless bras have to be tighter around your ribcage than your average bra, so that they'll defy gravity's effects upon your ta-tas.  I put the cups to my back, and tighten the band snugly - this is the time do it up on the furthest hook and eye, you know, just to be safe... and then I try to spin the sucker.

"Oh, for the love of Howard Hughes... Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!!  Sweet merciful Mother of Support!"  I look down, trying to see if I'd actually torn skin from my injured torso.

"What?  What did you do??"  Rissa is now in the doorway.

"Bra burn!  Bra burn!!!"  I point to the offending band with its dangerous gel.  "They need a warning label for this!  How could they not have a warning label for this?!?"

Rissa is biting her lip to keep from laughing.  "Do you need some help?"

I'm a BIG GIRL, I can do this.  It's just a freaking bra... Reach back and... I slump.   "Yes please."

"Asking for help is very mature."

"Shut up."

EEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWW!!!! He's SO old!!

Oh, those iconic 80s dance films.... Quick!  Name the winners!  For me it's three Fs, a D and a W - Fame, Flashdance and Footloose - Dirty Dancing and White Nights.   Rissa had already seen Footloose, Dirty Dancing and White Nights - I got it into my head that she needed to see the other two.  Last weekend it was Flashdance

You know how some 80s movies really stand the test of time and some don't?  I mustn't have seen Flashdance since I rented it in the early 90s - cause man, oh man it's not what I remembered it to be.  Cue Jennifer Beals taking off her welder's helmet and shaking her 80s hair about her shoulders...

Two dance/soft porn moments from that film that will remain embedded on everyone's corneas: the splash of water on Jennifer Beals' boobs as she sits in her chair and the running in place to Maniac while moving her hands all over her upper thighs - or, as is more than likely - the dance double having water splashed all over her boobs and running in place while moving her hands all over her upper thighs.  And may I just ask?  Could they not have found a better freaking wig for the dance double?  Could they not have found a dance double who resembled Jennifer Beals even the tiniest bit??  But I digress...

The hair and fashion styles make me wince, mostly because I can remember wearing some of them myself, but I can't really get into the mocking of the terrible choreography and dialogue because Rissa is freaking out.

"Oh, EEEEEEEEEEEEWWWW!!!  No!  No, no, no, no....  He's so old, he's so old!!!"  Rissa hides her head in the pillow, refuses to come out.  "She's 18!  And he's... he's... SOOOOOOO OLD!!!!  (Nouri was 38 when he made Flashdance.  Jennifer Beals was 20, playing 18.)

Rissa is so wierded out, she almost has palpitations.

Then, in the after their date scene, when Jennifer Beals comes back into the living room of her warehouse loft, lifts up her leather skirt to sit across from Michael Nouri and pulls off her bra from under her off-the-shoulder sweat shirt in way more movements than it's ever taken me to do the same manoeuvre.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEWWWW!!!"

"They've stopped now."

"What is she doing?  He's old enough to be her father!  I am disgusted in my soul. EEEEEEEEEEEEWWWW!!!  Why couldn't he be all successful and 22?  Why couldn't that happen??  I hate him!!

Now me, on the other hand, I've always had a thing for Michael Nouri - ever since he played Dracula in Cliffhangers in 1979, when I was...  oh dear God,  I was 11.

"No, it's so wrong!  SOOOOOOO wrong!!!"

"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!" She screams upon witnessing the restaurant scene where Jennifer Beals eats lobster and then sticks her stockinged foot in Michael Nouri's lap. "EEEEEEEEEEWWW!!!   EEEEEEEEEEEEWWWW!!!  EEEEEEEEEEEEWWWW!!!  Make it stop!!!"

To Rissa, an age gap of more than 1 grade level is cause for a very deep seated gross out factor.  I have no problem encouraging this tendency until she's well into her post-secondary education.

Best Nature Channel Ever!

"CHIPMUNK!!"

"Where?  Where?"

"There, by the BBQ - Lola's losing her mind"  Lola is at the screen door, nose pressed to the mesh, tail flicking, teetch chattering.

"There!  Do you see him?"

"Where?"

"There! Now he's by the post!"

"Where?"

"There! Now he's by the bike tire..."

***
 
"BUNNY!!!!"

"Where?  Where?"

"There!  Half way down.  Ears - twitching."

"Where?  Where?  I can't see it!"

I stand behind Rissa at the back door.  Move my hands to either side of her head and direct her gaze.  "It's the little one.  You have to look close."

"I need my glasses.  This right here is why I need contacts, so that I can see things right away - all the time."

***

"GROUNDHOG!!!  The groundhog is back David!"

"Where?  Where?"

"There!  By the fence.  He's there!"

"You're sure it's a groundog?   Maybe it's a gopher."

"Nope, I googled it.  Definitely a groundhog.  They're way cuter - less toothy.  I will call this groundhog Chuck."

"Chuck?"

I wait for him to get it.  Two... Three... Four...  "Like as in Woodchuck?"

"Yep.  Also known whistle-pig, or land-beaver..."

"You're making that up."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

***

"MEDIUM BUNNY!!"

"Where?  Where?"

"By the garden.  Eating part of it."

"You're okay with that?"

"I am."

***

"SQUIRREL!!"

Silence.

"SQUIRREL!!"

Continued Silence

"Guys!  Seriously.  There's this black squirrel with a completely brown tail out there!  I'm not making this shit up!"

"Where?  Where?"

***

"Happy we moved?" whispers David.

We're standing by the back door - he has his arms around me.  

I whisper back.  "Yes."

"You don't miss the other house?"

"Not really."

"The other yard?"

I look back at him with incredulity.  Raise my eyebrows.  "Dude, there's a bunny, RIGHT there."

Approximate represenation of the woodland creatures
found in our backyard.  I never remember to take pictures.

She's not 3 any more...

When I look at Rissa now, I can't remember her as a toddler.  Even when I see photos of her from that time, it's like I'm looking at somebody else's kid.   I know that she was this small elfin child,

but that child bears next to no resemblance to the tall, poised 14 year old, who looks 18 without makeup and about 25 with it.

We're out shopping for her Grade 8 Grad shoes.  MY CHILD IS GOING INTO HIGH SCHOOL IN THE FALL!!!  She wants something sparkly - silver and sparkly.  Our small town doesn't really cater to the silver and sparkly set.  We have to go to a higher populated town to get a good mall.   So there she is, finally in Le Chateau (oh, the irony because our mall does have a Le Chateau), having already exhausted every other shoe store in the mall - three shoe boxes in front of her.

The first she tries are platformy.  She becomes a leggy giantess in these shoes.  My stomach plummets.  NOT THOSE!  PLEASE NOT THOSE!!  SHE LOOKS TOO OLD IN THOSE!  SHE LOOKS TOO SEXY IN THOSE!  BOYS WILL WANT TO INSERT PARTS OF THEIR BODIES INTO HER BODY IF SHE WEARS THOSE!!!

She takes one step, before turning to me. "Nuh-unh... NOT these.  Nope.  I'd be breaking my ankles after the first step."  She attempts another step.  "Whoa... WHOOOOOOAAAAA!"  She's walking on an invisible tightrope, her steps tentative.  Just as I'm thinking that, she pretends she's on a tightrope and fakes a trumpet version of a circus theme.

"So not those?" I take them from her, all nonchalant.  Thank Christ.  I hand her the next pair.  Ballroom style shoes studded in rhinestones.  My stomach calms a bit.  These ones aren't as sexy.  I could pretend she was on Dancing With the Stars if she wore these.

She slips the second pair on.   "Ooooooh... I like these!"  She takes a few steps - does her best imitation of a runway model.  Shoots me an over-the-shoulder glance and then makes a goofy face.

"They good?"

"These're pretty good."

Next pair.  1950s style peep-toe with a slightly thicker heel - MY 14 YEAR OLD IS TRYING ON A FRICKIN' PEEP TOE!!  Then I remember that in grade 5, my mom let me buy high heeled blue satin running shoes... In Grade 5...  Because I wanted them.   Deep calm breaths...

"These feel really good, I feel more steady in these, but my toes show."

"What's the matter with your toes?'

"They're showing."

"You have beautiful toes."

She grimaces.

"You do!  I love your toes!  Walk in the shoes.  Walk back and forth a bit."

She walks a bit in the new pair.   Every time she turns away from me - it's like there's a strange woman in the store in front of me.  Then she turns and makes a face and I'm okay again.  Until she comes back to me, slings an arm around my shoulder and towers.  She's 5' 7" without the heels - so at least 5' 10" with them.  I'm just shy of 5' 6".

"Quit gloating."

"I'm not," she says... gloatingly.

"So which ones?  Ballroom shoes or 1950s shoes?"

She's chewing on the inside of her cheek.  "I can't decide."

"Put one from each pair on either foot and walk around some more."  She does.  Depending on which foot is hitting the ground, she has a completely different facial expression.  "Dance a bit."  She does a ridiculous cha-cha, but with a big jazz hands finish at the end.

"1950s" she says.  But then almost immediately, "Which ones do you like?"

"I like both of them.  You pick which one you like."

"But if you were buying them for you, which ones would you buy?"

"The dancy ones - but I'm not buying them for me, I'm buying them for you."

"1950s!" she now says decisively.

"You're going to have to practice walking in them before Grad," I say.  "You know, like around the house.

"Yep."