It appears I've been catfished...

 "You've what?" asks Rissa, slightly laggy on her end of the video call. "Who have you been talking to? What did you do?"

"Nothing," I say. "I think it's just my age."

"It's what? What do you mean it's your age?"

"I think you just get to a certain age and..."

"You think there are people specifically targeting* 50-something women? What did they do? Did you cancel your credit cards?!?"

"Huh?" It takes me a second. "No! Oh, no, I haven't been catfished like that."

"In what way have you been catfished?"

"In the way that I am slowly becoming a catfish."

Now Rissa pauses. And blinks. 

"I am developing jowls." I indicate my jaw line. 

She blinks again. "How does this having anything..."

"I have the jowls and now there are more whiskers here." I point to the corners of my mouth. "And here." I point to my bottom lip line.

"I can see no whiskers, Ma."

"They are there. I can feel them." My tongue touches each side of my mouth, back and forth, feeling for the whiskers. I lick my bottom lip line. I can still feel them, even though I spent a good 15 minutes plucking those suckers earlier in the day.

"There are no visible whiskers, Ma."

"That's because they're mostly white and I pluck them. But they're there, and if I let them grow, between the whiskers and the slight jowls - total catfish."

"You are ridiculous."

"That's as may be, but I'm either going to evolve into a catfish or have a very stylized Fu Mancu moustache."

            *Side note - why does targeting only have one 't' before the 'ing,' but getting has two??

Pardon me while I SHE-HULK out

This week (and it's only Monday - it's only MONDAY?!?), I find myself wondering what caused She-Hulk's transformation from regular woman-about-town, to big green rage monster. 

'Cause I've had three instances today where I found myself fighting to maintain my equilibrium between rationality and absolutely losing my shit.

This morning, I'm moving from the bathroom to the master bedroom, the vacuum's power cord got trapped under the bathroom door, and I find myself lifting the vacuum into the air, prepping to throw it down the stairs. 

I don't. 

But for a good 10 seconds I am sure as shit contemplating it.

Later, I am typing and my fingers are nowhere close to the 'asdf' or 'jkl;' home keys. I have to try nine times to finish a single sentence. I am milliseconds from launching the keyboard through the back window.

And just now, as we begin prepping dinner? I find a rogue hair - my rogue hair - trapped between the fingers on my vegetable-holding-hand as I'm chopping cucumbers for our salad. I visualize myself heaving the chef's knife across the room.

David hears me growling.

"You okay?"

"How old was She-Hulk when she started transforming?"

"I'm not sure."

"By any chance was she in menopause?!?"

His eyes widen slightly.

"Uhhhhh..."

"Never mind," I say. The rage has ebbed. I reach into the refrigerator to take the cherry tomatoes out of the crisper drawer. They fall out of their container. I wonder how heavy the refrigerator is and what the repairs to the second floor will cost when I propel it through the ceiling. I count to 10. Twice. Then I rinse off the tomatoes in the sink.

"I think it might have been menopause," I say, drying off the tomatoes.

"Why do you think that?"

"Because I'm seriously considering heaving appliances because of dropped cherry fucking tomatoes and there was a fucking hair on my hand when I was cutting the fucking cucumber and I wanted to throw the fucking cucumber and the fucking knife..."

David bites his lip.

"What?!?"

"I probably shouldn't even go there. But right now it seems like you might be suffering from a hair trigger..."

"Now?" I ask. "You're choosing to make bad puns... NOW!?!"

"Right, right," he says, glancing around to make sure that the chef's knife is out of my range. 

"I've been so good," I say. "This kind of shit hasn't happened in years." 

When I was younger, maybe 14 years ago, and the rage monster came to visit, I took some herbal pills to keep me from committing felonies. But lately, even during night sweats and hot flashes, I have been way less ragey, and more just... frustrated and apt to burst into heart-wrenching sobs over the injustices of the hormonal impact on the female form. I haven't been this mood-swingy over next-to-nothing in more than a decade.

Inspiration strikes. "What if this is a side effect of COVID?" I ask. 

"Runh?"

"What if there are other middle-aged women who have..." (I make air quotes) "Recovered from COVID, but are now no longer rational beings? Could that be a thing?"

"Possibly?" David responds, obviously trying to keep me calm.

"How do I find all the menopausal women who have Long COVID? The ones who now, weeks or even  months later, are still getting headaches and chills and are as exhausted as fuck, but who are also suffering from bouts of violent mood swings?"

"Ummmm..."

"Why are you backing away from me?"

"I'm not." 

3:30 a.m. Pounce Parade

"Prrrrrrowl?"

"Prrrrrrrowwl??" 

"Prrrrrrrrrowwwl??"

My eyes open.

"Prrrrrrowl?"

Why am I even surprised? Lola had been staring at the bottom of the refrigerator when we went to bed.

"Prrrrrrrrrrrowl?"

That's the sound of a cat with its mouth full of mouse.

Bat. 

Bat-Bat. 

Bat-Bat-Bat-Bat. 

And that is the sound of a cat playing with a mouse. On our bedroom carpet. At 3:30 a.m. I look down beside the bed. She's still batting at      And it just ran under the closet curtain.

Crap. Live mouse. Time to distract a cat. I leave the bed.

"Good girl Lola. Good girl. You are a such a great predator. We are very proud of you, but now it is time to    "

Mouse runs out from under the curtain.

Bat-Bat-Bat-Bat.

Mouse runs under the blanket box. Lola seems stymied. 

I crawl back into bed. 

Please, stay under the blanket box little guy. Wait it out. Hide there and then you can... eventually escape to the basement. I am delusional. It will probably die of heart failure, under that blanket box then two days from now, I will move the blanket box and give it a proper burial.

Bat-Bat. 

Bat-Bat-Bat-Bat. 

Crap. I'm going to have to    

"Prrrrrrrrowl?" Pah.

And that is the sound of a cat spitting out a mouse. I peer over the side of the bed. Even in the middle-of-the-night light I can see Lola gesturing to me. "See? See what I did for you here? I got it! You no longer have to worry about that mouse. I have kept you all safe... from that mouse."

"Good cat Lola." I keep my voice modulated in a sing-song-proud-of-your-accomplishment tone. "I know. I know you are a cat and this in your DNA. I recognize that this is what you do, but you are a serial killer, dude." Easily a dozen mice have been killed in this very room. Because why would she kill them in the living room? Or the kitchen? She has to SHOW us that she's killed them. In the middle of the night. 

I look down at the poor wee little booger. Lola continues to gesture proudly. "Yeah, yeah... You're brilliant."

I grab a tissue. I make the same walk that I do every few weeks down the stairs, through the kitchen to the back door and I deposit the mouse onto the deck. I don't do mouse burials until morning. "Sorry, buddy. I'm sure you were a lovely rodent."

Lola has followed me downstairs. "Prrrrrrrrrowl?"

"If I started making you write their eulogies would it be any sort of a deterrent?"

"Prrrrrrowl."

"No, yeah... you're right. You're a cat."

David cracks an eye open when I crawl back into bed. "Huh? What?"

"Go back to sleep. Lola gave us another mouse."

"Another one?" 

"Yep." And now all I can see is Lola, piloting a fighter plane with dozen rodents stenciled on the side.

"Prrrrrrrrrowl?"

Oh for the love of   

Do not approach the potentially rabid raccoon, do not approach the potentially rabid raccoon, do not approach the potentially rabid raccoon

Raccoons are mostly nocturnal. So if you're seeing one during the day, something is up. Ie: you might have trapped its kits in your eaves by sealing up the holes in your roof (Bring me your furry...) or... it might possibly be... rabid.

And yet... when a raccoon appears on my deck, my immediate impulse will always be to offer it afternoon tea.

"Hey there buddy! How long do you want your Earl Grey steeped?"

The raccoon today staggered across my deck and then sat on my patio sofa. I opened the door to say hello and the sucker didn't even move. Just looked at me and sort of wheezed. Not normal raccoon behaviour. At least not on our deck. It's not like I go out and feed all the random raccoons every night. They're supposed to be suspicious of humans. Unless... this particular wheezy raccoon is being fed by other people on their decks. 

While keeping one eye focused on the furry masked bandit, I google.

                     

It had staggered onto the deck. It was seemingly oblivious to my offers of Earl Grey tea, which, while polite, had been done in my public speaking voice. It had wandered erratically over the furniture. I wasn't close enough to see whether it had discharge from its eyes or mouth. Its entire body was wet and matted. But then again, it had been raining all morning. The wheezing might be high-pitched vocalization. At present, it didn't seem to be mutilating itself. It was trying to eat a large twig on the sofa, which it could choose to use for self harm.

Our cats, Steve and Lola are very interested in the visiting varmint. Usually, when there's a strange cat in the back yard, they absolutely lose their shit, and start attacking each other, but apparently they know that raccoons aren't cats, so they're just enjoying their viewing of Potentially Rabid Raccoon with Twig.

Even if it is rabid, it's probably hungry, so I offer it some gluten-free Breton crackers. With flax seeds, because it'll probably like the flax oil, for its... mangy, wet coat. 

I toss the crackers towards the raccoon - who is completely oblivious and more than a little intent about holding onto its twig. It's mouth is opening and closing. Is it eating the twig? No, still making the wheezy noise and not chewing, really. It is more spasmodically grimacing... annnnnnnd... it has fallen sideways. This is totally a rabid raccoon.

The raccoon slides off the sofa and staggers to the door and looks at me and the cats. It then staggers off the deck towards the driveway. Steve, Lola and I all run to the side door. The raccoon now staggers across the road. So much staggering. Once it's across the road, I open the door and watch it offer a matinee performance of Stagger and Fall.

First thing that comes up when I google who to call in our town, is a suggestion that I contact Natural Resources Canada. Seriously? I can't imagine that they have a branch close enough to deal with this in a timely manner. None of the Ontario Wildlife Rescues are close by either.

According to the provincial website they say to contact the... local police force or OPP (in case of emergency). This is not an emergency... yet. When kids start walking home from school it could turn into something emergency-like. In my head, I now have an animated raccoon attacking random children. 

The animal control line is busy. I call the non-emergency police line. They want my details in case they need to contact me. And my birth date. Why they need my birth date has me wondering how many times they get prank calls about potentially rabid animals and how quickly a prank caller can come up with a mature sounding birthdate. 

In the midst of my extrapolation, Police Services say that they'll call it in and a car will be around soon. Might be time to put on a bra. I poke my head out the door again. Rocky Raccoon is now making its way towards another neighbour's house. I will grab popcorn late afternoon showing of Stagger and Fall: The Sequel

Pizza, popcorn and falling up the stairs

I clutch the handrail, lifting one foot in front of the other. David follows me, really close - my personal border collie - ensuring that I don't fall. 

"I'm good," I say. I'd give a sloshy thumbs-up, but my left hand is presently holding the other wall. My feet mostly feel the stair treads beneath them. I'm only a little pukey.

I'm not generally a moron, but I overdid it. Again. 53 frickin' years old, I should know better.

I had pepperoni pizza for dinner, and then, I had popcorn with butter salt on it.

NOT drunk. Disabled.

It's almost four years since my diagnosis with Secondary Endolymphatic Hydrops... which is kinda sorta Meniere's Disease affecting your ear's vestibular system, though technically it's not Meniere's Disease because that is Primary Endolymph... and I can already see your eyes glazing over. Medical, medical medical... blah, blah, blah...

I tip over. I'm on medication to stop me from tipping over. 

Most of the time it works, but every now and again, like if I have pepperoni pizza and popcorn on the same night, my ears are in the middle of the North Atlantic and my extremities either stop working or I look like I'm having mini seizures. Salt is my Kryptonite.

But... Popcorn.

So it is no shock to find myself staggering into the bathroom with David and Rissa close behind. I plunk down on the toilet, desperately needing to pee because we've discovered the protocol for an attack is getting me to drink three or four glasses of water along with an extra pill to equalize the fluid in my... medical blah, blah, blah. Eye roll.

"Oh man, I'm so sorry," I say. "Really stinky pee." 

"Thank you!" says Rissa, brushing her teeth.

"Noted," says David, around his own toothbrush.

They've both turned their heads away.

"So stinky," I say, flushing the toilet as I'm sitting. "Must be the vitamins. Vitamin B can really mess with urine." 

A side effect of looking like you're drunk is that your body also thinks you're drunk. My brain is foggy. It's going to be at least a half hour before I'm fully coherent. 

I have a horrible thought. What's if it's not the vitamins making my pee smell like that? What if it's not the pee? What if it's just me? What if this is what I smell like now? What if this emanates from ME?

"David," I yell. He's already left the bathroom.

"Yes?" he yells back.

"David you may have to smell my vagina."

"No," he says. "I don't think that I do. I promised a lot of things when I married you, but that was not one of them."

"What if this were less smelling and more just breathing near it?"

"Nope."

He may not have my front, but he always has my back.

Harrison Ford in my peripherals

As I'm taking off my coat and boots, Harrison Ford is in my peripherals. He's wearing a suit. He's on an airplane.

"Are you guys watching Air Force One?" I ask, stashing my wet boots next to the heating vent. 

"We are!" says David.

This proves that if there was ever a Name That Movie game show, I could rock the shit out of it.  "I can name that movie in one frame, Tom!"

We've decided to shake it up a bit and take turns picking movies. Up until recently, it was a crunchy-granola process where we would hem and haw and ask what we were all feeling 'in the mood' for and we'd find something middle of the road and all sit back and enjoy something that we had probably all seen before.  (Ocean's 11 and Red have frequent viewings in our home.) 

This week, we've moved to a movie dictatorship.  One of us decides which movie we're watching and the other two of us? Watch it. It's been working pretty well.  We've seen award winning comedies and dramas and rip-your-heart-out-of-your-chest sentimental films. All great. Until Air Force One.  This 1997 box office hit had us dumbfounded at the ham-fisted characters, dialogue and implausibility.  It totally misses kissing the corner of camp, so you can't even revel in its true awfulness.

"I just feel bad for Glenn Close," says Rissa. "This dialogue is utter crap."

"I don't remember it being this bad," says David. "I'm so sorry."

"I'm just waiting until we get to 'Get off my plane!' " I say.

"When is that? Can we just fast forward to that?" asks Rissa.

And yet, in spite of our supreme dissatisfaction with the movie, we find ourselves compelled to finish it - our eyebrows touching the bridges of our noses - as we react to generally great actors (Paul Guilfoyle, Wendy Crewson, William H. Macy, Dean Stockwell, Bill Smitrovich, Philip Baker Hall) slog their way through a script that whacks you over the head. Every... Frickin'... Sentence. Gary Oldman, miraculously, manages to escape mostly unscathed as the Russian dissident and Harrison Ford doesn't have to say a lot of lines, and rocks out on the actiony bits, plus? He's Harrison Ford. Our favourite character? Future Postmaster General - played by Messiri Freeman who, we reckon, is the smartest person on the plane.

"She is a QUEEN," says Rissa. "I want more of her please."

When the Future Postmaster General parachutes to safety - we all applaud.

Rissa's take on it: Only upon reflection can you truly identify it as a terrible, terrible mistake.

ps. Seconds after the credits begin to roll, we cleanse our movie palates and put on the last 15 minutes of Airplane! (Which avoids the dated racist, sexist parts of THAT script.)

What do you call it?

We're sitting at the kitchen table. Rissa is watching Sex and the City on her phone while she enjoys her cinnamon raisin toast. It's the episode where Charlotte and Trey are having a frank discussion about their nonexistent sex life. 

After all this time, I can't really remember all the plot points of the series very well, but something strikes me. "Hey," I say. "Has Trey never done anything just for Charlotte? I mean, FOR her?  Sure, he can't get it up around her, but there are a whole lot of other options. Did he not buy toys? There are so many toys. Mutual masturbation? What about cunnilingus?"

Rissa looks up at me from her toast. "Do you know you are literally the only person who uses that word?"

"What? Cunnilingus?" That cannot be an accurate statement. Plenty of people say cunnilingus.

"I have never heard that word except when you say it," says Rissa.

"What do you call it?" Maybe there's new-fangled slang that I don't know about because I'm over 50.

Rissa's eyebrows are horrified. "I don't want to call it anything with my mother."

I'm perplexed. "But why? Do you say going down on her? South of Front Street? Lady BJs?

"Okay, that may actually be worse," she says. She gets up from the table and grabs her plate. "This is what happens when I eat breakfast near you. It's like on The Big Bang Theory when Sheldon says 'intercourse' or 'coitus.' " She shudders.

"Henceforth," I proclaim. "I shall only call it Lady BJs."

"Please don't."