Not for the squeamish...

Okay, seriously.  Acne? I am 44 frickin' years of age!  I shouldn't be getting any.  Peri-Menopause is wreaking havoc with my skin!!  I mean, COME ON!!!  I know my period's coming, but I don't need any extra facial detailing at present.  It's right beside my mouth - the size of... of... I want to say Vesuvius, but I know that really it's only the size of a large pinhead, but it freaking hurts.  Mostly because I've been picking, won't leave it alone and can't get what's in there to come out...  but the pain is real!

And every time I pick, I can hear my mother's voice in my head "STOP PICKING!!!  YOU'LL SCAR!" Her mantra from when I was an adolescent.  Which, just so you know, I totally didn't.  I have four, count 'em FOUR, scars on my face and they are on my forehead and from me scratching CHICKEN POX, not ZITS and that happened when I was 8, and my bangs hide them.  So there.  That's not to say I don't have have lots of other scars, but they just aren't on my face.  I was a terribly accident prone child.

You HAVE to squeeze zits.  You know what it's like.  That feeling that SOMETHING is in there.  Something that if you just squeeze hard enough will shoot out, maybe landing on the mirror as a sebum trophy, maybe not, but almost certainly relieving that pressure under your skin.  Then you dab on a little zit cream and you're good to go, but until that moment of release - it's torture.

I freely admit that the primate instinct in me is really strong.  I'm a groomer.  I'm a picker.  If I am offered the choice between sex and squeezing a really deep blackhead on David's back,  I have to think about it really hard.  (I know!  I know!!!! EEEEEEW!!!!)  I will  TOTALLY choose the sex, but there is a really big internal conflict that occurs within me first.  'Cause the satisfaction that comes from a really good blackhead squeeze?  Unparalleled.  Truly.  Especially the ones where you can squeeze and squeeze and squeeze and ALL THIS STUFF COMES OUT??  Like in one long stringy bit?  (I know!  I know!!!!! EEEEEEW!!!)  But come on... everyone has their thing.  My Mom loves peeling sunburns.  My brother loved to pick scabs.  I have friends who SQUEEEEE!! over stripping wallpaper in one long strip.  My thing just happens to be disgusting on a primordial level.  A level that no one wants to talk about but almost everyone acts upon.  Anyone who says that they don't is lying and isn't in touch with their inner gorilla.

The hardest thing now is that Rissa is getting blackheads and it takes every bit of restraint within me NOT to go at her.  David says I'm not allowed to.  She is out of bounds.  He barely lets me do it to him because he HATES being picked at.   David hates being picked at but he lets me, because he knows that I'm a twisted mess of a girl who has a primate grooming kink.  See that?   Right there?  That's love.  That is how much he loves me.  Oh the glory that is him!!

Plenty of Batteries...

WARNING: THERE IS ADULT LANGUAGE/CONTENT IN THIS POST!!  IF YOU DON'T BLANCH AT THE WORD 'FUCK' -  FEEL FREE TO READ ON.  IF YOU CAN'T SAY THE 'F' WORD - I'D STOP IF I WERE YOU.

I've been brash, bodacious and lived with bravado most of my life.  While in Theatre at the University of Ottawa, our acting teacher had the class define each student's public persona.  You know... how others perceive us, the facade we present to the world, our safety net. I was 19 years old, thought of myself as a bit of a clown. I was interesting-looking, but not pretty; intelligent, but not Einstein.  The class decided that my persona was a 35 year old attractive woman named Gwen.  She was confident, had many acquaintances (mostly male) and few close friends.  If Gwen fell onstage, not only would she get up and pretend it had NEVER happened, she would have the entire audience convinced that it had never happened.

I didn't have a whole helluva lot of tact when I was younger.  My mother despaired that I would never discover it.  I would rush into situations and bowl people over.  I was like a 120 lb Labrador puppy (who am I kidding? 140 lb.  The last time I was 120 lbs was when I was 12).  I'd sit on laps. (NEVER putting my full weight on a guy, 'cause of course they would be crushed under my true feminine weight.  I would barely rest my ass on their legs.  Most of my weight pushed through the balls of my firmly planted feet, my thighs more than likely shaking from the prolonged half squat. All to avoid hearing this: "Holy Crap you're HEAVY!"

I'd say shocking things for effect.  When an acquaintance said that she was dating a guy with whom I had previously been intimate,  I actually uttered these words, "Oh yeah, I fucked him."  Who SAYS that?  Who says that to another girl?  You know what that was?  That was FULL-ON JEALOUS BRAVADO talking there. My thoughts probably ran along the lines of Why am I just good enough to sleep with, but she's good enough to sleep with AND be his girlfriend??  But what it came out as was, "Oh yeah, I fucked him." ?!?

People took it for granted that I was a destroyer of men.  All tits and ass and red hair - I terrified guys.  I couldn't be embarrassed, told off-colour jokes, flirted and stood REALLY close.  Most of the time that tactic worked for me.  It kept men a safe distance away.  Very few called my bluff.  When there actually was  a guy who who'd say "Alright, you wanna play?  I'll play."  I wouldn't know what to do.  I'd blush, get butterflies and generally lose any nerve I pretended I had.

I had a crush in university on a  french actor in the theatre program.  He stole my powers of speech.  I became nearly mute around him.  Quite a feat.  What was funny?   This guy was not even attractive.  He was balding, didn't have great teeth and was really hairy (think Robin Williams hairy), but to me?  Oh, to me, this guy was IT.  He had CHARISMA.  Must have been pheromones.   I was so enthralled I couldn't even flirt with him.  I tried one time, he blew me off and I never attempted again.  Too much.  He was too much for me.   I was but a naive girl and he was a MAN.

A couple of years later, french crush guy and I were working together, and I guess I seemed like a safe bet for an easy lay and he was laying it on pretty thick to test the waters.  By this time I'd grown up a bit and had regained my powers of speech... or maybe by then I just had a better sense of a man's true character.

"Look," I said.  "I'm flattered and all that, but I am not going to fuck you tonight.  If you want to have a date, go to dinner, see a movie, then great.  But we're not going to end up in bed at the end of the night.  More than likely it would be a quick fumble.  Might be good, or might not, but frankly, I've got enough erotica and batteries at home to keep me busy for a long time without enduring a one-night stand that is sure to make the next time we see each other really awkward.  So what you you say?"  He didn't take me on a date. No-nonsense, in-control Heather was a bit too formidable, I guess.  Honesty...  It really is a great way to separate the boys from the men.

 

 

Meatloaf vs Meatloaf

Meatloaf vs Meatloaf

Rissa: "Is 'Meatloaf' - Meatloaf's actual name?"
David: "No, I don't think so."
Rissa:  "That's good 'cause that would be really unfortunate - it would be like naming your kid brussels sprout or candlestick."

***

"Wait!  Wait!  You go to my room, but don't go on the bed.  Stand by the... stand by the closet!!  I want to make a grand entrance!!!"  Rissa gallumphs down the hall and appears in the doorway,  poses in a Superman pose and then launches herself  onto the bed, landing on her stomach. 
"You done?"
"Not yet!"  She extends her arms and legs off the mattress and makes whooshing noises.
"Are you trying to shoot light out of your fingers and toes?"
"YES!!!  Is it working?"

***

Rissa's review of the Dark Knight Rises.  "It was alright I guess.  But holy camole!  Anne Hathaway's butt was parading itself to the universe!"

I'm older than Mrs. Robinson!!

While reading Wired this morning at breakfast, there was a photo for Marriott (EXPERIENCE the world of MARRIOTT!)  with 40-somethings laughing and using an IPad to show how hip and 'Now' they are while enjoying glasses of red wine.  Two gentlemen - one with a greying, well-groomed beard and another with trendy glasses + a woman, I'm guessing early 40s - looks kinda like Robin Wright in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.  And I thought:  GOOD GOD!  THAT'S MY DEMOGRAPHIC!!! THIS AD IS AIMED AT ME!!!!  I am THAT old now.

Think back to when your parents would have cocktail parties - remember those?  When you would stay up, maybe sneak to the first landing on the staircase to listen in?  They'd be all dressed up...  smoke and drunken laughter would fill the living room?  Remember that?   Remember how OLD they seemed?  Well, more than likely, they were only in their 30s.

Then I got to thinking about Cary Grant.  Who, even now, when I re-watch Notorious, is the most mature and debonair man on the planet.  He has always seemed so much older and world-wise than I could ever hope to be in my lifetime.  He was only 43 years old when he made Notorious. That's a year younger than I am now.  Which means that I'm older than Cary Grant.  This makes me ache with such a sense of defeat, because there's just no way that I can compete.  I can't ever be that together, that deep that grounded.   I can't ever move the way he did.  I'll never be that graceful!  He moved like a freaking cat.  And yes, I know he's a dude, but let's say there was a classic female actress in her 40s - which is laughable  because it just didn't happen then.  I mean think about it.  Maybe Bette Davis in All About Eve - she was cast as a 'fading' star at the ripe old age of 42.  Actresses of a certain age just didn't get screen time then.  If you were over 40 you were relegated to the crazy roles, the mother roles, the spinster roles or the over-the-hill rolls.  And you know something?  Anne Bancroft when she starred in The Graduate was only 36 years old!!!  I'm older than Mrs. Robinson!  HOLY CRAP!  And what's worse?  Most kids don't even know who the hell she is!

Oh look!  There's Dustin Hoffman at the window of the nave! 
Whatever is HE doing there?
If only I'd had my own leopard hat and coat!

"Let me be your Mrs. Robinson."
"Who?"
"Seriously?  You don't know who Mrs. Robinson is?  What about Simon & Garfunkle?  Have you heard of them?  OH GOOD GOD!  How 'bout this?  We'll skip any sort of inappropriate sexual come on... Let me be your teacher of iconic cultural moments?"
"I could be down with that."

OY.

Weapon of Choice

I'm over there on the left...

I am in stress-containment mode. Not for me, but for the other people in my house.  The daughter.  The husband.  When did I become the sane one?

As the parent of a 12 year-old daughter, there are certain instances when you find yourself treading very carefully.  Last Thursday Rissa was in tears before heading off to school.  "I can't go to school today!  I can't!" she wailed. Now for most parents, this phrase would be a common one, but Rissa NEVER opts for missing school.  NEVER.  She can be hacking up a freaking lung and have a fever of 104 and she will say, "Mummy, I can't miss school.  I'll have homework."   So last Thursday when she was weeping and saying that she couldn't go - I was momentarily at a loss.  She had a kink her neck, was in pain and obviously over-emotional... so I did what every understanding mother does... I gave her drugs and sent her on her way.  Then on Friday I took her to the chiropractor.

More than a little bit of 'crazy eye' going on here!

Saturday, David and I got into a fight.  A really big one.  And the thing is?   David and I DON'T fight. In the almost 16 years of our acquaintance we have fought maybe 6 times.  It started off with me asking if we could get a lazy susan and ended up with me leaving the kitchen so that I wouldn't bludgeon him with a frying pan.

 "I'M GOING OUT!!!"

Then, I jogged.  And I am NOT a jogger.  I really don't have the stamina, it gives me shin splints and jogging for a person who suffers from angina is just stupid.  But there I was JOGGING.  (I'd put on two sports bras - 'cause I KNEW that I was going to run when I left the house - I was THAT mad.)

You see, David had questioned my budgeting.  He made a disparaging remark about my fiscal responsibility. And instead of realizing that David is really stressed right now with a whole shitload of extra crap on his already full plate of responsibilities - instead of talking him down logically,  I got mad.  I yelled even.  And I'm not a yeller.  You know why I yelled?   Because I'M the one who PAYS all the bills and ORGANIZES our taxes and DOES the automatic transfers every month so that when December comes around and we have to pay our house insurance we HAVE that money ready. I freaking rock at budgeting!!  I am a budgeting goddess!!  Hence my being pissed.  REALLY REALLY PISSED.  And that's why I felt the need to run.

Well, I'm just not going to go home!  I'll stay away ALL freaking afternoon and he won't know where I am and then he can just STEW in his worry.  See how he likes that!  

I'll grab the next train out of here!  That's what I'll do!   I'll go to Toronto and stay at the... I'll stay at the... the freaking Royal York Hotel and order lots and lots of room service!!!  He wants fiscal irresponsibility?  I'll show him fiscal irresponsibility!!   OH FOR THE LOVE OF... I don't have my wallet!

Look!  A squirrel!  Bet that squirrel wouldn't accuse me of mis-managing funds!  (now sobbing on the sidewalk with said squirrel patting my knee in sympathy)

Why isn't he driving after me to apologise?  Why is EVERY car NOT our car coming after to me to tell me how sorry he is for being an asshole?!? Why is he NOT taking advantage of this romantic-comedy, conflict resolution moment?

Good thing it's sunny outside.  At least it's nice weather!  Look!  Butterflies!  I love butterflies!  They're on their way to Mexico.  That's where I'll go!  MEXICO!!! 

I will just walk right into the lake.  That's what I'll do.  Fully dressed.  And then I'll catch hypo-thermia and see how he likes THAT!!  Then he'll be sorry. 

OW!! OW!! OW!!!  MY FREAKING CHEST HURTS!!  STUPID FREAKING ANGINA!!!  (slowing my pace to a walk)

Oh hey! Look, kite surfers!!  David LOVES kite surfers!  I should go home and tell him... (scowl)  NO! I'm not even going to tell him that they are down here!  I'll just horde all the kite surfing joy myself!  He'll never know that there were kite surfers here!  NEVER!!! 

After an hour, I managed to calm down.  Then I walked home and told David, "Come on - we're going down to the lake.  I want to show you something."  Then the two of sat and watched the kite surfers playing in the waves and we talked.   'Cause we made vows.  And a couple of them were this:

"I promise to talk to you, especially when it's difficult."
"I promise to listen to you, especially when it's difficult."

And you have to decide, are you going to keep promises or break them?

Taming your Tatas...

Two is so much better than one!  Double the sports bra - 1/4 the bounce.

Okay ladies.  If you have ANY more than a B cup and you do ANY sort of exercise that has you moving faster than a saunter, you need to wear the appropriate sports bra.  Hell, wear TWO sports bras.  AT THE SAME TIME.  OVER TOP OF EACH OTHER.  Unless you are aiming for breasts that settle around your navel, in which case, keep doing what you're doing - by Christmas you'll have met your goal.   Good for you!

I go to the Y.  I ride the recumbent cycle.  As I pedal my ass off, I have a view of the treadmills and elliptical machines and there are WAY too many ladies out there who are WAY too under-supported in their breastal region.  Frankly, I'm surprised that more of them aren't leaving the building with black eyes from those breasts just a-flapping and ba-doinking all over the place.  I watch these gals and MY upper chest muscles hurt.  Please ladies, strap your girls down - I promise it'll serve you well.  I PROMISE.

I recognize that not everyone can afford the fancy schmancy sports bras that will offer Total Tata Support (TTS).  But we can all afford the cheap-ass sports bras.  Just buy them a size smaller and wear two of them!  I'm a D cup and I wear the tightest possible sports bras - ON TOP OF EACH OTHER.  The ones that accentuate my armpit and back pudge and leave nasty dermatographia (those lines that you get on your skin when clothes are too tight or your pillow is too wrinkly).   But you know what?  When I go for a fitting at Victoria's Secret, the salesgirls are astounded that not only  did I breastfeed my daugther, but that my boobs belong to a gal who's 44.  No, the girls aren't as firm as once they was, but they are at least in the same general area at which they started.

And by the by... In regular bras?  Your nipples?  They should be aiming OUT, not DOWN.  So heft your girls up, using those adjustment straps, OWN your curves and bask in the beauty that is you.  You have boobs.  Treat them well and they'll stay relatively where they're supposed to and not become something to tuck into the top of your pants.

DOGGIE Boob Scarf as seen in The Regretsy Christmas Special Featuring JACK the PUG
http://www.etsy.com/shop/boobsRus?ref=shop_sugg

Multi-Breasted Female of Galaxy NGC 1512

Previous post from Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Praise be to every deity in the universe!!!  After a week of insomnia - I slept through the night!!  Halle-freakin-lulljah!! (insert angels' chorus here)  

There's been a heat/humidity wave in Southern Ontario.  A direct result of this is my morphing into the biggest belligerent bitchy bitch in several galaxies.  (I think there's a multi-breasted female in Galaxy NGC 1512 that could give me a run for my money, but really with 22 breasts and a fashion history in her neck of the woods that hasn't allowed for brassieres, you could fully understand her bitchiness.)

Home to the Papilla-Multi-Praeclarus People - a shout out to Big Bessie! (From HubbleSite)

My period is due any day as well.  And not to become a cliched 'female' type who blames moods on her hormonal cycle, but WHAT THE POOH DUDE?!?  It's like I'm losing my mind a little bit more every day.  And I KNOW that I am, and I'm freaking helpless to stop the journey into The Hell of Irrationality.

Yesterday, I burst into tears when David asked me to go down to the beach.  I knew that I should get out of our stifling house, but also knew that I would then have to attempt to thrust my clammy sweaty body into a bathing suit.   (sidebar - I'm NOT a beach person to begin with.  I burn very easily, even with sunblock 9000 on, and I don't like getting wet.)

Sniffing back tears, I went upstairs and started the process.  I stripped off my now-sodden cotton clothing and then forced my sticky flesh into my one-piece bathing suit.  In retrospect, I could have put on my impetuously purchased pin-up girl bikini, (Rissa said "Mummy it looks GREAT!) but my mind was WAY skewed to self-loathing at this point, and no way was my fish-belly white stomach going to be put on view for Victoria Beach.  Instead, I opted for the one piece with attending melon-coloured overskirt.  Imagine if you will - a sausage casing trying to accommodate way too many fleshy bits.  Still in too precarious an emotional state, crying behind my half closed door, I could not see the humour in the situation.  NOW - this morning I do, but last evening at 4:42 p.m. NOTHING WAS FUNNY.

Determined not to give in to the hormones, I waded into Lake Ontario.  I was going to be the well-adjusted wife and mother.  I was going to participate in a family activity.  It was cold.  Not just a little bit cold - but the kind of cold where men's testicles crawl back up into their body cavities - or so David told me.  My legs ached from the temperature.  But I persevered.  I was in the water and I was wet and I was almost enjoying myself.  After about 30 seconds in the water, David looked over at me.  "Your lips are blue."  "Probably," I answered.  It was invigorating though.  The surf was all wavy which is a lot fun - even in hypothermic water temperatures.  After about 3.5 minutes David made me leave the water.  I was okay to stay and be wet even, but I guess my colour looked a little off and I was all goose-pimply and shivery and I didn't have the presence of mind to lie when he asked "Are you having chest pain?"  "Just a, uh, little bit."  If I were more petite, he would have scooped me up into his arms in a romantic gesture and carried me to the beach.  As it was, he threw an arm around my waist and dragged me out, wrapped me in a towel and told me to stay put while he went back in to make sure that Rissa and her friend didn't drown in the waves.

There I was on the beach - in 30+ degree heat and sun, clutching my white terry towel around me, teeth chattering.  He had been right.  It was good to get out of the house.  I was no longer hot.   My mood was vastly improved.  A brush with death will do that for a girl.