Okay... SERIOUSLY?!?

Have I pissed off some ancient Fertility Goddess?  Did I poop on Hera's cornflakes?   Forget to return Mama Quilla's call?  Accidentally take Nim-inna's name in vain?  'Cause it's only been 17 days.  SEVENTEEN FREAKING DAYS!! 

It's stress.  It's got to be.  I mean, I forgot to take my special herbal cyclical-extension remedy pill once last week, but that shouldn't throw me back to bloody wolves.  So it's stress.  I'm gearing up to tech week with Peter Pan, running around ragged, just started a new job... that's what it is.

Please, please, please...  I didn't mean it when I complained that it was only 23 days.  23 days would be just fine.  I LOVED my 23 day cycle - it was freaking awesome!!! 

I'm not asking for me - although easing up on the machete to my nether regions would be nice - I'm asking for David and Rissa.  They have to live with me and already suffer through those 36-48 hours of Heather Zombie every 23 days.  It's like The Walking/Curled up in the Fetal Position/Weeping Dead in our house during those hours.  There is a body stumbling around our house that looks like me and kinda sounds like me, but it ain't me.  David turns to me on Day 3 and says "It's so nice to have you back."

So I'm totally cool to go back to the 23 Day Cycle.  Just fine with me.  I'd say I will no longer complain, but anyone who knows me knows that's pretty much bullshit.   But if this is the alternative, I'll take the 23 Days.

Belly Button Lint

I've been collecting David's belly button lint.  In the lip of my crystal ring holder.  You know, just to see how much we can actually accumulate over the course of the year. 

David's pretty hairy, so during the course of a regular day, his chest hair and "Happy Trail," move the lint from inside a garment towards his belly button - kind of like the circling winds of a hurricane, or, or... the Charybdis, except instead of large, sea-faring vessels, his belly button is sucking in lint.  

After a few incidences of discovering copious amounts of lint in David's navel, I got to thinking...  If we collected it, would it be enough, say... to felt minature figures of  Shetland ponies or woodland foxes? Could I begin a new career as a felting artist?  Could I sell Belly Button Lint Minatures on Etsy?  So far this is all I have collected... but I'm hopeful.

Soon this will be transformed into small woodland animals!

Instant Coffee = Gateway Drug

There used to be a time when I could drink flavoured Nescafe instant coffee and think it was good.  I drank it weak.  I drank it full of sugar.  Really what I drank was a hot milk shake with what amounted to a wee bit of coffee flavouring.  Then it all changed with Alice.  Alice made good strong coffee - and once you've had good you really can't go back to crappy.

I now triple filter my coffee.  I pour double the amount of grounds used for a single cup into the filter, then pour 8 oz of just-boiled water over it.  I then take the weak coffee from the carafe and pour it through into my latte mug and then I do it a third time, draining it back into the carafe (being careful not to tear the, now-sodden, filter), just to try to approximate the taste of what you can get from a barista.  And what about that?  I just typed BARISTA!?!  I can use barista correctly in a freaking sentence!!  What the Pooh?!?   

I still don't drink the really good/expensive coffee. I don't store my own beans in an opaque, airtight container (not in the freezer) before I grind them in a fancy schmancy grinder.  I don't have organic espresso.  I buy President's Choice Decaf Hazelnut/Vanilla coffee already ground because I'm a coffee pussy who likes her coffee to basically taste like ice cream.  I can't handle caffeine because of my hot flashes and I can't do dairy because it makes my throat all mucousy.  So I go through this rigmarole* of triple filtering to get myself a decaf, hazelnut/vanilla soy latte in the morning, going through twice as much coffee in a week all because Alice made good coffee.  Damn you Alice!!!  DAMN YOU!!!!  (Closeup of me yelling into the camera with a long pull-back from a crane.)  Next?  Next I'm going to be buying a freaking French Press. How fucking pretentious is that?!?

* So up until JUST NOW I thought that the word was "rig-a-ma-role"  /ˈrig(ə)məˌrōl/ There is no 'a' after the 'g.'  Although there is the implied short 'e' in the pronunciation.  Who knew?

Communal Germ Box

...AKA a box of Timbits.  I'm not supposed to eat Timbits.  They're full of gluten and sugar and everything that can push me to edge of a sugar coma.

But when they're on a table, right in front of a gal?  And when you haven't had a snack?  And when you're in the middle of a rehearsal and stressed?  That's when you reach into the Timbits box.  Where other people, with other fingers have felt up the Timbits.

I had one.  Okay, maybe I had two... Okay, I had three.  Which really?  Isn't even as many calories as a full-on donut.  But it does mean that I stuck my hand in the Communal Germ Box three times instead of one.  It also means that the next day is when my sore throat started.  And my mouth started feeling a little pasty and the blocked nostril thing began.

Basically, I was being punished for eating the gluten and the sugar by the Gods of Reminding Me to Eat Well.  The Gods said "HA-HA!  You think that you won't be screwed over for three little Timbits eh?  Now we will concentrate all the viruses that have come into even indirect contact with every hand that has reached into this box and you Heather shall feel their winter-cold effects."

But for those 5 seconds at a time that those Timbits were making love to my mouth?  Totally worth it.

We used to have sex...

We had plans.  Last weekend we were going to get naked.  We were going to waggle our eyebrows suggestively.  We were going to get sweaty from the 'bouncy-bouncy."  We had plans.  You know what David and I ended up doing?  Having an Epsom Salts bath and collapsing into separate sleep comas.

We spent our Saturday groaning while crouched awkwardly on the family room rug... doing NOTHING sexy.  You know what we were doing?  We were weaving squares of fabric through 7x10 foot pieces of plastic chicken wire.  For set decoration.  For 6 hours.  After about the first 15 minutes, my 44 year-old arthritic hips started to ache.  (8 years of gymnastics folks!  Not one Olympic medal and plenty of arthritis.)  After an hour, I turned to David and warned him, "We're not having sex tonight."   All he said was a commiserative, "I know."

We're so busy.  We keep planning to have sex and it just doesn't happen.   By the time we make it to bed, David and I have to stifle our yawns as we lie face to face.  We keep saying that we'll go to bed earlier, that we'll enjoy some afternoon delight and then it's 11:00 p.m. or Rissa's home.  There's no time!  And not just no time for foreplay and hide the salami - I'm too tired take out the Magic Wand and give myself a 2-3 minute quickie!

Soon.  Soon, when the show is over and we have our lives back again - we'll reconvene in our marital bed and blow each other's minds and other body parts, but until then - the only thing I'm humping?  Is my pillow, with my head.

Did I SAY you could touch my stomach?!?

When you're pregnant you become a public commodity.  Strangers ask you your business, tell you whether you're having a boy or a girl and have opinions on what foods go in your cart at the No Frills.

Way back when... when I was pregnant with Rissa - I was working in an office.  I did a lot of work with the desktop publishing department.   I came into the office one day and this desktop publishing dude suddenly put his hands very low on my pregnant stomach.  I'm not a touching-phobe, in fact I'm pretty darned snuggly with those I'm close to,  but if I don't KNOW the person, I'm not really cool with being touched, up close and personal - low on my body, adjacent to my hooha.  I didn't know this guy.

Without a pause, I reached down and grabbed his crotch, firmly... in such a way where he could not extricate himself easily.  I then said this:

"You need to ask first."  I squeezed a little bit.  His eyes got a little wider.  I smiled kindly at him, waiting, my head resting in an "I'm listening" tilt.

"Sorry..."  he strangled out, his eyes watering.  "I'll ask."

"Good man."  I waited patiently, hand still a claw around what manly bits hadn't crawled back up inside his body.

"May I... "  he swallowed and looked a bit green.  "May I touch your stomach?"

I released him and feigned delight.  "Why thank you SO much for asking!  You know a lot of people just touch without asking."  I lifted up my top, exposing the vast expanse of child-incubating skin. I take on a conspiratory tone. "You can even touch my popped belly button if you like, I don't let just anyone do that."

When you're scared...

My friend Lesley B shared a Vimeo video gift with me. She said "This might be the greatest thing ever."   I'm pretty sure she's right.

The film is by Bianca Giaever (who just graduated from Middlebury College in Middlebury VT), entitled The Scared is Scared.  The story is written by Asa Baker-Rouse - a six year old boy.  I have been sucker-punched by this sweet and melancholic short film which kisses brilliance.  Enjoy.

CLICK THESE WORDS:  THE SCARED IS SCARED

Asa Bear & Toby Mouse

Trapped in Virus Land

Oh Noro Virus - you yellow rat bastard... You don't just take the 24-48 hours of hovering near-death from your sufferers, but you take the "still contagious" time after the infected begin to improve.  So even though I'm now only slightly nauseated and achy and could probably handle getting back to work if I were doped up on Gravol, I'm not going to, because I try to follow this rule:  DON'T BE A DOUCHE!

And it's douchey to infect the population with something that gives you explosive diarrhea.  Just accept the fact that you are not the most important person in the universe, the world can survive without you, lose the couple of day's pay and DON'T BE A DOUCHE!

Because it you decide you are going to be a douche? Others are going to hurl when they put plain white rice in their mouths, others will be lying on the bathroom floor, hands clutching the cool porcelain of the toilet as their only connection to life and other people's families will be giving them the "Do we need to go to the ER?" eyes and walking in front of them when they go down the stairs in case they pass out. 

I'm losing the two days' pay. 

Crazy Squirrel House Party

www.ebaumsworld.com

Or raccoons.  It could be raccoons.  Whatever's up there sounds bigger than squirrels.  And I think they brought tools.  Or maybe they're just taking chunks of the old brick chimney and using them as tools to dismantle the boards that we placed over the eaves the last time the raccoons decided to take up residence.

And now, so that I don't work myself into a stroke thinking about raccoons dismantling my roof (WHILE THE HOUSE IS ON THE MARKET!!!),   I will postulate that maybe, there's just a team of them setting up a very innocent Rube Goldberg machine up there... that might account for the rolling bowling ball noise I'm hearing. 

In fact, maybe in addition to the Rube Goldberg machine, there's a whole Varmint Amusement Park up there.  Raccoons, squirrels and maybe a porcupine grabbing their burlap sacks, determinedly climbing a set of stairs (that they've also built) and sliding down the BIG SLIDE.  Maybe some carnie-type raccoons smoking cigarillos underneath John Waters-style mustaches trying to knock up the pretty high school possums before they leave town.  Maybe the next thing they set up will be THE AVALANCHE with loud rock music and the tattooed and pierced porcupine running it will yell,  


"DO YOU WANT TO GO FASTER?!?" 
And the varmints on the ride will squeal and shriek,  "YEEEEEEES!!!"  

(Except for those couple of possums who got bullied by their older siblings to go on the ride in the first place, who are screaming, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" as they cling to the sides of the ride for dear life.) 

At which point, the neighbours will call to make noise complaints and we'll be arrested for disturbing the peace and running a Varmint Amusement Park without a license.

I might have an aneurysm first...

Shoot me now.  Just put me out of my misery.  Our house is on the market.  My OCD is going into hyper drive.  Our house cannot maintain 'spotless' - it really can't.  It's like the opposite of a half-life.  Our environment can remain clean/tidy for about 3.2 hours.  It then reverts back to its natural state of 'lived-in.'  And my version of clean?  Very different from David and Rissa's. I used to be a Molly Maid.  If I missed a spot, I could get have my pay docked. 

I will lose my mind.  There are nicks and dings on the baseboards and people have been coming into my house!!!  I need to get my quart of paint and a detailing brush. Right now!  The bath mats need to be vacuumed.  Fully vacuumed.  Not what happens when I ask David to vacuum them, but REAL vacuuming.

We decided on the spur of the moment to list the house.  "Hey you know what would be fun to do in the midst of all the other things we're doing this winter?!?  SELL THE HOUSE!!!"  (palm slap to forehead) 

All our windows were sealed in the fall and of course we didn't clean between the inside and storm windows. There are freaking cobwebs and dust in some of those windows because boys?  Boys don't see that kind of dirt!  It's winter in Canada, I can't just go willy-nilly and unseal windows and re-clean everything.  What a freaking pain in the ass that would be.  But now that I've thought about it, there I'll be, stripping the removable caulking and vacuuming the window ledges and washing the windows.  FUCK.  David says, "No one notices those things."  I do.  I notice these things.  And I'm sure there are other anal people out there who will too.

Whenever we sold our other houses, Rissa and I would just disappear for a week or so and the house would be sold expediently - zip, zap, zoom!  But this house, oh this house... This ginormous century home in a small town, it's going to take more than a week to sell.  And I can't leave while that happens because I have commitments.  Although...  if I go temporarily insane I could be committed to the psych ward of a local hospital for a month or so?  That would relieve me of all of my responsibilities.  That holds some appeal.

A Week's Worth of Pooh

TI-I-I-IME'S NOT ON MY SIDE... NO IT AIN'T...

What with two house showings this weekend and an all-day Peter Pan rehearsal Sunday - editing time is nigh on non-existent. 

So here are some links to previous posts: Salsa Counts as a Vegetable right?, Underwear Addict, 23 Days Later and The Fabulous Lesbian Muffcrats  and for your viewing pleasure, a picture of Steve the Cat.

I just wanted coffee!

My soy milk refuses to foam.  It takes two failed foam attempts before I grab the tetra pack and double check the label.  Low Fat Soy.  Low Fat Soy does not foam.  And not only does it NOT foam - it tastes like shit.  I check the pantry - there are two more of the wrong soy milks there.  I bang my head on the counter.  I just wanted coffee.

I know, I KNOW... there are worse things in the world than not having foamy soy milk in one's morning coffee.  I am aware that right now I'm coming off as a spoiled, fucking, North-American PRINCESS, I know that.   It's just... it's just.. starting my day on an even keel is becoming a must.  My body delights in betraying me. The least amount of stress immediately kicks me into a 'fight or flight' response.  So wee, simple things that start my day off nicer, are more than just helpful, they are essential.  Yes, it's only stupid foam in my coffee, but it's stupid foam in my coffee that stops me from having my first angina attack of the day before 8:00 a.m.

I'm not coping well with stress.  Our house is on the market, I'm directing the most expensive musical our theatre group has ever produced, I'm about to begin a new job and just found out I have to have another biopsy... any of those could be stressful.  The thing is, my body is reacting disproportionately to regular amounts of stress.  I was making car-pooling plans over the weekend and I had an angina attack.  From CAR-POOLING PLANS!  What the hell is that? 

And although the notion of getting through the day drunk has a lot of some appeal, I recognize that it's not the best course of action.  So I take refuge in little things that make me contented and calm, like my morning coffee.  Therefore, to eliminate one of those stressors, I went to the grocery store and purchased the right type of soy milk.  Problem fixed.  Apparently sex is a good stress-reducer, so as soon as David gets home, that can happen... Blogging is akin to journalling, so me typing this should be helping right now... I just need to add in some self-hypnosis, exercise, listening to music, meditation, and deep breathing and I'll be good to go.  Perhaps even, without my foamy coffee.

23 Days Later...

WARNING: CYCLICAL FEMININE CONTENT

Me in the bathroom, minding my own business, just peeing... I thought.  Until I go to wipe and...

"WHAT THE?!?  It can't have been 23 days!  I just had it!!"

I rush to the calendar in the kitchen and count from my last Red Sharpie-circled days.  I am right on schedule.  23 days.  CRAP.  I had not a clue this was coming.  I am that busy.  You know how gymnasts and other elite female athletes push their bodies so hard that they don't even get periods?  Basically, they are TOO BUSY TO BLEED.  Okay, it might have something to do with their lean muscle mass to body fat ratio but I'm going with the TOO BUSY TO BLEED and wondering why that hasn't happened to me.   Although now, knowing that I was PMSing last week, does explain my several days of wanting choke people - some of whom were small children.

I forget things when I'm busy.  Things in addition to when the lining of my uterus tries to expel itself from my nether regions. I forget to take medicines, go to appointments, collect the garbage/recycling.   I have to have a good 5 -7 reminders on my email calendar.  3 days before, 2 days before, 1 day before, 10 hours before, 6 hours before, 2 hours before.   If I can walk to the appointment/meeting, maybe even 15 minutes before.  Combine regular peri-menopause with my period, and any sort of mental acuity becomes a dumb-ass, muscle car driver being hit by a CN Cargo Train at an un-barriered train crosssing.  Which, coincidentally, is how my lady bits feel right now.

I have forgotten to take my morning pill cocktail twice this week. TWICE.   Some of these pills are pills that ensure that my cycle lasts 23 days instead of 15 days - fingers crossed that that doesn't come back to bite me.

Underwear addict...

My name is Heather and I am an underwear addict.  I have over 67 pairs of underwear.  Which, when you looking at it from a less compulsive consumerist way, means that I can NOT do laundry for more than 2 months!!!

I counted them as I was trying to squirrel away the freshly laundered undergarments into my top right drawer in the walk-in closet.    I have 5 pairs of beige boycut briefs.  I have 8 pairs of white cotton boycut briefs.  Really, what it comes down to is that I have MANY boycut briefs in MANY different colours: pink, purple, turquoise, black, blue, raspberry & green, B&W patterned...  I have over 2 dozen thongs.  I have at least 3 pairs of 'Period Panties."  My cheeks runneth over with sexy panties -  the lace, the cheekinis, the ruffled.  And those are just the ones I have in my top right drawer in the closet.  In the top two drawers of the dresser, I have matching underwear sets, say 8 of them.  Okay, maybe 10.  Possibly 12.

How did this happen?  I mean really 10 should do me... should really do anyone.  7 pairs with 3 more emergency 'just-in-case-the-laundry-didn't-get-done-on-time' pairs.  And yet, when I try to sort through and edit my collection, it's like I have personal relationships with them all.  The white cotton ones with the lace feel great and are a perfect match for any of my vintage styled sleeping garments - especially the white cotton, pintuck-fronted, with the side pocket nightie that allows me to pretend that I'm in Pride and Prejudice.  The balconette and cheekini in turquoise drives David mad for the 15 seconds that it remains upon my person.   And the red panties?  Well, they're RED panties!!!

Why is it that the comfortable beige panies are not enough for me?  Am I that vain that my ass, hidden beneath several layers of clothing,  needs to be clad in the lingerie equivalent of precious gems?  Yes.  Yes I am.  Black thongs for darker clothing.  Beige panties for translucent clothing.  Sparkly blue to make David lose his mind.

Really it's good for a gal's psyche.  'Cause sometimes just knowing that you are wearing bright red lacy panties can get you through that bad day.  When you're ready to decapitate someone who doesn't understand social cues, who doesn't have two synapses to rub together, who wastes oxygen on the planet, you can always think, "My ass looks amazing right now," and sometimes, that, can be enough.

If men gave birth...

Had to share this video from the Netherlands... Two Dutch television hosts Dennis Storm and Valerio Zena offered to experience the pain of childbirth.  Of course their birthing experience didn't include vomiting, involuntary pooping/diarrhea, bursting facial blood vessels, having a 'taint' torn/sliced and then sutured after the fact... but good on them for being guinea pigs.

The Fabulous Lesbian Muffcrats...

This is how much David and Rissa love me.  They bought me THESE at our local charity shop!!

Aren't they the absolute best?!?  I think they're supposed to be be mice, but they look more like muskrats to me on account of their poufy head fur and long tails.  And then when I really looked at their attire - it struck me that the one in the tuxedo had a very feminine, tailored flair, what with the form-fitting vest and cravat and lace around her wrists.  And then I thought, what if these are two female muskrats... on their wedding day!?!  David and Rissa found me my very own diversity-affirming stuffed animals that I can place on my desk and adore EVERY SINGLE DAY!!  I have Fabulous Lesbian Muffcrats!!!  How great is that?!?  The only thing better?  If they were actual taxidermied muskrats.

Salsa counts as a vegetable right?

We're producing Peter Pan.*  I'm directing, David is the tech director and Rissa is dancing.  Sunday is our big rehearsal day.  Our family is at the rehearsal hall all day, which means that no one is home to prep dinner.  Which means that by the time we get home for dinner?  We have Resort Food.  As in the kind of food you RESORT to having when you simply don't have the energy to prepare anything healthy.

Last night?  NACHOS!  Rissa thinks she's died and gone to Heaven.

"Until the show opens we get to eat crappy food all the time, don't we?"

She has given me a list of foods that she thinks would be appropriate options for our Sunday dinners:

Kraft Dinner
Badly Breaded Chicken Nuggets
Frozen Pizza
Poutine
Pasta with canned Alfredo/Carbonara sauce.

If you see someone on the street in a simple carbohydrate/sodium coma?  That'd be me.

* Shameless plug - Peter Pan is playing in Port Hope, ON - the last weekend of February first weekend in March, 2013 

Winning the lottery wouldn't be enough...

Before we bought our beautiful heritage house, we had a meeting with the bank where they looked at our debt ratio.   I was depressed.  I was sure that we wouldn't be able to afford the house.  But then, miracles of miracles, the bank said yes we could.

The bank lied.

In the 70s?  My family lived in Nova Scotia and we'd buy a lottery ticket where the grand prize was $100,000.  It was SO MUCH money!  We would spend hours and hours dreaming as a family about what we would do with those winnings.  The trips we we take, the cars we'd buy, the pool we'd install.  If we won $100, 000 now, it would only pay off a third of our debt.   If we were to win the Early-Bird draw from one of those Home Lotteries?  We would still owe money to the bank.

The bank says, "Here, have a credit line!  Here, have another credit line!"

We say, "Are you sure we can afford all this?"

The bank says, "We are completely sure!"

The bank are lying bastards.

They talk about the benefits of home ownership.  You're not throwing money into a black hole of rent - you have 'equity' in your home - it's an investment.  What they don't talk about?  Is the fact that you'll never have disposable income again once you own a house.  Maintenance on a house is expensive.   And maintenance on a century home?  Forget about it!  There's a reason they are called money pits. 

We are so fucking house poor.  Every job?  Costs at least $1000. Minimum.  And when you're in a heritage home or even heritage district, you can't just go the economical way.  The Heritage Committee can't tell you what you can do to the inside of your home, but they are fascists about the outside.  If we were to replace or repair our windows to satisfy the Heritage Committee?  It would be about $1000, per window.  We have 37 windows - not including the basement windows.

You don't think about this when you fall in love with a house.  You are seduced by the butler's pantry and servants' staircase and claw footed bathtub and sloped ceilings in the attic.  You salivate over the wood-burning fireplace and transomed windows.  You don't think about the fact that it will take, according to the rate at which we are paying down our debt now (which is the 'one step forward, 3 steps back' ratio), 75 years to pay off our debt.  I just did the math.  I'll be 119 when I'm debt free at this rate.  Not a problem!  The women in my family are long lived. We'll pay it all off and then we'll be able to afford that trip to Disney - with the grandkids, great grandkids and possibly great grandkids.  It'll be a helluva party!

Hippalicious...

I am an archer.   My arms stretch in opposing directions, pulling the nylon.  But unlike the Olympic bulls-eye 229 feet away, my target is closer.  The nylon/spandex thong in my hands is pulled near-to-tearing so that I may circumnavigate my hips. I'm Magellan!

Boy shorts don't cause this problem.  Boy shorts squoosh everything into their containing fabric.  Thongs don't have enough fabric to do that, hence the stretching.  I mean, sure, I could lose 20 lbs so that I didn't have these hippalicious bits, but the odds of that happening?  Pretty small.

It's just part of the morning routine.  You know...  You brush your teeth, you scrape all the coaty bits off your tongue, you re-adjust your bra straps annnnnd.... you stretch your thong.    Then after you put your bra on, you make sure your nipples are pointing in the same direction and you tuck your back pudge into the bra band.

There was a time when being hippalicious was not an issue... When I was 12 maybe... nope!  Not even then.  It was when I was 10... 'Cause the spring when I was 11?  I stole money from my parents and went to the Tasty Twirl and had ice cream  every day until I was caught and grounded for the entire rest of the summer.  My diet of high fructose corn syrup, proved to be my downfall.  Basically my criminal activity from age 11 has haunted me for 33 years.  Crime does NOT pay.

Six Degrees of Separation.. according to Rissa

At the dinner table:

I say to David, "You know what Will Smith movie we should see again?  Six Degrees of Separation..." 

"Six degrees?"  Rissa looks perplexed.

"Yes, it's a phrase that talks about the interconnectedness of..."

"That's like this big."  (She holds her fingers apart by this much, indicating the angle.)  "That's wee."

"Yes it is pretty small," David and I agree.  "There was this movie with Will Smith when he was much younger..."

Rissa isn't paying attention.  She's looking at her fingers.  "It's really only this big.  (Her eyebrows are down around her nose now.)  Seriously.  We've been doing this stuff in math.  It is only this big.  I can get my protractor and show you."

She's going to get her protractor?  "Where did you come from?" I ask - thinking that the math gene really must have skipped a generation.

"I'm smart.  In my brain." 

In other news... Rissa was unimpressed when when we then told her about Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.  She felt we were doing a disservice to math.

Unswallowable... (and NO, I don't mean THAT)

There was a discussion around the dinner table about how many teenagers in the Family Studies class at David's school have ended up pregnant since the course began.  A lot.  Like more than a handful.  These girls are in a class that GIVES them condoms and information on how NOT to get pregnant!  I might have ranted.

"Are they stupid?  Is this a Family Studies Class for stupid people?  If they are sexually active, why are they not on the pill and using condoms!?!"

"Maybe they can't swallow the pill," says Rissa.

"Everyone can swallow the pill," says I.  "It's THIS big!" (indicating tiny pill size with my outstretched fingers)

"I can't swallow pills," says Rissa.

"Yet.  You can't swallow pills YET.  Hand me that jar of gummy vitamins and a knife - we're starting now.  By bedtime you'll be swallowing pills."

"Mummy..."  (with accompanying eye roll)

"Seriously.  We need to get on this.  Do you KNOW how much more expensive Children's Tylenol is?  If I put all the extra dollars we'll save by switching to actual pills into your RESP, you'll be able to attend Harvard."

"Mummy we were talking about sex."

"No we were talking about dumb girls who get pregnant."

"No, I was just saying that maybe they can't be on the pill because they can't swallow pills."

"So these girls aren't dumb - they just can't swallow pills yet?"

"Yes."

"If they are too young to be swallowing pills, then they are obviously too young to be having sex."

"But when you CAN swallow pills, you're old enough to have sex?"

"NO!!!  OH MY GOD, NO!!!"

"You just said..."

"Forget what I just said.  Say this with me now: 'Teenaged girls who get pregnant are dumb... teenaged girls who get pregnant are dumb..'   I'm serious.  It should be your mantra."

"Mummy."  (eye roll)  "Even if I could swallow pills, I'd probably forget to take them anyway."

"David we need to research the shot."

Funny, I don't remember taking banned substances...

A Jewel on Queen West

So I found these socks...  these mind-blowing, amazing, hyperventilation-inducing-from-so-much-glee socks...  on Queen West at a store that must, I think, cater to the drag queen set.  (Original - 515 Queen Street West in Toronto.)  This store was so awesome, I got a little dizzy.  Jon had to remind me to breathe properly as I stared at a wall of leg wear.

This store was kind of like... Heaven.  First, you walk in and there are fabulous shoes as far as the eye can see.  Floral oxfords and polka-dotted Mary Janes and Steam Punk red leather boots.  Counters with sparkly hair accessories and bracelets...  Fancy-schmancy dresses (+ a whole 2nd floor above with even MORE fancy-schmancy dresses)...   And then?  Then an entire WALL with the most fabulous socks and tights I have EVER seen.  I spied, designed in France!!!, Dub & Drino socks.  I held them to my chest like a brand new patchwork kitten.  When the cashier tried to make me hand them over to scan the price, I growled.  She eventually convinced me to move my hand closer to the scanner.

Dub & Drino tights and socks, from FRANCE

I escorted these festive foot accessories home.  Rissa got very excited when I shared their magnificence with her.  I took the socks from their cardboard banding - nearly salivating as I readied my feet for their glory...

And the fuckers didn't fit!!  When did I acquire Female Soviet Athlete calves?!?   Were my Flintstones laced with anabolic steroids in the 70s?  I could just barely get the socks on, but then my circulation was cut off from my knees down.  I got a little woobly.  I was close to weeping.  The socks, now reside in Rissa's sock drawer.

I looked on the wrapper and discovered these socks were made for sizes 5/8.5  feet.  See?  That was the problem there.  I needed either sized 9/11 socks, or the ones labelled "For those with freakishly ginormous calves."  I'm going back next time I'm in town and I'm reading the labels and I'm stocking up.  If Rissa hadn't so coveted them herself, I would have turned them into fingerless gloves for the winter.  I may still buy another pair, cut the toes off, make a thumb-hole and do just that.  'Cause you know what? My forearms WILL fit into the 5/8.5 sized socks and then the world shall marvel at my fabulous forearms and say "Oh my Heather.  Where, oh where, did you discover such marvelous mitts?"  And then?  Then I shall sing them the Ballad of the Fabulous Fingerless Gloves.

Hurray! I get to run on the beach and ride white horses!

HURRAY!!!!

Recently, Rissa arrived home from school, all moany and growly and generally not her usual bouncy self.

"Are you tired honey?" 

"NO!  My PERIOD started."  Grrrrrrrrrr...

(So... I have this thing.  Women shouldn't use their periods as a convenient excuse for just being moody bitches.  Yes, most definitely it can be a pain in the ass, both metaphorically and quite literally (say if your sit bones come into play - I mean Sweet Mother of Creation - how can you even HURT there - they are bones!?!)  But you know what?  You don't have to decimate the rest of the world with your hormonal fallout.  I had no cramping until I was in my 20s. It only really got bad for me AFTER having babies.  Unintentional moodiness happens, sure, but if I find myself doing it, that's when I know to take a breath, regroup and pour myself a scotch tea.  For me, the first 36 hours suck like a Dane getting the marrow out of a turkey neck; I'm pretty much medicated/drunk the whole time clutching my heating pad and watching bad t.v., but you're not going to find me yelling at random dudes on the street, "You fucking fuckers have no fucking clue what the fuck I'm going through here!!"  It is what it is.)

Rissa's new to the game, I therefore take a patience-filled breath before I ask, "Are you cramping?"  Maybe she's in true discomfort.  I ready my bosom for a commiserative hug.

"No... but the universe is mean!!  We shouldn't HAVE to bleed."

Well I can't really fault that sentiment.  "How about this?  How about you become a scientist and you can figure out a way for women not to actually have to bleed, but they can still ovulate and have babies?"

"No, that seems like a lot of work.  Especially if I'm having my period."

Chart Your Cycle - by Chella Quint - awesome zine!!

You make my heart murmur...

This picture will make more sense at the end of the post

So at dinner last week we were talking about irregular heartbeats.  You know... for fun...

"You used to have a heart murmur," I tell Rissa.  "When you were a baby."

"What's a heart murmur?"

"It's like an extra heart beat on top of your regular heartbeat... ish."

"COOL!  But I don't have it anymore?"

"I don't think so, or at least it  hasn't been mentioned since we had to take you to the special doctor when you were a baby."

She pouts.   Then a thought passes over her face.  "You know what would be the absolute BEST?!?"

David and I look at her expectantly.

"It would be awesome if I went to the doctor and he listened to my heart and it went like this:

Bomp-ba-da-da-da-domp, ba-da-da-da-da-domp, ba-da-da-DOMP-DOMP...  
(she uses her hands to drum the table)  

And then... on top of that have this sound:

BOM-BOM-BA-DA-DOM-DOM-BA-DA-DOM-DOM-BA-DA-DOM!!!" 
(She is now singing above the percussive part with gusto)

David and I share a look.

"Is that Pirates of the Caribbean?"

"IT IS!!!!  Wouldn't that be AWESOME?!?"

See?  First picture makes sense now, doesn't it?

COLD AVENGER strikes again!

So remember the Darth Vader mask that David got me - to help with my winter angina?

We have gone for several walks where I put the sucker on - much to David's amusement and the perplexity of onlookers.

"They are all staring at me!!"

"That's because they want your autograph."

"Because why?"

"Because they think you are Bane from the Batman movies."

"Har-dee-freaking-har!"

I am a dufus in this mask.  I mean, more so than usual, even.  Except now I can't ever go into a bank without the security guards wrestling me to the floor.

But worse than ALL of that?  I now have all this dry scaly skin around my mouth from all the recycled sweaty air that I keep circulating.  I have to lube my face when I wear the mask!!!   I have to put vaseline all over my mouthal region when I wear this!  Fine when I'm wearing it and don't plan on having to take it off to talk to anyone... but if I run into someone I know, or I'm running errands, I have to take it off and I  look like I have taken a glazed donut and rubbed it all over my lower face.  Basically, I look like a tall toddler with a vicious head cold.

I'm thinking I can live with the chest pain.

Sex Show vs Home Show

David recently treated me to a romantic weekend away in the big city.  He planned it all. We stayed in a hotel.  We had fancy dinners.  He even packed for me.  He organized (ahem) activities.  And by activities I mean... SEX... and lots of it, without your child's ears in close proximity.  In fact, having sex in a hotel, basically encourages you to be as loud as possible while in the throes of passion.  If you don't have the management knocking at your door at 3:00 a.m. after noise complaints, you're not taking full advantage of your 'activity' time.

The next morning we went to a diner and enjoyed the best of greasy breakfasts.  David gave me a choice of afternoon non-sexual activities before our  fancy schmancy dinner out.  The Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex Show OR The Home Show.  Tough choice, right?  I had never been to either which is bizarre given that SEX and HOUSES are two of my most favourite things.  What to do, what to do? 

Sex Show - lots of interesting toys and seminars vs  Home Show - lots of interesting tools and seminars...  So... pretty much even.

Sex Show - interesting people, possibly in leather, maybe carrying whips vs  Home Show - interesting people, possibly in overalls, maybe carrying leather tool belts...  Sex Show pulled out in the lead there.

Thing was?  We'd recently been to a well-stocked  sex shop where the sales people were incredibly helpful - we'd actually just 'stocked up' as it were.  And frankly?  There's only so much room in my bedside table for further activity accoutrements.  And the Home Show?  Price tags on items available there can launch you into the thousands of dollars realm without breaking a sweat.  It was a conundrum.  I was vacillating.

"Sex Show... Home Show....  Home Show... Sex Show."

David was scanning the list of weekend TO-DOs in the city.  "Hmmmm.... the Royal Winter Fair is on too..."

"It is?!?  Really?!?  With live animals?  And butter sculptures!?!"

"...Yes...."  His glance in my direction - laden with disbelief.

"There!  I want to go there!"

Yep.  That's what we did.  I saw the butter sculptures and I got to feed the llamas...

I was a little disappointed that this sculpture was not the size of a house

Llamas are ALWAYS worth seeing.  ALWAYS.

I pet sheep and felt alpaca wool...  I watched rabbit jumping and calf showings...  I also saw lots of leather and riding crops for the horsey set - making me think that perhaps the Sex Show and the Royal Winter Fair have way more in common than one might think and if they combined those shows, you could really do the two birds one stone thing.

p.s.
On my way to the Royal Winter Fair I got to feed squirrels in the park!!  One of the best activities EVER. 

After I gave the squirrel a nut he took it
up to the tree and ate it upside down like this

"I'm BATSQUIRREL!"

Honestly, the $3.95 worth of nuts that I fed to the squirrels could have probably kept me happy all day.  David had to drag me away to get me to the Royal Winter Fair.  We totally could have saved all that admission money on the Royal Winter Fair and spent the day outside in the fresh air...  Watching the coolest squirrel ever.

Little Granny Grey Bush

Yep... 'for the hair down there'

 WARNING: This post contains too much information

Today, I found it.  A grey hair.  In the bush.  Does the phrase "all downhill from here" strike any chords?  I mean, sure, I've had grey hair on my head for 5 years or so, but my haphazard dye job every 6 weeks usually takes care of those.  I even have a few of those pesky grey peri-menopause neck hairs, the ones that can drive you to distraction when you're trying to pry them out of your carotid artery...

But down there...?  DOWN THERE?!?  I don't think a gal can bounce back from that.  I am now officially old.  It's so disheartening.  I'd pluck it, but I tried that with the ones on my head and that just lead to lots and lots and lots of wee little pokey-outey hairs sprouting at the part in my scalp and in my salt-n-pepa temples.  Bush hair is already fiercely rough and crinkly without adding pokey-outey to the mix.  Nope, the little buggers are here to stay.

Maybe, just maybe if I went grey down there in a classy way...  You know, say if my bush were comparable to what I imagine the Dames Helen Mirren and Judy Dench might sport ... all posh and delicately coiffed, lusted after by those who appreciate women of a certain age.

I just didn't reckon that I'd be a woman of a certain age at 44...

NOT A PROPER CALENDAR!!

Calendars. My requirements:  it must be large, clever, colourful, stylish...  The free one from the local real estate office (while offering a plethora of picturesque homes) just isn't going to cut it hanging on my kitchen wall.  Chagall, Vintage Vogue, Edward Gorey... now THOSE are calendars.  

I found one on sale at Chapters after New Years that would serve my purpose - interesting B&W shots of Paris from the turn of the century to the 70s. Done.  And it wasn't $20.

Then, I got it home.

Turns out this calendar starts its week on Monday.  Okay, what the fuck?  NO.  Unacceptable.  When you look at a regular calendar, you know which box is which.  I can tell you that Thursday is THIS box, just by looking at it.  But on a calendar where they have decided that the week begins on Monday - I'm screwed.

I'm sorry we missed your wedding, you see we thought Saturday was Sunday.

Dentist on Wednesday?  Nope, sorry you must mean Tuesday.

No, I didn't start my period on MONDAY!!!  I started it on SUNDAY - but if I put it where Sunday is now, I'll think I started on SATURDAY!!! I need to circle the right freaking START day you calendar-fucking fuckers!!!  (Apologies.  It's day 2.)

Is this a generational thing? A hipster thing?  Should I be wearing enormous black-rimmed glasses with skinny jeans to decipher this?

There is a case to be made that the work week starts on Monday and then you get to the weekend and the partying begins and all is well in the world. It's a great THEORY.  My brain just can't get its synapses around that concept when I LOOK at a freaking calendar!!  I need to do be able to extrapolate immediately, I can't count back one - I've got enough shit to shovel on a weekly basis without second guessing if I'm in the right place at the right time. 

The calendar search begins once more...

Magical Meerkat

This is a MAGICAL picture. It is a MAGICAL MEERKAT. I have dubbed it thus. You do NOT have to comment, like or share with any number of people to enjoy good luck or suffer bad luck. Why?? Because it is JUST a freaking picture of a meerkat! Have people lost their freaking minds?!?

And while we're at it, how about this?  The next time you see a guilt-ridden chain of anything (picture, quotation, "let's see how many people really pay attention" posts)...   How about you edit the wording to eliminate any sort of indentured reciprocity?  Then, by all means, share to your heart's content.  If people want to do the same, fan-freaking-tastic!  And if they don't - it doesn't fucking matter! 

Cliff-hangers and 12 year olds...

"NO!!! NO!!! Where's the remote?!?  Where is the next episode?  What is going to happen?!?  NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"  (collapse, collapse, collapse...) "Oh WAILEY, WAILEY, WAILEY!"

We were watching the first (and sadly, only) season of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.  Around episode 19 or so they got all cliff-hangery.  I'm pretty sure that's when Rissa started to throw her apoplectic fit.

"We have to watch the next three episodes RIGHT NOW!!!"

"It's bedtime!"

"But what's going to HAPPEN?!?"

"You'll have to wait and see."

"WAIT AND SEE?!?"

"Yes.  Like in olden times, you know... before evolution.  The way we use to watch tv before PVRs and Netflix and DVD Box sets."

"We're DINOSAURS!!"

"Yes.  And I call velociraptor."

And that's when the 2 year old monkey copped a feel...

Rissa had two big firsts over the weekend.  She was french kissed AND felt up.  By a two year old.  In a monkey suit.  The kid got to 2nd base under the guise of a 'tickle fight.' The kissing?  Some good old toddler 'affection.' 

Afterwards we took Rissa out to dinner.  You celebrate milestones when you can, right?   Recent victims of a toddler induced virus, and having just spent several hours in a house with three children under the age of three, David and I weren't taking any chances.  We pulled out the hand sanitizer, slathered our entire bodies in blue sparkly "Dancing Waters" and then rinsed our mouths out with a couple of good long sparkly swigs just for good measure. 

I offered Rissa the sanitizer, but she declined.  "I was french kissed twice by a two year old - I don't think the hand sanitizer is going to help me.  I should just lick the table now."

Seconds after the 'incident.'

You pluck mine, I'll pluck yours...

From Knitting Ole Bag on Etsy

I would like to enter into a pact with all my female friends.  A facial hair pact.

This is my vow to you:  If you suddenly sprout a thick moustache, I will tell you.  If you have a neck full of hairs that are visible-only-in-natural-light, I will tell you.  If you have a fine, blonde hair on your cheek that is a full three inches long and can be braided into the hair on your head, I will tell you.  If your mole has sprouted a hag's hair, I will tell you.  If your eyebrows go Frida Kahlo, I will tell you.   All I ask is that you do the same for me.

We're in this together.  This is more important than letting a gal know that she has spinach in her teeth or that her zipper is down.  Please let us age gracefully together without morphing into elderly Italian women who frighten small children with their hunches and facial hair.

You did WHAT to your hooha?!?

		WARNING: ADULT CONTENT Cutie Pie Wax Bar - Vancouver's Waxing Destination  vajazzle Pronunciation: /vəˈdʒaz(ə)l/ –vajazzle, v.: adorn the pubic area (of a woman) with crystals, glitter, or other decoration.  Okay, have I been living under a rock?  How did I not know about this?  My friend Narda read it in a pulp fiction book and told me to Google it.  So I did.  And it's real.  It started in the UK.  Great.  We now have Bridget Jones AND vajazzling.  Seriously? What the what??  Okay first off - the whole Brazilian thing on its own?  I, like other married-for-more-than-5-years women, have done it as a surprise for the spouse.  I'm here to tell you... Ewwwwwwwww.  Your hooha winds up looking like an 11 year old girl's.  There is supposed to be hair down there.  I'm not talking like needing a weed wacker hair, but at least so you look like you've exited adolescence.   Plus, I don't know about other gals, but when I briefly went bare down there?  There was not nearly enough friction, if you know what I'm saying.  Texture was all wrong and a stiff breeze could get me all het up.  The distraction factor was at 11.   In 2010, girls began 'pimping their ride' as it were. Adding Swarovski crystals to their lady bits.  Sweet Merciful Eastern Block Aesthetician!  Wouldn't that CHAFE?  Wouldn't it give a penis road rash?    You know how the idea of having sex on a beach seems like a charming thought at the time... but when you actually have sex on the beach you end up with sand in your hooha?  Just imagine trying to dig Swarovski crystals out of there! For anyone engaging in downtown dining - razor burn would be a certainty;  errant crystals stuck underneath one's uvula, more than a probability.   Pluses?  I can see two.  If you are prone to shaving/waxing bumps, those little crystals are great at masking those areas with a curtain of bling.  But unlike Oz's curtain, gals want you to pay attention to it.   AND say you had two girls - both vajazzled - in the midst of intimacy, every pelvis to pelvis bump or grind could wind up being a potential energy source - imagine the sparks - if we could just harness that power!!  What's the phrase?  Two birds one stone?  Except this is two bushes with MANY stones.   If we charged to view that - financial crises would be averted!!  Here's an article from Daily Mail discussing Emergency room visits since the trend hit groins in 2010.  I will leave you with this elaborate holiday vajazzle courtesy of nkd () the waxing specialists with salons in Glasgow and Nottingham - now that is some holiday sparkle!  The Christmas Topiary

Stop me before I eat again...

It's like we never learn.  With food, that is.  With alcohol, I am smart enough to know when to stop.  I haven't been DRUNK-drunk in at least 10 years.  (Tipsy - hell yeah!  Pleasantly buzzed - most definitely!  I'm not a freaking saint!)  I have been hungover twice in my life - no wait - three times - I forgot that time I got into a box of white wine before the Hawaiian Hula dance in Grade 9 - for anyone under the age of 18 - DON'T do that!  It was NOT pretty.  Wiping vomit from your mouth with your plastic grass skirt can never be pulled off as 'cool.'

Most people learn, thank GOD,  from those sorts of hangovers.  One near-death experience when you're 24, with 12 shots of tequila can can put you off booze for a LONG time.  It's a miracle that I didn't die from alcohol poisoning that night - my Scandinavian heritage saved my life there.  By no means am I championing being able to drink your own body weight in liquor - I was stupid - I killed many brain cells, that night in particular.  I am proud of not going too far - NOW - unlike some other career partiers out there.  The dudes who are 45, and sound like Beavis or Butthead:

"Man, I was so fucking tanked last night!!  I think I made it with a goat!"

So here is where I revel in my maturity at having not gotten drunk last night.  And Nana-nana boo-boo to all you poor fuckers who haven't evolved from freaking high school!  Grow the fuck up!  Don't be a fucking moron!  Your body can't take it any more and your spouse is thinking of leaving you.

Me?  I do have a killer holiday food hangover because I am apparently still stupid enough to do that.   What is the matter with me? I bet people in 3rd World countries don't pull this kind of shit.

This is what I ate yesterday:

• two fried eggs (fried in delicious bacon grease) on rice toast

• glass of apple cider

• 7 almonds with a glass of soy milk (Still full from the greasy breakfast, mind fully functioning)

• Eggnog with a tall shot of rum with a butter tart (It was, after all, New Year's Eve day - I could stand a little indulging...)

• Tostadas (spicy ground meat with re-fried beans, guacamole, peppers, cheese, caramelized onions and salsa) with a bad glass of red wine.  (No dessert - I was being sensible)
• Rusty Nail with 1/2 a dark chocolate orange while we watched It's a Wonderful Life  (Synapses not firing as best they should)
  
  Then it all goes to hell as we hunkered down to watch our traditional New Year's  movie, Dodgeball...
• A tray of salty rice crackers with home made chip dip (Greek yogurt with honey (we had no sour cream) + vegetable seasoning mix - the dip was NOT good, and yes, I ate it all)
• A bowl of Party mix - concentrating on all the ringy things that might have been made with corn, plus the cheesies, corn chips and Doritos - I avoided the pretzels, because they are bad for me
• Sour rings of fruity-sugary sweetness - to which I originally said, "No, I couldn't possibly, I don't like them..." before ingesting handfuls - I could actually feel my brain start to slow down with each one
• Buttered popcorn - dragging my fingertips along the butter & salt-soaked bottom of the bowl so that I could lick them surreptitiously while no one was looking
• Approx 6 glasses of sparkling Italian soda/ fruit juice mix - on account of the fact that I was thirsty from all the salt I had eaten

I'm not saying that I was in a sugar coma after that, but it was hard to stay awake those last 18 minutes while we endured crap commentary as we waited for the ball to drop in Times Square.   David and I then stumbled upstairs.  I lay in bed, my stomach roiling, before I staggered to the bathroom and popped the rest of the antacids - which I have been doing pretty much every night since Christmas Eve.

"Hi, my name is Heather.  I am a holiday food addict and I do not know my limits."

This morning - I think I will have a single piece of rice with a glass of water.  Happy New Year folks!!