How Rissa almost expired from playing soccer...

From a distance, she looked like a cartoon character - those big white paws grabbing for the soccer ball in that massive net.  It was kind of like watching Mickey Mouse as goalkeeper.  She made some incredible saves and had some kick-ass kicks.  When she was in net, my heart was in my throat.  Under my breath, I may have threatened the safety of several  'Under 15' girls who seemed a little too 'gung ho' with their cleats around my little girl when she was reaching for the ball.  Rissa ain't so little, but once a Mama Bear, always a Mama Bear.

After the post-game shaking of hands, she came off the field  - looking a little ill.  In fact, pretty much all the girls on the team looked like they were going to drop dead.  It was 39 degrees with the humidex - I was worried that maybe she was suffering from heat exhaustion.  I knew she shouldn't have played!  It was too hot!  She looked like she might puke.  She staggered towards me.  I reached out for her, ready to catch her if she stumbled.

"Mummy... Mummmy..."

"What is it sweetie?"

"My hands...  My hands..."

"Yes, sweetie?"  Oh God, I was going to have to take her the ER!  She couldn't even speak properly!  That's one of the signs of heat sickness!

 "They... They..."  She tottered a bit more. I grabbed her shoulders, steadying her.   "MY HANDS SMELL LIKE FEET!  They smell like (gag)... FEET!"  She thrust the offending appendages near my nose and I too, almost woofed my cookies.

In the 2nd Half of the game, as goalkeeper, Rissa had worn the 'team' gloves...  After another girl had sweat in them for the 1st half and every other goalie on the team had sweat in them for the previous 6 games. I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that I don't think these gloves get washed.  EVER.  These were Satan's Gloves.

So yes, her hands did smell like feet.  I smelled twice, because I couldn't believe how bad they were.  Rissa, on the drive home, kept smelling them and fake gagging because she thought it was so frickin' hilarious.

When did I start needing face spackle?

It appears that I can no longer sleep on my side.  Because when I do?  My face develops sleep craters.

I get up, well-rested, thinking all is well with the universe, until I look in the mirror.   My face, which had enjoyed the delicate sqwoosh of the pillow beneath my cheek, now has a sleep crater around its eye.

And you know what?  They don't make face spackle.  Not for eye craters, not for forehead lines, and even if they did, you'd have to buy it in a tub - not a tube.  Seeing as eye cream generally goes for $20 or more for 15 ml of the stuff, I know I couldn't afford a freaking tub of it.

I've even attempted to convince my face to  go back to where it's supposed to be with intricate facial exercises, but I'm realizing that you pretty much just have to wait it out until your face bounces back on its own.  This can be tough going, given the elasticity a gal's face retains after the age of 40. 

I'm lucky if 'bounce back' happens after my morning decaf and breakfast... but there are days I just have to use my hand to make it look like I'm deep in thought well into mid-morning.  Plus, that way I can pull everything up and out of the way and I look really alert.

Specific Rim

I was making my case to go see what looks like the BEST summer movie EVER - Pacific Rim.  Rissa needed to do her due diligence. 

"Who's in it?"

"Who's in it?   Who are you?  Roger Ebert?"

"Who's Roger Ebert?"

*face palm*

"I don't know," says David.  "It looks pretty cheesy."

"Come on guys - it's a crazy-ass,  summer action movie,  pretty much MADE for teenaged boys."

David shoots me a look.

"I'm serious.  Guillermo Del Toro said he made it for 12 year old boys."

Rissa starts to perk up.   "I like crazy-ass action."  Then she looks a little chagrined.

"If I'm being honest, I thought it was Specific Rim."

"Oh, you mean like, 'This is the specific rim where the massive robots are going to fight the ginormous alien monsters.'  That kind of specific?"

"Yep."

"Totally makes sense."

ps:  DO NOT see Pacific Rim, if you are the type who wants realism or high art in your movies - this is not the film for you.  DO see Pacific Rim if you enjoy grand fromage in your summer cinema.  This is possibly one of the cheesiest - we're talking a wheel of Brie, some Gorgonzola and Wensleydale shoulder to shoulder with Gouda and Emmental and then slathered in Chèvre - kind of cheese.  There are lines that are unintentionally laugh out loud funny with acting delivery that is... Independece Day-esque.  There's heart-felt with gumption with a twist of Henry V's St. Crispin's Day speech.  This is like Top Gun, but instead of fighter jets you have big-ass robots and instead of Russians, you have big-ass alien monsters.  And damn was it fun to watch! 

Best Birthday EVER!

Sometimes a birthday reaches perfection.

First off, the weather gods heard my plea and took away the humidity which really helped with my wanting to murder those around me.  David and Rissa made me breakfast and gave me these birthday cards:

David's card made me weepy when I read it.  He wrote
"I'm Always aiming for THIS box."

Rissa 'gets' me.  In addition to choosing a card with squirrels in party hats,
she wrote "...as weird and as awesome as you..."

When I got home from work, Rissa had made me my favourite 3-in-1 chocolate birthday cake, of which  I had 2 pieces... because it was my birthday.  Then they gave me this:

Any guesses?  Think on it, and we'll get back to that.

After presenting me with my gift, David and Rissa then kidnapped me and took me to the big city for seafood!  When I asked David if we could walk to the next portion of the evening - he told me the intersection to which we were going (Yonge & Carlton) and that we had to be there at 6:40.  6:40. Yonge & Carlton.  There was an art-house cinema at Yonge and Carlton.  My eyes got wide.  Was the 2nd thing a movie thing??  A movie we couldn't see in small-town Ontario??

"Is it a movie?!?"  Going to the movies is my favourite activity.  Sex is a step down from going to the movies for me and I love sex.

"It might be..."

What movies had I been jonesing to see that didn't play near us?  I could only think of one that I'd been whining about.  An angels' chorus went off in my head...

"Is it maybe a Joss Whedon movie?  Maybe an adaptation of Shakespeare kind of movie?!?"  I was now bouncing in my seat.

"Yes.  Yes it is."

They took me to see Much Ado About Nothing!  That's how much my spouse and kid love me.  Neither one of them love Shakespeare the way that I do and yet they took me to do something that I would love.  The Bard geek in me was very happy.

Back to the weird-ass gift...

Did you figure it out?  Althought it might look like a duvet, it's not.  It is a weighted blanket, on account of the fact that in the summer, I hate being able to only have the sheet on me because it's too hot.  So they made me this blanket filled with plastic beads.  They learned how to use the sewing machine and made it themselves and it was a (shhhhh!) secret.   There was much waggling of eyebrows and knowing glances between them for the last 2 weeks, but they managed not to spill the beads.  (See what I did there?  The blanket was filled with... plastic beads.)  It weighs approximately 19 lbs.   If it were filled with lead I could totally take it with me to the dentist's office!  According to this brand you can buy, there are all these other benefits too...

http://www.myweightedblanket.com/

What's truly spectacular?  I only have one (1) thing on that list!!  How great is that?  Even better?  My Disorder/Syndrome Blanket didn't smother me when I slept under it, so that's a real plus!  And it was relatively cool to sleep under - the true test will be when the humidity comes back and I want to kill all living things in my path.

And this morning?  I ate birthday cake for breakfast - because I could.  Life is good.

Stoned dudes in Sears

I was recently in Sears buying underwear for Rissa.  I wasn't really 'put together,' hadn't dressed up, probably had no makeup on.  It was an emergency underwear trip - she needed them and she needed them fast.

I was lined up, ready to pay with my 6 pairs of xs panties, when the guy in front of me in line, a fairly well-dressed guy in his early 20s, stood staring at me.  He was transfixed.

"Your eyes are soooooooo blue.... They are incredible.  Joe... Joe... LOOK at her eyes - aren't they the most beautiful eyes you've ever seen?"  His buddy waiting at the end of the cash looked at me and began to stare as well.

"Wow.  They are amazing."

I was beginning to blush - I mean sure, my eyes are fairly blue and occasionally, if I've eaten too much wasabi, they'll even go turquoise, but really, this was more than I've ever gotten from strange young men in a check-out line.  They were totally hitting on me.  I felt good.  I felt like I was having a MILF moment, it was a great day...  until I realized these two young men were most assuredly stoned.

"Joe, her eyes.... her eyes...  Miss..."

And he had just called me "Miss." Bless his little heart.

They were completely stoned and the objects of their collective stoneated fixation were my eyes.  I moved my head from side to side - their gaze followed - apparently I was a living, breathing, blue-eyed tennis match.  I traded a look with the cashier.  She raised her eyebrows.

"Wow," said the first dude.  "What are you doing here?"

"I'm buying underwear."

They both blushed.  I don't know what they were thinking before, but I had a sneaking suspicion that it now involved my nether regions.

"For my daughter.  I'm buying underwear for my daughter."

They looked so confused.  I wanted to pat them on their little heads and tell them it was going to be alright.

As they left, these stoned dudes kept looking back.  I smiled and waved.  They shyly waved back.  It's the little things in life that can make a gal's day brighter.

i DESPISE summer!

WARNING: There is adult language in this post

 

Just shoot me now.  Please.

I know, I know... I know that I'm not supposed to.  After a long winter and meteorologically weird spring, I know that I'm supposed to be SO happy that heat has come to Canada... but for me, summer in Southern Ontario sucks the BIG ONE, BIG TIME.  Summer sucks King Kong's massive dick and the Blob's sweaty balls.  It sucks Godzilla's gigantic gonads and Pulgasari's prodigious prick.  It sucks Crocosaurus's collasal chubby!  It sucks  Mothra's massive meat stick!  Summer SUCKS!!!

Honestly, I would rather have -45 °C with the windchill than a humidex of over 27 °C. You know why?  Because you can dress for the cold.  You cannot dress for the heat.  Once you're naked, short of flaying the skin from your body, you can't get any more naked.  How many times must I powder my inner thighs so that they don't stick together?!?  HOW MANY?!?  'Cause I am not, nor have I ever been a gal who has a 'thigh gap.'  And who are these sick pukes who are hyping the 'thigh gap' as something to achieve?  I want to find those people and drown them in a pool of cellulite.

I have heat rash on top of my heat rash.  You cannot feel sexy when you have heat rash on your ass.  David will kiss me before bed, trying to get my motor running...  I look at him like he has suggested that we roll in barbed wire and then have a salt water bath.

I start sweating IMMEDIATELY after getting out of the shower.  I have to dry off AFTER drying off... Several times.  Humidity is an oppressive bitch!

I have fantasies about snowstorms or a cold snap in the fall - that is what I want.  It has only been 3 days of hot so far this summer.  I'm doomed.  No wait!  If I hide in the basement and we use only the BBQ to cook, and I exist on Diazepam I might be able to survive.  I might make it through to September.  Or.... OR... I could just spend the entire summer at the movies.  Now there's a way to problem solve.  I wonder if I could sneak in a sleeping bag.  Wish me luck.

Pocket-Sized Bombshell

My friend is a bombshell.  When I'm with her, it's like hanging out with Marilyn Monroe.   A shorter, more shapely Marilyn Monroe.  She is the flame to every male moth within her orbit.  Has been ever since high school.  Most definitely she is gorgeous, that's part of it, but she has something MORE.  Something intangible.  I don't know if it is her pheromones or her complete disdain for the males of our species in general, but every time I'm with her I feel I need to document the experience for a psychology journal.  It's something to see.

Marilyn Monroe photographed by Milton Greene

 Picture, if you will... We sit at a table, minding our own business.  Almost immediately, any straight male within arms' length puts his shoulders back, sits up straighter, sucks in his gut.  They start talking a little louder so that they can maybe get her attention.  Then other dudes at tables a little bit further away and those sitting at the bar fall into her wake.   I'm not saying that she's a landlocked Charybdis, but it is kind of like watching a whirlpool or black hole suck things into it.  And she's just sitting there...  Not noticing the men salivating at her.

Honestly? I think that it really is because she could care less.  She has no interest in those guys and that, well that added to her ridiculous sexpot, bombshell beauty is what does it.  I could be naked doing the Charleston and I swear to God not one man would notice me. And I'm a redhead with D-cups.  She could totally do mass-hypnosis with this power.  If I could figure out a way we could make money off this super power - I could be her agent and we'd be rich!  Until then, I will just watch and document - it must be worthy of a phenomenon being named after it at the very least.