This brassiere will self-destruct in 10 seconds...

Lifting the straps wasn't helping. Why not?   Lifting the straps always helps.  The band just seems to... What the?  I'm in the office bathroom.  I lift my shirt and present my back to the mirror.  The whole left side of the brassiere band is... torn??  How much pressure are my tatas putting on this brassiere?

I'd noticed the week before that the double-sided fusing tape that sticks the front and the back of the band together was a little more visible - that it was hanging around under my armpits - looking a little worse for the wear, but it's a freaking brassiere!  Sure they get dingy, the cups and band might get loose, under wire might start to poke you, but this brassiere was BROKEN.

It must be these newfangled, wide, comfort bands that they're throwing on all these brassieres.  Well, all the brassieres for the women in their 40s, who want to mask the back pudge and armpit pudge, while still lifting the girls to parallel from the ground.  Nice soft, extra wide, malleable, elastic-y, tuck in your extra flesh, comfort bands that are all the afore-mentioned adjectives, but really don't lift and separate all that much.

In all my 46 years on this planet, I have never had a brassiere break on me before. For the price you're shelling out for the really well-made ones, I feel that brassieres are supposed to last... indefinitely. 

Okay, I just Googled it.  It is recommended that you replace your bra every 6-9 months.  HAH!  Show of hands... who replaces their brassiere every 6-9 months? I just asked around the office - apparently they do.  But I work in an office of mature, well-put together women.  Crap, now I have to research.  Apparently I should have 3-5 everyday bras in rotation and I should never wash them in the washing machine or put them in the dryer.  Who has the time to hand-wash delicates??  I don't put mine in the dryer, but they do go in the washing machine in a delicates bag.  Also, word to the wise, if you have a larger cup-size, your bra won't last as long either.  Excellent, I am now being punished for having a D cup.

So let's just do the math.  3-5 bras, at an average cost of $45 each (not the Victoria's Secret 2 for 1 deals, but not the chichi, made in France, $175 ones either) ... So... $180 (ish) every 6-9 months?  That's $360 a year. PLUS TAX.  That's $406 a year.  Really?  What woman does that?  I now have to start a savings account to pay for brassieres.  My $1.11 a day for support account.

I look into my bra drawer and I have bras that are,  Sweet Jesus, there are some in there that are over 20 years old.  That can't be right.  Yes, many of them are the 10-seconds-to-naked bras - for show and nothing more, it's probably due to their age that these items look better when one is horizontal rather than vertical.

"Hi there sailor... ready to come in to pier?" 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2... and... NAKED.

My Mom just bought me a fancy schmancy strapless bra this past summer. The support it offers is EPIC.  I can jog in this strapless brassiere, not one word of a lie.  Mind you, its massive molded cups make me look like a G cup instead of a D.  Rissa saw it and decided to wear one cup as a helmet.  Not a wonder that when I'm wearing this bra under men will almost have a brain aneurysm trying to meet my gaze.

I can't put it off any longer.  I have to go bra shopping this weekend.  I'm years behind in bra purchases.  I'll simply block off three to five hours on Saturday and try on everything in my size range.  My change room will be a revolving door of decolletage.  I can do this.  I can invest this time in better breast support.  It could be much worse, I could need a new swimsuit.

Do you type to your Grandma with those fingers?

I've got a job for all the socially-conscious hacktivists out there.  Join together you cyber Robin Hoods - join forces and find the anonymous trolls who spread their bile throughout the Interwebs.  Identify these trolls, procure evidence of their gross violations of common civility and then give transcripts of those violations to the trolls' Grandmothers.

Public shaming on a social network scale doesn't work for these folks - they get off on flaming things up in the comments sections of newspapers, blogs and twitter feeds.  You need to bring in the big guns for these people.

Post something mean to another kid at school?  Get a call from your Nonna.

Post something racist? Dinner across the table from you Grandma.

Joke about gay-bashing or slut-shaming?  Wake up to your Granny at your door.

Threaten to rape, assault, murder someone...?  Not only will the Cyber Robin Hoods give the transcripts to the police, but they'll tell your Mee-Maw. 

Reading "SHAME ON YOU!!!" from the masses won't faze them, but I can bet that having the person whose good opinion means the most to them in the world - be it a parent, grandparent, favourite aunt, uncle,  mentor?  Having that person shame a troll?  I bet that'd stick.  I bet having to look your Nana  in the eye and explain to her why you've called someone a dirty whore and hope they were hate fucked would bring your shame to a whole different level.  Modern shame isn't working - we need Old School for this.

I thought we were past the baby gate stage...

We watch as he makes a beeline for the living room.  "Bodhi??  Where you going, buddy?"  He doesn't even acknowledge us.  He takes his 100 lb bulk and climbs up into the Lazy Boy, squeezing his hairiness between the arms of the chair - legs splayed - head over the side.

"Bodhi.  Dude.  You don't belong on there.  DOWN."

His eyebrows droop before he slides dejectedly off the Lazy Boy.  He immediately moves towards the sofa.  "No.  Bodhi, NO."  Head down, he moves past us towards the kitchen/family area.  I beat him to the punch, going the other way around the stairs and place a kitchen chair on its side on top of the family room sofa.  "Dude.  Seriously.  No couches.  No.  You shed too much."

He sighs, cocks his head to one side, and gives us the eyes... you know the ones... the "how could you do this to me, aren't I the most adorable thing you've ever seen in your life, why are you punishing me when I am so new to your home?" eyes.

"Stand your ground," I warn David.  "Don't let him play you.  We have to be a united front."

"I'm thinking this is a losing battle."

"Everything is going to smell of dog."

"Well, he is, in fact... a dog."

"Yes, but the furniture isn't.  Find the baby gate."

Thankfully, we've just emptied the storage locker and have yet to move its contents into our... I was going to call it a basement, but crawlspace/cellar is more accurate - it has an egress door and a dirt/gravel floor.  Two baby gates lean against the wall of the living room - we haven't had to use them in years.  We wrestle with the old-fashioned wooden gate.

The doorways in our new house aren't the same width as our old house.  The original markings that we'd left with Sharpie on the gate are now completely wrong.  It takes us about 6 tries before we get the geometry right.  The gate now blocks the path to the living room.  Bodhi stares at the gate and huffs at us.

"Sorry dude."

He walks away.  He goes over to his food bowl and stands there... crestfallen.  He glances sidelong at us, using his peripherals - I guess he's trying to figure out if we're going to steal his food now too.  He sighs again and slowly sinks to the floor, lying with his head on the rim of his food bowl, but not eating.  He just lies there.  His eyes cut to us and then back to the bowl.  He takes one piece of kibble and begins to chew.  As he finishes the piece, he glances over at us again.  He's holding his breath.  We're holding ours. 

David raises his eyebrows questioningly.  I shrug.  He motions over to Bodhi with his chin.  I shrug again.

"Have you ever seen a dog do this?" he whispers.

"No," I whisper back. "I think maybe his old cat used to stalk him while he was eating."

"Ahhhhh..."

We sit on the bottom stair, silently watching as Bodhi eats with the daintiness of a 18th century debutante.  He finishes and looks back at us... wags his tail.

A week and a half in... I'm totally going to cave.  I might as well start shopping now for possible quilts we can use to cover the family room sofa. 

p.s.  There IS a dog bed, bought - BRAND NEW - the day he arrived.  It sits on the floor beside the family room sofa - his disinterest is EPIC.

I really miss my right arm.

Ironing left-handed is akin to learning to ride a unicycle, but I'm pretty sure this hobble-shouldered old dog can learn new tricks.  Cursing and taking double the time to actually get clothes wrinkle-free - but 20 minutes later, the shirt's relatively smooth.  TAH-DAAAAH!!!!  Until the iron falls, spilling water everywhere, and I reach for it with my dominant arm.  What are the synonyms for pain?  Imagine them all now... all of them...   Each one emanating from my supremely fucked right shoulder socket....

I want to take the iron, and throw it through our living room window.  Except I can't, because I can't throw with my good arm, and if I attempt with my left arm, I'll probably hit myself in the head by accident.  I want to light the now re-wrinkled shirt on fire and throw it through that broken window.  I want to dance in the flames of the burning shirt and howl into the night sky.  I don't, but I really, really want to.  My shoulder and right bicep scream with me.

"Breathe Heather.  Just breathe."  I pour myself a Scotch - my best Scotch, the 12 year old Scotch - over ice.  I tumble the ice in the glass take deep breaths. 

I will not desolve into tears.  I will not desolve into tears.  I will not desolve into tears..."  I pledge, as tears now roll down my cheeks.

David glances up from his computer.  He hasn't heard anything because he works with headphones on.  "What happened?"

"Iron," I mumble around the rim of my old-fashioned glass. Right elbow, tucked into my side, right hand pushing the glass up to my lips as my left arm holds the shoulder down, in case it decides to do anything else stupid.

"Pardon?"

I point to the offending small appliance with my chin.  "Iron.  Falling.  Catching.  Apparently right-handedness is instinctive."

"Oh baby...  Can I get you something?"  He smooths the tears from my cheeks.

"Yeah. Can you please place me in a coma for the next 18 months?"

"?!?"

"A coma.  Just put me in a coma until the shoulder unfreezes."

'Cause that's what'll happen.  A shoulder can decide to freeze, all on its own, and it can decide to unfreeze - all on its own.  Regardless of treatment, drugs, physio.  One morning a year and a half from now, I might just wake up and be fine.  Until then - bumping that arm, attempting to use it to pick shit up off the floor, absent-mindedly putting weight on it, can send the closest thing to labour pain that I've experienced since giving birth.  I'm not exaggerating.  I bumped that fucker while performing onstage and almost passed out.  For last half hour of the play, I counted the seconds to get to drugs.  My shoulder, as it freezes, is actually worse since I started physio.  That's counter-intuitive.

Apparently, my body provides the perfect storm for weird-ass shit like this.  Frozen shoulder affects only 2-3% of the population.  Between peri-menopause and Hashimodo's Disease,  I am rocking those percentages.  I am a statistical GLADIATOR!  I should totally be buying those Princess Margaret lottery tickets! I have a 98% chance of winning! 

Help! My crock pot's making me flatulent!

The potatoes in the chicken corn chowder should have been cooked.  They'd been in the crock pot for 8 hours.  Instead they were crunchy.  After 8 hours in the crock pot - they were still raw, crunchy potatoes.  Tried to nuke the chicken corn chowder, but cooking everything together just made the creamy parts curdle.  I was well on my way to pitching a fit when David took the slotted spoon - which does, in fact, catch the potato (that's for you musical theatre geeks out there) - and gathered up all the spuds and cooked them separately. We left the crock pot on to cook the remaining chowder - another 5 hours on high until bed time... and found the potatoes crunchy.  I know this because every time the chowder was tested for 'doneness,' I'd eaten a potato.

As I went up to bed, my stomach was already beginning to rumble.  Oh dear.  This was going to be bad.  Very bad.  Raw potatoes bad.

"Keep your distance," I warned David.

"What do you mean?"

"I ingested raw potatoes tonight - this could get ugly."

"I don't under...  OH MY GOD!  Is that YOU?!?"

"I warned you.  I warned you.  Stay away, it's for your own safety!"

"How can you still be alive?  Are you sure that you're not a rotting corpse?"

"Raw potatoes baby.  It's the crock pot's fault, I'm telling you.  Stay on your side of the room, you might be safe over there."

As I was getting ready for bed, I tried my best not to defoul the air -  I even left the bedroom at one point, leaving a raw potato bomb out on the stair landing.

"How long are you going to be out there?" asked David.

"As long as it takes for the smell not to follow me when I walk back in.  You should go to sleep without me."

The next morning, after a mere 22 hours, the remaining potatoes had finally cooked.  Yes, we'd suspected that the element in the crock pot was malfunctioning in the past - but it had never really been and issue.  It had never been a danger to the family.  The time had come.  The time had come for a new crock pot.  David's world view was forever changed. 

Why this old thing...?

Nothing like a barium swallow to get you in the mood.

"Shirt, pants, bra... OFF.  Leave only your panties."  The nurse hands me two hospital gowns.  "One on the front, one on the back."  She turns to leave.  "Oh... you can keep your socks on."

"What about my boots?" I joke.   I point to my yellow rain boots.

The nurse looks at me like I'm nuts.  "Probably best not to."

Thank God for striped knee socks...  I'll still be able to make a fashion statement.

One gown on the back.  No problem...  Just tie it up at the neck here and... we're missing one of the ties at the waist.  Let's try the other gown...  untie the two ties and then re- tie it up at the neck and... where's the other frickin' tie?  Ahhhh... it's more like a house dress kind of closure.  I get it.  The other one was probably the same.  Which pale blue, washed-a-billion-times gown would be more pleasing to the eye as the 'front'?  There's a pale blue one with birds on it or an even paler blue one with teddy bears. Fuck it - my ass is covered, I'm going out there.   I grab my purse and exit the curtained cubicle.

"Here are some crystals that you need to swallow with water."  The nurse hands me a medicine cup with what looks to be Liquid Plumber crystals in it.  "It's to give you gas so that the images come out clearer when you swallow the barium.  As soon as the water hits them, they start to work - so you need to swallow it all down right away or it'll come out your nose.  After you've swallowed, don't burp."

I swallow my container of pop rocks with the little bit of water provided.   Don't burp?  It's all I can think about now.  Bloating... bloating... bloating...  stomach extending.

"The radiologist will be with you in a moment - you stand up here."  She indicates a wee dolly platform attached to a movable table.

"Do they have this ride at Wonderland?" I ask.

"Here is your barium.  Hold it in your left hand.  Right hand here." The nurse adjusts the handhold for me. 

The doctor comes breezing in.  Early 40s,  blond, well-coiffed, wearing fetching trousers and... be still my heart... great shoes... He is also Australian.  Well hello sailor...  My morning is looking up.  I smile winsomely at him.

"Good morning Heather.  Any chance that you're pregnant?"

Well, that steals a girl's thunder.  "Nope.  I'm good."

Apparently my bloating must really be working because he gets the nurse to double check.  Awesome.

"Now go ahead and swallow the barium Heather.  Gulp it down as fast as you can."

I chug down the liquid chalk.  Then wipe my mouth.

"Don't worry about that," the nurse says.  "We'll give you a cloth afterwards."

Then the table lowers back and I'm asked to roll around... I snort, thinking of Terri Garr in Young Frankenstein.

"Keep rolling Heather - on your back and then side and then stomach.  That's it.  Keep rolling."

"Do I get a treat after this?"

kunnnnn-clunk...  kunnnnn-clunk...  kunnnnn-clunk...  The machine goes off, documenting my esophagus and stomach for posterity.

"Hope you're getting my good side," I say flirtatiously, with a saucy wink.

"You're doing great, Heather... doing great... Everything's looking wonderful.  Don't breathe, don't breathe, don't breath... and... BREATHE.  You're doing great.  It's all looking good, come on over and I'll show you what I'm seeing here."

The table comes to vertical once more and I step off the dolly platform with incredible grace before sashaying over to the doctor, throwing him my best smile.

"No ulcer, no tumors - you're looking great here.  You have what looks to be inflammation in your esophagus - probably acid reflux.  Do you take a lot of anti-inflammatories?"

"I been taking a lot for my shoulder."

"You might want to give those a rest and just manage with acetaminophen for now."

Handsome and caring... how lovely.

"Thank you so much.  I'm so relieved."

"You're most welcome." He shakes my hand.  "Glad I could give you good news."  He gives me a bright smile which I return enthusiastically.  This was a great way to start my day.

As I'm watching him finish up, the nurse hands me a wet cloth.  "This is for your mouth - you can wipe away the barium contrast..." She motions to pretty much my entire lower face.

Awesome.  I wipe away with the cloth - thinking I'll have gotten it all.  I turn to the nurse.  She shakes her head, points to my chin.

"Enjoy your day," says the Doc as he breezes from the room.

"You as well..." I manage, madly scrubbing at my chalky chin.

And this isn't even auto-correct...

I laugh with everyone else when they post texts from their Mom peppered with profanity as the auto-correct takes hold of the device.  I'm sure that if my Mom were texting me, her messages would be equally hilarious.

Typing too fast in Scrabble chat gives almost the same effect.