This video could cure depression.

I freely admit that I'm jumping, gleefully I might add, onto the viral bandwagon here.  Yesterday I discovered Ylvis:

After the initial "what the fuck...?" during the first verse, I got it.  I got that Ylvis are possibly the most brilliant and surreal musical comedy peformers - IN THE GALAXY.  (Or they might just have better financing than the others.)  I knew I was right when I shared it with David and we turned to each other and said "Rissa HAS to see this."  By now, I'm sure she has memorized all the lyrics and will be dancing it at school today.  This video could cure depression.  It needs to be on speed load on the tablet at the psychologist's / psychiatrist's office. 

And right now?  When the world outside our North American sphere seems to be on the brink of war, again, where children are being murdered and women are being raped, I desperately search for ways to keep the panic at bay.  So I'm stock piling things that allow me, even for 3 minutes and 35 seconds at a time, to ignore the state of the world.  So I give you these.  These comic geniuses who will bring you joy.

 Flight of the Conchords,

The Smothers Brothers

 The Arrogant Worms 

Moxy Fruvous

and I get intellectually (and truth be told, a little bit physically) wet, for Tim Minchin.

How about you?  What do you distract yourself with when today's news makes you want to head to a bunker and die?

SUPER SPINATUS!!!

Or at least that's what I thought the physiotherapist said it was.  It's actually SuPRAspinatus.  Supra - Latin for above and Spinatus from the Latin 'spina' which means thorn - which really has nothing to do with the spine, other than the vertabrae to which the muscle attaches look kind of spiny I guess, but that's only if you're looking at the actual bones of the spine - which begs the question, were those Romans looking at peoples' spines - like outside of their skin?  When did that sort of thing start happening?  Who was the first guy to think "I know, let's cut this person open and look at all their bony bits?"  Course that would have been in Latin so it would have been more like - "Scio, quis sit iste interficiam aperire et vide omnia frena suis ossea," but I guess WAY back when, when those Romans were naming things they got sort of literal.  But me? I'm sticking with SUPER SPINATUS - it makes me feel like Super Grover.

Your SUPER SPINATUS is the top muscle in your rotator cuff.  Mine is angry. It got pissed off about a month ago and apparently, when one continues to use said muscle, it'll say FUCK YOU and just decide to stop working.  What's truly sad is that I didn't even really injure it doing anything.  I felt a wee twinge one night doing some pushups.  And it's not like I decided one night Hey!  I know!  I'm going to do 100 pushups and completely fuck up my body! after having not attempted them in decades.  That's not what happened.  I worked up to it - you know, gradual-like.  I went the girly pushup route for a while - then I did half and half - then I was doing 10 full-on pushups every night before bed.  Whereupon, one night, I had a small twinge and then a few nights later that twinge became more aggressively ouchy. Now I'm going to have to lie and invent some shit and say that I fell dramatically or did it bungy jumping - I can't say that my body can't handle 10 measly pushups.  I was so proud of those pushups.  What has happened to my body that doing 10 freaking pushups can put me out of commission?

So here's where I started to fuck up a bit.  Once the pain started, I didn't really stop using the arm. The twinges started and I just figured that I'd move through it.  I will admit that was an error on my part.  I was lifting things and holding things and high-fiving things and by the time I got to my physiotherapy appointment yesterday, my shoulder was an achy mass of irritated muscle - even when it was hanging limply by my side.

Then, when you're recounting your behaviours over the past couple of weeks to the physiotherapist it becomes clear that you've been an idiot.  And not just 'cause you can see the look of disappointment on the physiotherapist's face, but because you realize, in your own brain, that you're a complete moron and that your body does not bounce back the way it used to when you were younger.  And everything that they tell you makes complete sense and would be the recommendation that you'd give to your friend the next time that they injure their SUPER SPINATUS.  So now, as I hold my elbows into my body as I'm typing and thrust my shoulders back to improve my posture every time the tape pulls (the tape that the physiotherapist has placed on my back to remind me to sit up straight) I know that it is my own stupidity that will have me visiting the physiotherapist twice a week for the next couple of months. 

One good thing to come out of this adventure is that I get to be stoned for awhile, you know, until the swelling goes down.  Like right now?  I'm totally stoned on Aleve.  The good thing - strike that - the GREAT thing about having my particular body chemistry is that naproxen can make me loopy.  So can 1/2 a glass of wine.  Mix 'em together and you've got a really happy Heather Bunny.  But don't. Seriously.  Drugs and alcohol don't mix kids.  Even better?  I don't have to do exercises yet.  I LOVE this physiotherapist. I have damaged myself so much that it's probably going to take a week or two to take the swelling down.  I'm sure that after that, when I've gotten to know Jeremy really well over the next few months I'll be cursing him when I eventually have to do exercises, but for now?  I just get to lie on the table and let him ultrasound me.  Yeah, that's right.  I'm getting ultrasounded.  And while he's ultrasounding my shoulder I know he's thinking Man, for someone who is 45 her shoulder is freaking hot.

Elbow Licker

"BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAAAAA!"

Rissa was laughing... maniacally... behind my back.  We were waiting for our luggage to be pulled from the storage room so that we could all pile into the van and head back home from our girls' dance weekend in Toronto.

"What are you doing?"

"I just totally licked your elbow and you didn't notice!"

"You did not."

"I DID!!!"

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"No way."  I turned away only to have her dissolve into cackle once more.

"BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!!!"

"You didn't just..."

"I did SO just...  BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!!!"

Thing is?  When Rissa starts laughing like that?  Those belly laughs?  It's hard not to join in.  I didn't know if she was lying or not, but man she was having fun on whatever crazy train she was riding, so I too, climbed on board. We were laughing so hard that the desk clerks started looking like they might ask us to vacate the lobby. We moved out into the valet parking area before the concierge picked up the phone to call the cops. As I was waiting to help load our luggage into the van, Rissa was again pitched into the throes of lunacy.

"I licked THAT elbow and then I licked THAT one right after - and you totally didn't feel it!!  BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAA!!!"

By the time we recounted her elbow licking rampage to David, Rissa had surreptitiously licked my elbow 7 times.  There might have been a slightly cool feeling upon my funny bone, but not once did I catch her actually doing it.

So of course, in bed, I had to try it with David.  But just thinking about it gave me the giggles.

"Don't even try it," he said.

I was laughing so hard by this time that I was snorting.  "I won't.  I won't."  I tried to calm myself with deep cleansing breaths.  "Besides, you'd be all prepared for it, so it wouldn't work."

"That's exactly right," he said, eyes half closed, one arm under his head.  "I think that Rissa is making this up anyway."  His elbow was out there... in the open... right there... inches away from me...

I held my breath, my eyes laser beams boring into his closed lids.

"This is just one of those things where an urban legend..."

"BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!!!!"

"You didn't!"

"I totally DID!!  And it was awesome!"

We did have a stern conversation with Rissa before she left for school yesterday - letting her know that we didn't want to receive any phone calls from the Principal's office when she started licking strangers' elbows.

"Mummy.  Please.  I would only lick the elbows of people I know.  Stranger licking is just gross."

Where did the time go?

For all you parents dropping off your children (of all ages) at school this week...  an excerpt from More Work Than a Puppy (or what your mother never told you about procreation).  I was told by the mother of a university-aged daughter that I'd missed an important demographic.  I added this particular monologue in 2005 with a few revisions this past spring.  Keep a tissue handy...

I’m dropping her off at university today.  And as we’re driving there I hope that I haven’t screwed up.  Have I given her the right values?  Will she make the right choices?  Will she ever need me the way she did before this day?

Home movie flashbacks fill my head.  She was so accident prone.  At two, she was riding one of those springy horses in the playground.  Giggling and smiling – until her hands slipped and her chin went down on the handle and I’m looking at her chin bone.  My two year old’s chin bone is visible, and I’ve gone to that calm maternal place where I have to be in control and make sure that she doesn’t panic—but her chin bone is showing—but I still smile and tell her everything will be okay... And as her arms encircle my neck, she doesn’t even realize that she’s bleeding. 

Then she’s 4, playing with her friend on the concrete stoop across the street.  She’s wearing a red nylon jacket with a hood, you know the ones - that have that soft white flannel inside?  She’s swinging from her knees on the metal railing and in slow motion I see her fall - on her head - on the concrete.  In the 5 seconds that it takes me to reach the other side of the street, the white flannel of the inside of her hood has turned literally blood red.  The doctor says that it it’s a cut no bigger than the tip of her baby finger.  But to me, at that moment, her brains were probably seeping out into the hood.  So I tie the strings tight around her chin to make sure that no brains fall out.

At 11 she falls through our glass table in the rec. room.  (She’s trying to jump over it after using the couch as a trampoline.)  I hear this crash from the basement and fly down the stairs even before I hear the crying. She’s lying there in the middle of transparent shrapnel – her left leg bloody from the knee down.    And as she reaches for me, she’s saying “Mummy – Mummy, I broke the table.  I’m sorry.”  She hadn’t called me Mummy since she was 6.

I look at the young woman she is now.  She’s 18.  So self-assured… and right about absolutely everything.  Everything’s black and white for her – there are no Fifty Shades of Grey for her.

Have I told her everything she needs to face the world?  

“DON'T DO DRUGS!”  

She looks at me.  

“I mean, don’t do the bad drugs.  Organic is okay. Stick to organic... Don’t do acid! Oh God, do they even DO acid now?  Is it Ecstasy now?  DON'T DO THAT!! ...  Pot’s fine – it’s great with sex... OH!! USE CONDOMS! – I know you’re on the pill, but use condoms – PROMISE ME YOU'LL USE CONDOMS!  ... And act crazy on the bus if you’re riding late at night.  If you act crazy on the bus, people will stay away.” 

We pull up at her dorm.  She had the option to go to Trent, but she wanted Queens.  What the hell has Queens got that Trent doesn’t?  Besides all the good stuff?  The reputation stuff.  Everyone knows that a reputation can be totally wrong.  Reputations are like rumors.  Who started this one? Queens isn’t so great.  It’s 2 hours and 8 minutes away according to the Google Maps.  What if something happens to her?  It’ll take me 2 hours and 8 minutes to get to her!! 

If she had gone to Trent, she could have lived at home.  She’d be getting free food with me.  I’d make sure that she was eating balanced meals.   I would do her laundry.  I’d even fold it and everything!  She’s going to be living in a dorm.  With other kids, and I don’t know these kids.  These kids will be a bad influence.  They’ll lead her into stuff.  Bad stuff.  If she stays at a dorm, her life will go to hell.  She’ll hang out with the wrong crowd.  What if they turn out to be small-minded and prejudiced?  We always took her into Toronto once a month so that she could see that there was more to life than small-town white-bread people.  We had dinner in Little India, we went to Chinatown.  She knew that there were different colours of skin.  Does Kingston have a Chinatown?  Or is it going to be one Chinese restaurant that serves bad fried rice?

I’m trying so hard to be the cool Mom who can let her go and trust that she’ll make the right choices.  I wonder if she knows I’m faking it.  I’ve been crying myself to sleep for the last six nights. 

God, what am I thinking?  She’s not dumb.  She’s never been prone to peer pressure.  What, she’s going to stop using her brain now?  Now that she’s been accepted to Queens with a 93 average?  If I were a sane, rational mother I would know that she’s going to be fine.  I would know that.  But she’s my baby.  I breastfed her and snuggled her and scared away the dragons from under her bed. 

How did 18 years go by so quickly?  In my head she’s still 5 years old, ringing the doorbell, wearing her little yellow duck boots - completely covered in mud - and she’s holding a bouquet of dandelions that she picked especially for me. 

I feel like I’m leaving that 5 year old on the curb with her suitcase in hand – not this woman who is ready to start her own life.  She’s following her own yellow brick road, and I’m Glinda the Good Witch... just pointing her in the right direction.  And she’ll be okay.  She smiles as she waves to me.  I start to drive before I cry.  As I’m pulling away, she runs up to my window and knocks on the glass.  I roll it down and she gives me a great big, wet, sloppy kiss.  And then she says:  “Don’t worry Mom, I’ve got my ruby slippers.”

© Heather Jopling 2005, 2013

Creation of a Psychopath - just add dead squirrel

There were two girls, seven, maybe eight years old, on the sidewalk a couple of blocks ahead of us.  They had a stick.  They were moving something onto the road with the stick.  Having walked down the road earlier that day, I knew that the thing they were moving into the road was a dead squirrel.  See, I remembered, because I'd thought to myself upon viewing it earlier, I wish I had a bag.  I could pick the poor bugger up and take it home and bury it.  But I hadn't had a bag, so I'd left it there, dead on the side of the road.

But these little girls, done up in barrettes and braids, clad in colourful dresses, were moving this dead squirrel further onto the road.  David and I shared a look.  I ain't gonna lie.  A shudder literally went down my spine.  Why would two little girls push a dead squirrel further onto the road?  Most little girls wouldn't go near a dead animal even with a stick.  I found myself thinking, If that was two little boys, they'd be doing it to watch the squirrel get flattened by oncoming traffic.  I caught myself short.  As if a lack of empathy is a predominantly male trait.  Like only boys burn ants when they get a hold of a magnifying glass.  As if the male of the species has the market cornered on the steps to psychopathy.

The Grady Twins from Kubrick's The Shining

So we watched from a distance, as these two giggling girls pushed the squirrel carcass out and then hid behind their privacy fence.  As we passed, we could hear them tittering.  We really should have stopped.  We really should have asked what they were doing.  We really should have called them on it.  Or at least drawn the attention of any proximal adults. 

"Hey!  You!  Yeah, YOU, with the stick in your hand and pink barrettes in your hair!  What are you doing to that squirrel?"

"What squirrel?"

"The dead one, the one that we just watched you push onto the road."

Shrug

This is when I should have crouched down and got eye to eye with those girls and said,  "Being cruel to animals, even dead ones, isn't cool kids.  It means that you lack empathy.  And when you lack empathy, your bladder weakens and soon, very soon, you'll not only wet the bed, but you'll pee your pants while you're awake and everyone at school will point and laugh at you and say, 'Those are the girls who did bad things to animals.'  You will be labeled as 'troubled' and spend all your time in the Principal's office and never make more than minimum wage.  Nobody will ever date you and when you are old and ill, your wheelchair will be left on the shoulder of the 401 with a sign on it that says 'HIT ME.' "

That would have only been too much if I'd actually said it out loud.  Instead, I kept my mouth shut and will have to live with the fact that Sally and Susie Psycho will continue to roam the streets.

Our daughter has gone blind!

We didn't realize for the longest time.  She was masking it so well.  She was coping.  But it became apparent this morning that my daughter has... she has... dishwasher blindness.  (sob)  Comparable to night blindness, dishwasher blindness tends to hit at a much younger age.

Early signs of dishwasher blindness seem innocuous.  Dinner ware might be left in unexpected places: the living room end tables, the backyard.  The sufferer will become adept at depositing dirty dishes in the sink. You may find the dishwasher open but not loaded; conversely, a dishwasher full of clean dishes will not be unloaded.

When a full complement of breakfast dishes are left neatly stacked on the countertop above the dishwasher, it is too late.  There is little hope for the sufferer - true dishwasher blindness will be diagnosed at this point.  Strident physical therapy can help the process, but it will be a long road to recovery.  Months, even years of conditioning may be required to help the sufferer strengthen the muscles it takes to open the dishwasher and the coordination to load dishes and cutlery into their respective places within the appliance.

You might think that you are alone, that your child or spouse is unique.  Talking about the affliction, sharing one's own experience is the only way the general populace can be educated.  Dishwasher blindness can happen to anyone at any point in their life.  Recognize the signs before its too late.

How to stop the onslaught of dementia

Wait!  It'll come to me!

Some people do Sudoku.  For others it's crosswords.  Still others, brain teasers.  All to keep their minds sharp - build their reserves against dementia.  My Dad, whose own father succumbed to Alzheimer's, has a vested interest in keeping his brain in gear.  He has a simple plan.  It all centres around The Witches of Eastwick.

If ever he's doubting his mental state, my Dad uses this movie.  It's his litmus test.  He figures that if he can name the three female stars of the movie, that he's still good to go, that the dementia hasn't set in yet. Which means, if he's having a bad brain day where words aren't coming and certain things remain on the tip of his cranium, he'll name the stars: Cher, Michelle Pfeiffer and Susan Sarandon.  I guess for him, Jack Nicholson wasn't all that important to the story.  Or maybe Jack's too easy to remember - I mean, after all, he is JACK. Of the three actresses, Susan Sarandon seems to trip him up, but he always remembers, which is a good sign.

There are days when I too, worry if I will suffer from Alzheimer's, as my grandfather did.  He wasn't diagnosed until his 70s, so the fear of early onset isn't as terrifying for me.  'Course I'm in my mid 40s - my Dad will soon be 70, he jokes about keeping the wheels turning upstairs, but I know there's a part of him that's not joking so much as keeping an eye out.

When bouts of aphasia (speechlessness - sure, I can remember that word) hit me, I panic.  I use words a lot, I LOVE words - the more obscure the better.  When they don't come to me, I can feel a tide of helplessness in my gut.  I used to be able to remember everything - stupid trivial things - now when I'm searching for the word 'teapot,' most of me thinks it's just naturally being distracted from an over-scheduled life, but there is that tiny, niggling part that whispers, "What if?" 

Forgetting your keys is a normal brain fart.  Forgetting what keys DO?  Then you maybe should worry.  Me?  I put my keys in the same place in my purse every time.  I'm not giving the keys a headstart.

Where were your peeps on this one Miley?

Yes, you're the #1 trending thing today, and you're probably going to be getting all sorts of requests for late-night TV, so it'll blind you for a bit to how extensive all this really was.    And you'll even say that you won't lurk online and read stuff about yourself sweetie, but you will.   And a lot of it'll be nasty and hurtful and you will be devastated.

I think that there needs to be a support group.  And not just for Miley, but for ALL the child stars out there who want to bridge that gap between childhood and adult stardom but pull an Icarus and fly way too freaking close to the sun.   There are precious few who make the leap without crashing and burning.  For every Christina and Dakota who seem to have their heads on straight, there are many more Lindsays and Amandas who, I'm only guessing, are surrounded by 'yes' people and no one who actually keeps them grounded in reality.  Where are the mentors?  Where's Drew Barrymore - guiding you into the light?  I think that Meryl Streep, Jodie Foster, Tilda Swinton and Glenn Close should each get six to ten girls teetering on the edge between successful teen star and starlet given to public displays of drunken crazy and make sure they don't tank.

Miley, now might be the time to reach out to those people who tell you the truth and have your back. Your real friends and family - not the ones who smile and nod and tell you you're cool and that every idea you have is brilliant. You're only 20 years old.  You've got a whole lot more living and learning to do.  I'd love for you to still be around so I can watch you do it.

Why did I have to beat the dead horse?

WARNING: This is about MENSTRUATION and shit - well not actually shit, really just other female-centric issues that go hand in uterus with menstruation.  There will be blood. I might also talk about vaginas.

from quickmeme.com

Why couldn't I have just let it fade away quietly?  After months and months of erratic menstruation, a la Jackson Pollock, I booked time with an OBGYN to suss out the situation, you know, maybe help with the massive blood loss and 'knock you out for the first 36 hours' pain.  Of course while waiting to get in to see this specialist, there was a 12 week period where I didn't have my period.     Nothing.  Nada.  Zilch.  That's when I should have let it be.  I should have cancelled the appointment.  I should have let Mother Nature take the reins.

But I didn't, and now I've pissed her off.  Mother Nature is getting her own back.  "Think you can outwit ME?  Chemically try to rule ME?  See how you like THIS!"  The OBGYN put me on pills.  Not THE PILL, but pills that I was supposed to take for the first 15 days of the month, to regulate things, take the edge off the crazy-ass pain and weird-ass menstruation symptoms.

The last three months (though I might not be bleeding quite as much), have given me new byproducts of the feminine mystique heretofore unexperienced in all my 45 years.   I used to cramp for the first 36 hours.  Now the cramping lasts 72 hours.  I developed back pain which had me convinced that, despite David having been fixed, I might actually be pregnant.  And clots?  Let's not go there. 

See?  You mess with Mother Nature and she'll fuck you over.  What was I thinking?  This last month?  I've now been having my period for the last 10 days - twice as long as a regular period, with none of the perks.  Although really what ARE the perks that come of having your period?  Unless you have a pregnancy scare - then the opening of those menstrual flood gates is something you kiss the freaking ground for.

"THANK GOD!!   OH THANK SWEET JESUS! 
I will never be so stupid again!!"

And yet, here I was, defying my body's natural inclination to stop the bleeding.  I knew I shouldn't have.  I knew, deep down, that I should have gone with my gut.  My Mom had her last period when she was 48 - what if my lady shop was closing down for business even earlier?  I mean, I'm so freaking sensitive to every other physical thing that I go through in life.  What if, by messing with my body chemistry, my period decides to stick around until I'm 60, just to spite me?  What if, by fucking with my body chemistry, I don't ever want sex again?  What if I suffer from dry Vagina the rest of my life because I decided to fuck over Mother Nature?

Wait.  Wait.  I need to calm down.   Breathe Heather.  Just breathe.  This will not be a problem.  That's totally what they invented Vagisil Intimate Lubricant for.  Sahara Vagina averted.

Is this a healthy hookup?

I have to ask.  When someone you love suddenly becomes completely enamoured with an... uh... we'll call it an appliance... to the exclusion of their other toys... Should you do something about it?  Or should you just let them have their moment and hope that they'll eventually move on and not hurt themselves in the mean time?

Minuit has hooked up with our Universal Remote.  We tried to take it away from her, but she... uh... she couldn't be dissuaded.  She actually growled and bared her teeth.  I'm hoping that it's just a phase.   Could be worse I guess.  She could be huffing catnip.

 

It's wrong to threaten the Canada Revenue Agency. Right?

So you know how, when you have to go through Customs, even if you aren't smuggling anything you get all freaked out and start to wonder, "Hey!  Maybe I DO have a condom full of cocaine in my lower intestinal tract"?   Every single time we get a letter from the Canada Revenue Agency I lose my freaking mind.

David gets a letter.  I think that I actually read it before I start freaking out.  On first glance it seems like we haven't paid the crazy-ass thousands of dollars in taxes David owed last year.   And seeing as I have a distinct memory of making an online payment of crazy-ass thousands of dollars, I panic a titch.  We don't have that extra cash in our savings any more.  I know that because I'd paid bills the other day and saw how little money we had in our accounts.  My chest starts to hurt.

"What's going on?" David asks as he sees me hyperventilating as I go through his tax statements.

"I can't find it!  I CAN'T FIND IT!!!"

"Can't find what?"

"The... the... the RECEIPT!!  The... proof!!  The," I claw for the word in my brain.  "CONFIRMATION!!!  I CAN'T FIND THE CONFIRMATION!  WE'RE GOING TO GO TO JAIL!!!

"What are you talking...?"

"HAH!"  I brandish my online  confirmation.  "We DID!  We DID pay it!  See here?"  I wave the confirmation in David's face.  "See that?  We paid them ALL this money!  I'm going to call them and give them a piece of...."  I stop talking when I look at the piece of paper from the CRA again.

"What?"  What is it?"

"I think this is for this coming year.  It says 2013.  This is an Instalment Reminder.  Is Instalment actually spelled this way?  Do Americans spell it with two 'l's??

"Focus."

"We're supposed to pay instalments because our taxes were so high last year.  Oh God!  It says that we need to pay $6,325.00 on September 15th!!  We don't have $6,325.00!  We just gave all our credit money to the roofers!  Where are we going to find...?"  I roll my shoulders back, trying to relieve the pressure in my chest.  This is not angina, this is NOT angina.

I  frantically read over the sheet again. Your options for paying your tax by instalments are:

1.  two payments of fucking ridiculous amounts of money that we have calculated for you.
2.  3/4 of 2012, blah-de-fucking-blah, makes no fucking sense plus CPP and EI on this date and then 1/4 on this date.
3.  Even more incomprehensible tax jargon that means we might have to sell our only daughter into slavery to meet the September 15th deadline. 

Three options, all of which are a lot of money and had a first payment of September 15th.  I try to catch my breath.  I look at the document again, I must be missing something.  I start again - looking from the very top of the document.

There it is at the top-top part at the top of the document - the one in big-ass bold letters:

This instalment reminder was issued to you because you MAY BE required to pay income tax by instalments in 2013.

Do you have to pay tax by instalments in 2013? 
If your net tax owing for 2013 will be $3,000 or less ($1,800 or less if you live in Quebec), you DO NOT have to pay tax by instalments in 2013, and you can disregard this reminder.

"You can disregard this reminder !!!  WE CAN DISREGARD THIS REMINDER!!!"  I slump to the floor.  "Those tax bastards!!  Those Canada Revenue Agency tax bastards!  They couldn't put this information in a box and bold it ALL?  Why wasn't the DO NOT in bold?!?  Don't they know that I spent my entire day in front of the freaking computer and my eyes don't work when I get home and finally look at personal stuff?  Don't they KNOW that??   They seem to KNOW everything else!  They made me freak out!!  Who SENDS a letter like this?"

"So we don't have to pay anything?"

"We don't have to pay ANYTHING!!  ANYTHING!!!  You know why?"  My eyes stab at David accusingly.  "You know WHY???  Because you will have not been paid for ANY self-employed work last year and all your teaching pay will have been taxed super high and the CRA will then have to give US money!"  I panted after my rant.  "Oh crap!  They're going to AUDIT us, aren't they?  They are going to fucking audit us because you had to pay taxes in the last two years because of the self-employed work... No wait!!  WAIT!!  Maybe they won't, because your employment income won't really be that much different... it'll...  it'll...  be okay... it might... just be... okay..."

"Are you done now?"

"I think so."

"We're going out for dinner tonight.  I'm going to buy you alcohol."

Why your Nana shouldn't be behind the wheel.

We lived next door to a lady named Kay.  She was in her 80s.  One of those Europeans who, although she'd been in Canada for 50 years, still had her accent - just like my own Granny.  Kay was effusive in welcoming us to the neighbourhood.  We had to learn to lock our door during the day because she'd would occasionally walk in with a coffee cake when I'd be trying to put Rissa down for a nap.

One day, Kay backed out of her driveway in her massive Crown Victoria - she basically did a reverse U-Turn as she left her driveway, rolling over the curb onto our yard, hitting the For Sale sign on our lawn, then running into our tree.  She then put the car into drive and left.  Shortly after that, she asked David to help her get into the garage.  The door to her garage was locked, you see.

"Where are your keys?" David asked.  "Did you lock them in the garage?"

"No, no, they are here," she said, handing them to him.  "But there isn't a place to put the key."

There were no keys for the door.   It was one of those doors where you have to push the handle in and turn it to lock and then do the opposite to unlock it.  Problem was, Kay didn't remember how it worked.

"It won't work!"  She tried turning the handle this way and that.  "You see?!?"

"Why do you need to get into the garage Kay?" David asked.

"I need to drive to the grocery store."

"How about I drive you to the grocery store?" David suggested.  David palmed her car keys, sneaking them into his pocket.  After driving her to the grocery store, he called her doctor.

"Thank God," said the receptionist.  "We were hoping that someone would stop her from driving."

Apparently everyone in the doctor's office knew that she wasn't safe to drive, but no one thought to do anything about it.  Makes sense I guess.  It should really be left to her neighbour to suffer the brunt of her outrage when said neighbour wouldn't return her car keys to her.  We were in suburbia - not having a car for her was like having an arm cut off.  David, however, wasn't willing to pass that sentence on to unsuspecting pedestrians.

One friend's grandfather, who had terrible cataracts, still continued to drive - using his wife in the passenger seat as his navigator.  Driving behind a tractor one day, he pulled out to pass and narrowly missed being hit by an oncoming car.  He hadn't seen it.  Nor had his wife in the passenger seat.  You see, her view had been blocked by the tractor.

My own grandfather suffered from Alzheimer's, most days he couldn't recognize me, but my Gran took him out every day driving, "so he wouldn't forget how."

I stopped by the pharmacy the other day.  The parking lot to this particular shopping area is crap.  There's a gas station that empties into a driving lane as well as an entrance off the major road.  There was an older lady pulling away from the gas station.  She was focused on me, as I approached the entrance to the parking lot.  She didn't see the car coming on her right towards the exit.  The guy in the other car honked his horn in warning - several times. She kept driving.  She looked accusingly at me as the guy leaned on his horn, now desperate to get her attention.  If she were younger, I have a sneaking suspicion that she'd have flipped me the bird for honking at her.

I pulled up to the store.   Two of the plate glass windows at the front had been decimated.  Construction fencing had been erected around the damaged area.  I figured some local hooligans had maybe gotten bored and did the damage.  I went in to mail my packages at the Canada Post Counter - people were still sweeping up.  There were a couple of official looking guys in suits who were on their I-Phones "We need this covered Stan.  Don't tell me tomorrow, I need it today!"  As I got to the postal counter, packages in hand, I asked the gal manning the cash how her day was.

"Well, I'm better now," she said.

"That's good to hear."  I rummaged for my wallet, preparing to pay.

"It's not every day that someone decides to make their own drive-thru in a store where there isn't a drive-thru."

"Pardon?"

"A lady drove right through the window."

So, not hooligans then.  An older lady in her SUV was the culprit.  Panicked when she initially pulled onto the curb, she stepped on the gas, was propelled forward and then smashed through the windows.  No one was in front of those particular windows at the time, a fact which I'm sure will cheer her right up.

I'm not saying that ALL elderly people shouldn't be driving.  There are plenty out there who are exemplary drivers. What I'm saying is that there are some Grans, Opas, Mimaws, Dedas, Grampies and Nonnas out there, who, right now?  When they are behind the wheel?  Shouldn't be.  They're like James freaking Bond!  They have been awarded '00' status.

Sure, in Ontario, after the age of 80, you have to take a written test, and have your eyes tested, but that doesn't necessarily mean that you have to pass a practical driving test.  A study from Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh and the AAA Foundation for Traffic Safety suggests  that drivers over the age of 85 have quadruple the fatal car accidents of male teenaged drivers.  Some senior driving advocates, say that this statistic is unrealistic because seniors are more frail than other drivers and do not recover from car accidents in the same way that younger victims do.

29% of the Canadian population are baby boomers.  My Dad is 69 and my Mom is 68 years old.  They, like a lot of parents, retired to their dream home.  They live 5 km from their nearest town and are dependent upon their vehicle for shopping, socializing and medical appointments.  They speak of down-sizing, not for driving reasons, but due to property maintenance.  My Mom's already scoped out the senior condos that are a walkable distance to the golf course.  She's forward thinking. 

David's Dad lives in a similar location, far removed from transit.   Thankfully, David's Mom is in a city centre that has a transit system, and they're located about a 25 minute walk from the closest mall and grocery store.  Within the last few years, all three sets of parents have altered their driving habits.  They won't drive in snowy weather and dislike driving at night.

No one likes having the difficult conversations.  "Hey Mom, what do you think about us taking away all your independence?"   But you know what?  We need to start talking about this stuff now, before there is a problem. The local pharmacy incident is going to be my conversation starter.  My parents are very practical, but I know that it'd be an incredible blow to my Dad if he could no longer drive.  This is one bullet that I don't want to bite, but I'm going to have to.  Maybe I'll never notice anything with their driving.  Maybe they'll never become those seniors who can't make a left turn.  I hope to God that's the case.  I hope to God that they give my parents a citation for perfect driving when they're in their 90s.  But if that not the case?  I have to have the balls to call them on it.

Free boobs with page views...

Yes, folks, you too may purchase your very own boob juggling set! 
Includes 3 breasts for the true juggling experience!*

I think that I may have acquired a new audience for my blog.  Teenaged boys.  Any post that I have with the word boobs in the title ends up with ridiculously more page views.  My post, I hope that the Bloggess didn't notice my extra boobs, which I posted over a year ago, gets page views every single day.  Which makes me think that there are people out there searching for "extra boobs" and zip boom - they're getting sent to that post.  Although, when I went searching for "extra boobs," there were a lot of links to porn and not a one (at least in the first 10 pages of results) to my blog.  I really gotta get working on my ranking.

It did get me thinking that perhaps I myself am a little pre-occupied with boobs. When I went looking, I realized that 16 of my posts deal directly with boobs.  (Taming your tatas, Don't Show anyone your boobs online, My boobs aren't supposed to be there - the list goes on.) And then I was wondering if maybe I was having psychotic breaks and it was me who was doing all the boob page views.  Maybe I was spending all my time reading that post.  Although when I did a subsequent search using the word "sex" - I have 48 posts that focus on that.  I bet if I charted when I wrote those posts that they'd directly relate to whether or not I'm ovulating and getting ready for my bouts of naked wrestling with David.  That made me think I should see what other words came up.  Top words are 'Mom' (appearing in 82 posts), 'cat' (121 posts), 'Rissa' (155 posts), and 'David' (a whopping 169 posts). I'm not going to share with my Mom that she's trending below cats.

*By the by - it took me a while to find a boob juggling set that had three boobs.  Most, came in a package with two.  Unless you're doing it one-handed that ain't juggling folks.  

And that's how you displace a rib

I used to be really bendy when I was younger.  (Steady folks.) Comes of being a gymnast.  I was incredibly flexible.  (STEADY...)  Which is great when most of what you do in sport is bend in half backwards, run, skip and bounce.  Trouble is, all those extra-stretchy ligaments?  After years and years of stretching?  They get loose.  Think 1950s streewalker plied with cigarettes and mint juleps kind of loose.

I can pop a rib out of place by, say, putting on a dress.  The other day I did pop a rib putting on a dress.  I dragged it on over my head, stretched to get my right arm through... and pop!  Stabbing pain through my chest wall.  Which each frickin' breath.  My body is so screwed that I can pop a rib by tilting to the side when I blow dry my hair.

And once that rib's out?  Hard to pop it back in all by yourself.  I can't just whack myself against the wall like Detective Riggs, hoping that everything will be all hunky dory.

I pop those ribs and I'm making a call to my chiropractor who then yells at me for not coming in for a tune up sooner.  "You need to MAINTAIN!  You have to MAINTAIN your spine! How many times do I have to say this to you?!?"

But really?  Who has the time or the money to do maintenance on themselves?  I don't have extra cash just there, waiting to be spent on me.  After I separated my shoulder several years ago, I was supposed to have massages once a month to ensure I didn't seize up. I was really good about going... for the first year and a half.  Okay, the first year... Okay, six months...  Then I started to slack off.  I think I'm lucky now, if I get a professional massage once a year.  I go into the clinic and my massage therapist 'tsk-tsk's me.  She shakes her head and gives me the same eyes that disappointed European wives give to their spouses. 

What kind of disposable income does a gal need for spine and rib maintenance?  I'm sure that I must be able to scrape together the extra dough to be able to tweak and tune.  I don't need to be  rich.  I just need that little bit of extra cash at the end of the month.  You know... after we've paid the remaining six grand on our new roof, chipped away at our credit line debt and Visa bill, saved for our retirement and Rissa's education, shifted funds for our house insurance, bought food, paid for Rissa's dance lessons, utilities and ensured that David's salary dip (because of union and membership fees etc.) doesn't bankrupt us come January when we lose $250 every two weeks.  Oh yeah, I'm sure that after ALL that, there'll be more than enough so that I can get a... massage.  Nice to have these 1st World problems, no?  This is all they're thinking about in Egypt right now.

The Right way to do Laundry

David and I are doing laundry at my parents' place. It’s such a lovely day that we decide that we’re going to hang the clothes on the line to dry. After about 5 mintues, from within the house, I hear shrieks from my female relatives.  My mother, Granny, Gran and Aunt Bea are all in the kitchen.  My Mother’s voice assaults me from across the deck.

“Heather!  What are you doing?” my mother yells to me.

“I’m hanging up the laundry.”

“You don’t hang up laundry that way!”

“Pardon me?”

“You don’t hang up laundry that way!”

“What way?”

“One sock, one towel, one t-shirt…”

“What?”

“You have to hang things up in groups.”

“What?”

“You have to hang things up in groups.  All the t-shirts, all the socks, all the underwear…”

“Who says?”

“It’s just the way it’s done!”

“Why?”

“Because it makes a nicer looking clothes line.”

“What, are the laundry police going to come out and give us a ticket?”

“Don’t you get smart!”

“All I want to know is who decided that this was the way laundry has to be dried?   I mean, does it dry faster your way?”

“You are not too old for the wooden spoon young lady!”

My mother still threatens me with the wooden spoon.  If I swear in the house, she’ll threaten.  If I’m too sarcastic, she’ll threaten.  If I make a face …  you name it, if I’m 'sassy,' she’ll bring out the spoon.  The thing is – I don’t actually remember her ever using the wooden spoon. I just remember hearing about the spoon.

Let me give you an idea about the type of person my Mom is.  She is the classiest woman I know, even when she’s leg wrestling.  My husband challenged her to a match and she kicked his ass!  She’s one of my best friends.  Not everyone has the privilege of having a friendship with their mother.  I do. Not only do I get along with her – I actually choose to spend time with her, especially when she’s singing obnoxiously at the top of her voice “I am the CHAMPION!  I AM THE CHAMPION!!”  And then doing her half-assed attempt at a fist pump.   

"Whu-whu-whu-whu-whu!"

And you know, no matter how old I am, no matter how much knowledge I have, my Mother will always know more than I do.  Because she did it all first.  And I’ll always turn to her and ask for her advice.  Sure, the details of the advice may not be exactly what I want to hear, but I know that regardless of generation gaps and differences of opinion, a lot of these things that she tells me?  Are exactly what I need to hear.   And what’s scary?  It really does make a nicer looking clothes line.

*This piece is an excerpt from my show How to Leave Adolescence at 30 written in 1999.  As I stumbled about in our laundry room this morning - it seemed appropriate.