Flat cats...

"Blergh."

"You okay love?" asks David solicitously.

"Heat.  Blergh. Sticky. Thighs... chafing..."

"But you're not even moving - your thighs can't be chafing if you're not moving."

"You'd think that would be the case, wouldn't you?  It's because I'm just thinking of moving.  My thighs, they know that I'm thinking of moving, and they've already begun to chafe."  I turn my head to the side and murmur despondently, "Je déteste l'été..."

I am one of very few Canadians who do not relish the dog-days of summer. I will choose winter over summer.  My seasonal picks run thus: spring and autumn in an equal tie for first place, then winter, then near-spring, the-day-before-autumn, near-winter and finally, after every other possible combination... summer. Give me a day of 23 degrees Celsius with zero humidity and I'm ecstatic. 30 with a Humidex of 39 and I'm threatening to murder inanimate objects.

"You fucking viscous oak dining chair!  Let go of the back of my thighs!  I will chop you into pieces and decimate you with the molten heat from beneath my breasts!!"

David purchases floor fans to move conserved cooler air from the window air conditioners around.  I hog the revolving tower fan in the living room as we watch episodes of IZombie.  It is a delightful show of skirt-raising as I  hunker down to air out my hot-enough-to-double-as-a-panini-press nether regions.

The poor cats.  I've never seen them so flat.  They ooze into the floor.  

Flat Minuit

Flat Steve

The cats are so uncomfortable that they aren't even asking for food.  And this is from beasts who routinely beg for their meals at least an hour in advance of feeding  time.  It appears that they, like me, become nauseated by the extreme heat.  Pro-side?  This heat-induced nausea has put us all on a meal apathy diet.  How do you feel about dinner?  Meh...

As a gal who freely admits to getting truly nasty during a heatwave, I'm also the first to say that  ingenuity is a heat-hater's best friend.  I have it down to a science.  The window air conditioner runs at full blast for the 15 minutes before bed, then the floor fan, at level 3, oscillates.  A cool shower, an ice pack wrapped around my neck and accompanying Gravol for the nausea, et voilà!  Not only can sleep be attained, it can be enjoyed.  And tomorrow night, if I can fight against the urge to slip into a heat-exhaustion, near-coma-post-work nap - I'll actually be able to sleep when I hit the sheets.  Bright side?  I managed to pen this post at 2:00 a.m.

The secret to reducing crows feet...

You wake up in the morning and do the zombie shuffle to the bathroom.  The light goes on; your ill-prepared eyes close - too much light, too soon.  Your pasty mouth makes a smasking sound as you open and close it, you wonder what crawled in to die overnight.  You stick out your tongue, making sure that it isn't coated with a layer of scoopable kitty litter.  Your eyes finally focus as you lean in towards the mirror and that's when you see them.  The creases on the side of your face - the ones by your eyes - the... crow's feet.  It's not just dermatographia from the pillow case either.

The crow's feet have epic prominence this morning and you look like you've gone 10 rounds.  You poke the skin around your left eye - the puffiest eye...  It wasn't this puffy last night when you went to bed.  Did you have an allergic reaction to something?  Did one of the cats cold-cock you in your sleep?  There's no better word for it, your face looks... SMOOSHED.   poke - poke - poke...  It's as if all the skin has been pushed into a Shar Pei version of its regular self...

And that's when it hits you. Your face has been smooshed. You slept your face into its present state.  The weight of your head, as you slept on your side, has distorted your aging facial skin.

Let's face it, when a woman looks at those crow's feet on her face, its the rare bird who says: "Hey look at the aged beauty and character upon my visage!"  Age and character just doesn't seem to fly for the feminine set - it's not accepted and revered the way it is on the male form.

You've passed 40, you've tried your fair share of eye creams.  You've probably spent some cool pocket change on different varieties before you read the Internet articles telling you that once the lines are there, you're pretty much fucked.  Unless you're wealthy and can go the surgical or Botox maintenance route - those crow's feet are here to stay.  By the age of 47, you don't even really mind the crow's feet - it's the puffy smooshed bird nest by association that makes you die a little inside.

Fear not!  You don't need the bullshit (probably not literally made from bullshit) hundred dollar face creams.  You don't need Botox.  In a woman's fight to lessen the appearance of crow's feet and their accompanying bird nest, there is a simple solution.  One that we can all implement - starting today.  Are you ready?

REDEFINE THE TERMINOLOGY.  

How about this?  How about we call them what they actually are?  SMILE LINES.  I have SMILE lines. I've spent 47 years smiling.  That's almost half a century of smiling.  I can't and shouldn't want to erase these lines.  They're the marks of a life full of fucking good moments...  Of moments that made me smile,  giggle, snort, titter and guffaw with laughter.

The poofy smooshed face?  I've got something for that.

SLEEP ON YOUR BACK.

Let gravity be your friend.  Buy yourself a kick-ass, neck-supporting, Obus form pillow and convince that thin middle-aged facial skin, which I hope is chock full of smile lines, to slide earward overnight.  You'll thank me in the morning.

The Ballad of Menstrual Woman...

"I'm going to have a quick shower!" I say, heading up the stairs.

"O....kay..." This from David in the kitchen, his tone oddly sarcastic.

"Pardon?" I say - ducking down to catch his eye.

"Nothing," he shrugs before smiling falsely.

The temperature in the room has dropped about 15 degrees.

"Is something going on?" I ask.

"No, no, not at all..." He stands there belligerently.

I take a step further up the stairs, but then step back down.  "Are you sure nothing's going on?"

He heaves a deep, frustrated sigh.  "It's just that you don't really have quick showers," he says aggressively. "And we have to eat in 15 minutes."

My spirit crushed, I sit down on the stairs.  "Pardon?  I can have a quick shower..."

With a slightly patronizing eye-roll  he says,  "Yes, sure... yeah you can."

"I CAN have a quick shower!!"

"Uh-huh."  He's standing there, chest puffed out - looking ready to do a Krump battle.

"I CAN.  I'm going upstairs right now and you'll just see how quick!"

"O...kay..." His hands up now in a Whoa... Whoa... who's the crazy lady? gesture.

"Guys," says Rissa.  "This is not important."

"It IS!" I say stomping up the stairs.

I shoulder my way into the bathroom - my clothes off in mili-seconds.  The water is thrown on, I don't even adjust the temperature.  "See if I can't have a quick shower..."  I rinse my scalp and then slather on the conditioner, grabbing the back scrubber and smearing it with Grapefruit body wash.  Scrub... scrub... scrub... arms done!  Armpits done!  Legs done!  Hoo-ha (gently) done!  Feet done!  Hair, rinsed.  Water off.  Out.  Towel on.  Moisturizer on.  Towel off. Leave-in conditioner in.  Drag my fingers through my hair.  Grab the mousse and apply palmfuls of product to my curls.  Scrunch.  Scrunch again.  I speed-walk to the bedroom.  I grab my bathrobe, tying it as I come downstairs.

David and Rissa are still making Kraft dinner.  I sit triumphantly on the sofa.  I muffle my "HAH!" as best I can.  I glance pointedly at David.  Showed him.  Now would be the time to sit in regal silence.

"TOLD YOU!"

"Yes you did.  I am sorry for doubting you."

He has apologized.  I should accept it gracefully.  "If you want to talk time wasted in the bathroom, how about the 45 minutes that you can spend?  Just  sitting, over top of your own pooh!"

At this moment, with the word "pooh' ringing through my ears, I realize that I might not be as rational as I'd felt just 6.5 minutes before. 

"It is possible," I say (quietly).  "That I am a titch hormonal.  I thought I was done being hormonal for the week, but I was incorrect.  The floodgates have opened once more and I am now attributing paranoid judgmental adjectives to everyone's speech patterns."  I do an internal check - my rage has dissipated.  "I think I'm safe again."

Good thing I don't work at NASA...

"Would you mind grabbing my phone from the Jeep?" asks my friend Meaghan, as she's filling out some paperwork at the permits desk.

"Sure, no problem," I say.  I head out to the parking lot towards her white Jeep SUV.  Try the doors.  Locked.  Run back inside.

"Keys.  I'll need the keys," I say.

"Oh, I thought I'd left it open...  Here you go..." She hands me the keys.

"Back in a sec," I say, running outside again. I click the unlock button.  Nothing.  The locks don't budge.  The lights don't flash, although there is a very muted beep-beep sound.  I click it again.  Zip. Nada. Nothing.  The passenger door doesn't even have a key entry on its side. I walk around to the driver's side.  The key doesn't fit.  What the?  I click the unlock button once more - again a muted beep-beep - but no lock movement.  Maybe the batteries are low?  I shake the key fob and re-click.  Nothing.   I try the door lock again.   She must have given me the wrong keys.  This has to be the the key for her other car...

As I start back into the office, I take another glance down at the key.  No, this IS the Jeep key.  It actually has the word JEEP on it.  Weird.  I look back over my shoulder.  That's when I notice the other Jeep.  Or rather I notice THE Jeep.  The vehicle that I've been trying to break into is in fact a Chrysler Aspen - a Chrysler Aspen that is almost twice the size of Meaghan's white Jeep and is light cream in colour, not white.    Even better?  I now have to walk past the two car drivers waiting in their vehicles, parked in between the monster Chrysler and Meaghan's actual Jeep.  I nonchalantly walk towards the Jeep and click the key fob - strangely enough,  the correct vehicle brightly flashes its lights wildly in welcome and loudly beep-beeps at me.  "WELL, HELLO STRANGER - FINALLY COMING MY WAY?"

I'm snorting with laughter as I go back inside.

"What?" asks Meaghan.

"Okay, so you know how I came back in for the keys?"

"Yeah...?

"Well, in my defense - the other SUV wasn't there when we parked."

She looks out the door.  "Are you kidding me?  That car is twice the size of mine, way more luxurious and not even white!"

"I think I might have temporary size, quality and colour blindness."

Rainy Day Parade

The rain is teeming down on this cool June day.  You could take a picture out our back window and place it next to the word 'torrential.'  In less than 2 hours I would be walking down the main street of a small Ontario town in early Canada Day Celebrations. 

"I so wish that I had a yellow slicker and a Nor'wester hat for this parade," I say.

"Like badminton?" asks David.

"What does badminton have to do with a Nor'Wester hat or parades?"

"Not like badminton... like PADDINGTON..."

My intellect has yet to kick in... The syllables make no sense to me.  I look completely confused.

"PADDINGTON?  THE BEAR...?"

"Oh, Paddington.  That makes so much more sense.  Wait, isn't he in a blue coat with a red hat?  Although come to think of it, if they were waterproof, I'd totally wear them.Oooooh... Do you think I could go on Amazon and source that outfit?"

"Like Butt Hunting?" asks Rissa.  She's late to the party.

"Butt hunting?"  David shakes his head.  "That sounds nothing like badminton or Paddington.  Are you guys both high right now?"

I just love my butterfly...

Leafing through Woman's World while waiting at the vet's office...   Ad after ad after ad for drugs/products that spend the last 1/16th of their page on the small print.

WARNING: may cause dizziness, nausea, itchiness, dry mouth, sneezing, anxiety, twitching, muscle aches, depression, seizures, anal leakage, loss of feeling in your left foot, temporary blindness, limping, complete blindness, dismemberment, tap-dancing, Judy Garland impersonations, ennui, giddiness, and death...

But then I come upon this ad:

On first glance, I was sure it must be for a new vibrator or sexual technique.  People of a certain generation will remember the L.A. Law episode from 1986 entitled The Venus Butterfly which alluded to a sexual technique that drove women wild.  Sex toys were actually created capitalizing on the buzz from this episode.  So, when  someone says:

...next to a picture of a butterfly-ish thing, I'm thinking that a lot of women (who also just happen to be the target demographic for this company), are going to be thinking the same thing I was. 
 
WHOO HOO!!!  SEX TOY!!!  and/or
WHOO-HOO!!! SEXUAL TECHNIQUE!!!

How disappointing to then read on, only to discover...

Two thoughts quickly ran through my mind:

1. 'Butterfly,' for me, was now going to be associated with accidental bowel leakage and
2. How many people suffer from this, that the company advertises products in Woman's World?

Maybe, just maybe, the ad execs who designed this are doing exactly what I think they're doing, which is attaching a positive 1980s memory to a discomforting condition in the hopes of selling more of their products to their target consumers.  I pee when I'm ill-prepared for a sneeze, cough or jump - Poise pads should be aimed at me.  And really, this ain't that much different.  In decades past, nothing 'icky' was advertised either in print or televised media.  In my Mom's generation, there were no maxi-pad or tampon ads.  Adult diapers hit the aisles only relatively recently.  Thank God that we can now talk about this sort of thing...  I'm still a little miffed that they stole the word 'butterfly' from me, but I'm willing to give that up if it can make dealing with ABL a little easier for those who experience it.

p.s.
In the writing of this post, I might have gotten distracted when I tried to locate Ann's reaction to Stuart utilization of the Venus Butterfly technique.  I found the L.A. Law Episode where Stuart first found out about it (Season 1, Episode 10 about 24:50 minutes in for the lead up), but not Ann's reaction.  I might possibly have spent a bit of time... uh...  hours searching.  If anyone knows exactly where it falls, please let me know.

It's pronounced VEG-GETTI...

"AS SEEN ON TV!!  IT'S THE VAGGETTI!!!"

David does a double take.  "Beg your pardon?"

"Oh, wait...  That's VEG-getti."

"And that's better because...?"

"You stick vegetables in and out comes 'pasta'."

"Vegetable pasta?"  David shudders.

"I was going to mock this mercilessly, but looking at it now, I would totally use it.  Plus then we'd have a Veggetti.  Think of the dinner conversations and tittering mis-pronounciations."

"Very true."

...later...

"What is that?" asks Rissa.

"It's a Veggetti..."

"It's a what now??"

"See?" I turn to David brandishing the packaging.  "Told you."  I turn back to Rissa. "It makes vegetable pasta.  Stick a zuccini in and out comes zucchini pasta!"  I demonstrate.  "Oooh, these blades are super sharp!"

"Yeah, don't be shoving your fingers in the VEGGETTI..." smirks David.

Rissa gives an epic eye roll.  "You two are 9 year old boys."

The Really Useful Pit Group

"Don't shave them DRY!!" I gasp, horrified.

"Ah, but my pits are youthful, Mama..."

"Oh, I get it, and my pits are elderly, decrepit, crabby pits?"

She shrugs and shaves her own dry armpits.

"You've got to watch out for them though," I say.  "The hair in the elderly, decrepit, crabby pits is so strong that it can yank the blades from the very razor that tries to shaves them."

"You guys are so weird," says David, from the kitchen below us.

"Not weird," I respond.  "Evolving.  My elderly, decrepit, crabby pits have abilities."

The conversation has brought David upstairs.  "They have abilities?  Like...?"

"Retracting armpit hair!!!  That can catch criminals!!"

"Like Spider Man?"  He then mimes armpit hair shooting out from his own pits.

"Exactly like Spider Man except it's coming from armpits and is, in fact, armpit hair."

"Not the most popular super hero," says David.

"I don't know," says Rissa.  "I think we should make it a web series."

"HAH!"

"I gotta go to work," says David, heading back downstairs. 

"I need some breakfast," I say following him.  "This is today's blog post.  Rissa, how did you describe your pits?"

"Youthful."

"Youthful?" David questions.  "I thought you said USEFUL!  Which made complete sense when you then had retractable armpit hair."

"If they were useful, wouldn't they be opening doors for people?"

"Yes, and they'd fold your laundry..."

"The Really Useful Pit Group??"*

"YES!!  And they would sing..."  He opens his pits and throws a melodic scale my way. LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-AAAAA!!!!"

"Other families don't do this," says Rissa.

*For all you musical theatre buffs out there.  You're welcome.

GO Train Puppet Show

"Would you like to see a puppet show?" asks Rissa as we travel into Toronto on the GO Train. 

"YES!"  David and I encourage enthusiastically.

Rissa clears her throat and reaches into her bag.

"TA-DAH!!!"  She flourishes two Compak Tampons in their wrappers - one purple, one yellow.  Holding them vertical, she presents them to us.

"Hi Susan."

"Hi Jane."

(They have British accents.)

"Fancy a shop at the supermarket?"

"Ooooh... I'd love to go to the supermarket...  I'm craving yams."

"I, too, am craving yams..."

There is accompanying music as Susan and Jane trot off to the supermarket  "doo-dee-doo-dee-doo-dee-doo-dee-doo..."

"There are 12 episodes in the series," explains Rissa. 

"Of course there are."

RETURN TRIP...

"May we seet the next episode of the puppet show?"

"It's now a one-woman show.  Only Susan survived our trip into Toronto."

She pulls out the yellow tampon.

"Jane!  Jane!  WHY?!?"

Surefire cure for the blues...

Feeling down?  In a funk?   Is your life a great honking pile of crap?    In your circle of friends/family you must know one child in pre-ballet class.  It's spring.  It's the end of recreational classes.  Find a dance recital.  I can guarantee that upon viewing a pre-ballet recital, your mood will improve.

There will be raindrops skipping across the stage, probably with another raindrop carrying a lemon yellow umbrella.  Little ballerinas/ballerinos in tutus/shorts will plié from their positions on 'this is where you stand' cut out stars on the stage floor. There will be fairies and baby birds and kittens and flower pots and ladybugs and they will all have toddler pot-bellies covered in varying shades of sequins/flowers/stars/spandex/lace/tulle.  They won't know the dance, but they won't care.  (You won't care.)  They'll all be jumping up and down.  They'll laugh - (you'll laugh) - so thrilled to feel the heat of the stage lights - they'll look over at their little friends and see how those stage lights make sequined pot bellies sparkle.  Some will get tired and need to sit down on those cut out stars on the floor.  They will have to be wrangled by the dance teachers.  They will all leave the stage in a little train, holding onto each other's shoulders, waving with one hand to their relatives/friends.  Your chest will feel lighter, your cheeks will lift, happy freaking tears may come to your eyes.  (Unless you're soulless, and then, my friend, you've got bigger problems.)

Go ahead.  Test it out.  Dissolve that cynicism.  And then, when another day sucks, close your eyes and remember back to those kids - to the joy you felt - just watching their joy.  And next spring, when the memory of that has faded... find another recital.  Recharge that feeling.  Carry it around with you, like a picture in your wallet.  When the world throws you a crap sandwich - press "PLAY"...  We need more joy.  Come over to the light side... we have sequins.

Shower Wall of the Beast...

"You're telling me this is normal?"  David asks.

"Pardon?"  I'm combing through my conditioned hair with my finger tips in the shower.  I glance over at him.  His face is the perfect combination of horror/disgust/concern.  He directs my gaze to the shower wall, where I have been depositing my 'extra' hair.

I shrug.  "Relatively," I say.  "Since I've had the cold, I probably haven't been brushing it as much - I haven't washed it in a couple of days..."  I shrug again.

"You're sure you're not secretly undergoing chemotherapy?"    This seems to be a real possibility for him.

"Yes, I'm sure.  I promise that I would let you know.  It's an ebb and flow thing.  I'm not bald, so hair must also be growing."

"Okay."  He doesn't look convinced.

"You can feel for yourself if you like..." I offer.

He looks even more horrified, the thought of handfuls of my hair left in his grasp makes his eyes go wide.

"Think of it this way... now we have a fun shower game: Translate the Hairoglyphics!!"

"You're not normal."

"Well no, but in fairness, you knew that when you married me."

9-905-0-ASS?
symbol for Cancer - grass - ass?
P9 Gras-o-i-a-y-s?

 

 

In the sink after combing through again

What is NOT in my shower drain.

Good News! I'm IMMORTAL!!!

WARNING: Feminine issues discussed


"Are you FREAKING kidding me?"

"What? What is it?"  David looks into the bathroom from the hallway.  He finds me on the toilet, scowling downward.  I shoot him a look.

"Seriously?" he asks.  "Didn't you just...?"

"Yes.  Yes I DID just... It's been almost two full weeks - off and on."

"What's that phrase?  Never trust something that bleeds for 5 days but doesn't....?" He quickly changes tacks before I stab him with the cuticle scissors within my reach.  "Wait!   There's a bright side."

I glare at him.  "Pray, tell..."

"You've been bleeding this long and you haven't died...  I think...  Heather, I think you might be IMMORTAL!"

"HAH!"

"No seriously.  This right here?  THIS is you achieving immortality."

Doubling over with another cramp, I manage a small, yet incredibly sarcastic "Hurray." 

Sex Ed in the New Millennium

WARNING: REAL LIFE IS DISCUSSED

In 1979, my mother attended a parent council meeting in Kingston, Nova Scotia.  The topic: SEX EDUCATION.  (Gasp!)  The community was up in arms - what were they going to be teaching our kids??  If you teach kids about sex, all they'll want to do is try it for themselves!! Sex Education belongs in the home!!!

The classes at Kingston Elementary School were not mandatory. If you felt that teaching your child this information at home was better for said child, you had every right to do so.  Problem was... the kids who were being pulled from the Sex Ed classes weren't likely to be getting sex education at home.  They were given instructions to abstain and the rest was radio silence. 

Fast forward to Ontario 2015.  A new Sex Ed curriculum is in the pipeline for September of 2015.  At the beginning of May, panicky parents across Ontario were pulling their kids from school to protest the proposed fall Sex Ed curriculum.

Here's the kicker... the Sex Ed component of Ontario health classes is not mandatory.  Let me repeat that: THE SEX EDUCATION COMPONENT OF ONTARIO HEALTH CLASSES IS NOT MANDATORY.  So basically, if you don't want your kid to be educated about puberty, the concept of consent, safe sex, gender diversity, STIs, and masturbation - your kid doesn't have to.  You can opt them out.  Because why?  Because...

THE SEX EDUCATION COMPONENT OF ONTARIO HEALTH CLASSES IS NOT MANDATORY.  

By all means, pull your kids out of the classes.  If Sexual Education goes against your belief system, makes you uncomfortable - pull your kids.  Go for it.  But that's all I'll let you have.  If you protest what MY child could be learning, if you protest that kids should know that a vagina is a vagina and a penis is a penis and that STIs are bad?  I'm going to have to smack you upside the head.  When you protest discussions about consent, safe-sex (for everyone on this planet, regardless of sexual orientation),  and the fact that mutual masturbation is a viable option in place of having intercourse?  It makes me want to parade uninformed 13 year old pregnant girls in front of you.  It makes me want to force you to look full on at the physical effects of gonorrhea.  It makes me want you to listen in extreme discomfort as  kindergartners tell stories about adults who touched them IN (not on) one of their private spots because they were never told that they could say "NO" to a grown up.

Your kid DOESN'T HAVE TO TAKE THE COURSE.  But please, don't tell me that my kid shouldn't be educated because potential Sex Ed topics make you feel 'icky.'  Sex Education isn't for you.  It's for the kids who are rounding 2nd base on their way to 3rd while possibly being pressured to allow someone to slide home or having the urge to slide home themselves.  Just like you probably did.  My generation got a quick thrill from looking at a skin mag.  My daughter's?  They can find free porn on the Internet that shows six guys jerking off onto a woman's face.   And unless they're told differently, they think that this is something that 'all chicks dig.' 

Sex in 2015 ain't squeaky clean, it ain't easy and it sure as hell ain't simple.  Yes, it can be amazing when you're mature enough to deal with its emotional fall out, but without education - proper education - (not just what they hear from peers, or what they can Google on the Internet) - kids have to walk through a mine field.  I want the Sex Ed we talk about at home supported by the educational equivalent of a bomb squad to keep my daughter informed and sexually safe.  Knowing there are parents out there who don't want my daughter informed and sexually safe, scares the crap out of me.  Knowing there are parents who would rather have their children uninformed, flailing in the dark when it comes to the most basic functions of their bodies is freaking terrifying.

Sure, we might dream of a world where abstinence is choice number one, but it's 2015 - most kids with a cell phone will be sexting at some point.  The kids with the knowledge?  They generally aren't the ones who think that condoms alone will stop you from getting knocked up.  They aren't the ones who inadvertently spread chlamydia, because they don't know what it looks or feels like.   Sure, you go ahead and keep your kids out of Sex Ed, go for it... but don't you even think about telling me that my daughter shouldn't have access to that knowledge. One of my major priorities as the parent of a teenage girl is not to become a grandparent before my daughter graduates high school, so I'll take ALL the help I can get thanks.

RISSA: MASTER OF LAMPS!!!

"Who needs an eggroll??" I ask from upstairs.

"A-PRIL!  NOT EGGROLL MUMMY!!!"

"Pardon??"

"THERE WAS NO EGGROLL MENTIONED!"

"My bad."

"Speaking of eggrolls," says David.

"Nice segue..."

"Who's up for seeing a movie after school?"

"Age of Voltron?" I ask excitedly.

"ULTRON, Mummy!"

"Right ULTRON!"

"There was a Voltron, you know," says David.  "It was a cartoon I had to sneak to watch.* That and ThunderCats, and Transformers - they were all robot-type thingies... but ... BUT... WAIT!!   Wait, you know in that other movie, where all the ginormous robots had to wade into the sea to defeat the..."

"Pacific Rim?"

"Yeah, that one... Well, remember how in Pacific Rim, the robots all had to all join together to create one big... ?"

"I don't think..."

"Wait, no, they didn't come together - they were just massive - you're right!  They fought separately, but together... With VOLTRON all these different parts would connect if they had to battle something really evil.  Each one had a special robot, and they all had these lion heads, (he's very excited now) in Voltron, each individual robot - piloted by actual people - all had to come together to create a giant SWORD-WIELDING robot!!   Together they became... (he pauses for effect) VOLTRON: DEFENDER OF THE UNIVERSE!"

 Voltron 1984

"Why couldn't I have been given a name like that?" asks Rissa.  "RISSA: MASTER OF LAMPS!"

"You know, when you're all full-grown," says David.  "You can legally change your name to almost anything you want."

"REALLY?!?  So I actually could change my name to Princess Consuela Bananahammock?"  (The kid is a big Friends fan.)

It is apparent that we have opened up a whole new universe of possibility for our child. BEST. PARENTS. EVER.

"Although... Being Master of Lamps I could perfect a kick-ass power stance when I used my eyeball power to control all lamps everywhere."

"Well, obviously," I agree.

David has been utterly distracted and is now watching the openings of all three shows on YouTube.  Rissa is practicing her power stance. 

*David was not allowed to watch cartoons - except for the Smurfs. His cartoonal education continues with me.

 ThunderCats, ThunderCats, ThunderCats... HO! 1984

Transformers 1984

Spongy Mc-Wipey

"Are you done with this?" asks David as he holds up the scrubby sponge.

"I am, thanks.  If you wouldn't mind putting it away."

He looks around all confuseled.

"You don't know where it lives, do you?" I ask.

"Sure I do," he says - gesticulating wildly - a vain attempt to distract from his ignorance.

"In the cupboard there," I vaguely point to the vanity.

He reaches for the drawer...

"No, the cupboard, hon..."  And then it hits me.

"What?"  he asks.

"How long have we lived in this house?"

"Hmmmm?"

"When did we move?  Over a year ago, right?"

"Y.... es."

I raise my eybrows at him.  "You've never seen that sponge before, have you?  It's never been in your hand."

"Ummmm...""

I let out a deep cackle.  "You have never cleaned this bathroom."

"Uhhhh...  Well...  No...  I guess that I haven't..."

"Wait!  Have you EVER cleaned a bathroom?"  I think back to our last house.  "Have you actually ever cleaned a toilet?"

"Of course I have cleaned a toilet.  I've even cleaned the tub once or twice, but usually what happens is that you re-clean it after me, so we decided..."

I look at him.

"...that it was probably better if you did the bathrooms..." he trails off.

"We decided?"

"Well you do tend to re-clean something if you think it hasn't been done right," he defends.

I raise my eyebrows again.

"To be fair," he backpedals.  "You might not feel the need to re-clean something if it had been properly cleaned in the first place."

I snort.  "Is this like when you were younger and if you and your brother waited long enough to finish a chore your Mom would just lose patience and do it herself?"

"NO!  Of course not.  I just have a different skill-set around the house.  See, I am the one who FIXES the toilets.  I vacuum like nobody's business.  I hook up all our new media players..."  He looks like he's waiting for a high-five.

"Dude.  You didn't know where the sponge LIVED."

"But I do know what it's used for.."  He gives a tentative grin.

A laugh escapes me.  "Other women would not react with laughter to this situation?'

"No they probably wouldn't."

I smile.  "Other women don't blog."

From New Girl