Friday, June 28, 2013

Rissa the Brilliant

I'm okay in the brains dept.  I have my 128 IQ.  Or at least that's what every free online IQ test tells me.  So I'm smart, but not Mensa smart.  David is Mensa smart - plus some.  He's around 162.  But he can't find the ketchup in the fridge, so draw your own conclusions.

Rissa's average math mark this year was 91%.  She kicked math's ass.  I was always an A student in math, but not that kind of A.  I look at this goofy and beautiful girl and she blows my mind.  My egg and David's sperm got busy and made HER.  And I know that every parent thinks that their  child is brilliant, but I actually think that she might be.  Unless the school is lying - but really, why would they do that?  She has an 85 overall average without really applying herself.  Imagine what would happen if she actually thought to study.

So here's to her.  To my beautiful and brilliant daughter.  I could just burst I'm so proud of her.

The sweet smell of gasoline...

Just one whiff of it - always takes me back... Back to 1984.  To being 16.  To spending the summer in Nova Scotia at my grandparents' house.  To falling head over heels in love with a small town mechanic.  Rodney.  (sigh)  He worked at the garage in Bridgetown.  He wore grease-monkey overalls and at the end of the day had to scrub his hands clean from all the motor oil.  He rode a Honda 750 motorcycle.  Late at night, I would lie on my bed listening for that motorcycle. He rode that bike without a helmet, wearing a pair of jeans nothing else.  Just a glimpse of him on the bike made my heart pound.  I was infatuated.  He had green eyes.  GREEN!  He had a rockin' stache (think young Tom Selleck) and drank stubby beer, cause that's how they made them then.  Rodney was 21.

Only now, as the mother of my own teenaged daughter, do I realize why my mother, when she found out about this tryst, freaked the fuck out.  But at the time, I couldn't see what was wrong with the picture.

"MOM!  I am grown up now!  He knows that I am mature."

"He knows that you're built like brick outhouse is what he knows..."

I was so mature, so old-beyond-my-years, so.... infatuated.  God was I dumb.  Sure he liked me.  Oh yeah he did.  Today, my nearly 45 year old breasts, still have a great deal of tone and lift to them - at 16 they would have been spectacular!!  I had a helluva personality, even back then, but a smokin' hot body is like catnip to young men.  I was 16, with a kick-ass auburn perm, blue eyes and braces.  But he really liked me.  He really respected me.

Except, you know what's funny?  I think he kinda did.  'Cause when I was determined to offer myself to Rodney (in the backseat of his Duster - there's class for you), we got to the part where I should  have lost my virginity and I was willing to grit my teeth against the pain... he stopped.  In my extremely limited experience with men I thought that stopping wasn't possible.  I, as many girls my age, thought that once they got to a certain point, men couldn't stop.  Or maybe that's just what young swains tell the girls they're trying to climb on top of.  But here was Rodney - stopping.  Because he discovered I was a virgin.

"We should stop."

"No, no, I'm okay...  I'm okay..."

"We should stop."

And we did.  That night.  I guess when you have a nubile girl desperate to lose her virginity, you can only remain stoic for so long.  I mean, he wasn't a saint.

Thursday, June 27, 2013

Creeper!! Or how Rissa is prejudiced against old people.

You know Something's Gotta Give?  The movie with Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson?  We recently watched it with Rissa.  Rissa loves a good romantic comedy.

"EEEEEEEEWWWWW!  He's soooooooo old.  How can he be dating her?"  Early in the film, Jack Nicholson is dating Amanda Peet - who is less than 1/2 his age and plays Diane Keaton's daughter.

Then later... "That's just wrong.  She's too old for him!" At this point in the film, Diane Keaton is dating Keanu Reeves - almost 1/2 her age. 

"Rissa, there'll come a time when age differences like that won't matter."

"No there won't."

She got freaked out by Steve Martin dating Darryl Hannah in Roxanne - his grey hair made him look older - so she's ageist and greyist.  She got freaked out by James Garner dating Sally Field in Murphy's Romance.  Can you imagine if I showed her Funny Face

"Rissa I'm 5 years older than Daddy.  I was 28 and he was 23 when we met."

Her eyebrows settle at the bridge of her nose.  "I guess that's not so bad."

"Trust me.  After you're in your 20s, age isn't such a big deal.  I'm not saying that you should be dating someone who's 21 when your 16..."

"Didn't you date someone who was 21 when you were 16?"

"Yes.  But you are going to learn from my mistakes.  And any 21 year old who goes out with my 16 year old daughter?  CREEPER."

Wednesday, June 26, 2013

Cardiologist convinced it's NOT my heart - YAY?

According to the cardiologist and am in near-perfect heart health.  The chances of me having a heart attack within the next 5 years are almost nil!!  HURRAY!!! HURRAY!!!  According to him, my 5-year history of chest pain is not related to my cardiac health.

 "So Doc, what is causing my chest pain?"

"I have no idea."

"Any idea who might?"

"Maybe you could try a GI specialist."

"I've been to one, it's not GI."

"Then I'm not sure what I can tell you..."

This is where, in my mind, I grab the dude by his oxford shirt collar, pull him to within inches of my now-crazed eyes.

"Then who can?  WHO?!?  'Cause it's not like I can ignore heart attack symptoms.  I'd try, except that  every piece of medical advice says that you shouldn't ignore heart attack symptoms.  So tell me Doc...   Tell me who I can see.  Tell me who will clear up this medical mystery.  TELL ME WHO WILL GIVE ME ANSWERS!!!"

Out loud I say, "Who would you recommend I go to then?"  I am calm.  I am not frothing at the mouth.

"Maybe a physiatrist?"

"A... phy... whatnow??"

"A physiatrist - deals with musculoskeletal issues and chronic pain."

Excellent, I shall see another "ist."   "So could you give me a referral to a physiatrist?"

"You'd have to get that from your GP."

I leave the office, determined not to cry.  This is good news.  I have just heard good news.  It's good news.  Right?  I still have NO FREAKING CLUE what's wrong with me, but this is good news.  I get in the car.    U2's Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For plays on the radio.  I start laughing hysterically.  Driving home, I sing along at the top of my lungs...  laughing...  crying... While stopped at a light, some of the singing morphs into primal screaming with accompanying rhythmic pounding on the steering wheel.  By the time the light is green I have my shit together and logic has re-entered my cranium.  I square off my shoulders and take a deep breath.  Alright.  What's next?

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Cool Rissa tricks

"You should feel this Mummy," says Rissa, as she deliberately creases her forehead.  "It gets all lumpy.  It's awesome!"

"I always liked that I could move my scalp back and forth," I reply - taking my fingertips and moving my scalp over my skull and then reaching over and moving hers.

"Wait!  Wait!" she begs.  "I can do this cool thing with my tongue.  I figured it out in my mouth and then when I looked at it in the mirror it was soooooo cool."

"Okay.  Show me."

She screwed up her mouth - eyes bugging out a bit - she started snorting with laughter and showed me her tongue - not doing anything particularly special - not a tunnel, nothing - kind of just lying there.

"Wait!  Wait!!"

"I'm not seeing anything.  You just look like you've tasted something yucky."

"What I'd really like is to be able to make my tongue look like a snake tongue - you know with two parts..."

"Your tongue would have to be cut in two..."

"Yeah!  Like this lady from a Freak Show in New Jersey..."

"New Jersey?"

"Yeah - she could move her tongue in two different directions at the same time!"

"So she could pick both nostrils at once if she really wanted to?"

"EEEEEWW!!  Mummy!  Gross!"

"You're the one who wants a snake tongue - I'm just thinking of the perks."

Monday, June 24, 2013

I never thought that hip-hop would make me cry

 This is the soundtrack to this post:

Driving back from a 13th birthday party.  Rissa and two friends in the backseat near-to-collapsing from an afternoon in the blinding sun - hair still wet from the home made Slip-n-Slide.
"Daddy!  Daddy can you please put it on 'aux'?" 

David changes the stero input.   We close the windows - put on the AC.  The opening strains of  Same Love pipe through the car. 

I wish I'd taped it.  For the first time in my life, I wish I actually used a cell phone that had a video app component and I had taped it.  Then you'd see two adults in the front seat, sharing a look.  Three girls in the backseat doing spoken word with Macklemore and then joining Mary Lambert as the chorus swells.

This song.  This song celebrating love.  Of all kinds.  And these girls - singing with all their hearts.  Pushing mine near to breaking because it's so beautiful.  These just-turned-teenagers know the words, all the words, to this song.   My breath hitches.  Tears come to my eyes - I turn my head because I don't want them to stop - which is what they'll do if they know how hard we're listening to them.  I put my hand on the back of David's neck, reaching out, needing to share this connection.  To acknowledge that this hip-hop groove can change lives, change perceptions, change the world if we let it.  So proud.  So freaking proud of these girls.  Wishing I knew the song well enough so that I could sing along too.

And I can't change
Even if I tried
Even if I wanted to
And I can't change
Even if I try
Even if I wanted to
My love
My love
My love
She keeps me warm
She keeps me warm
She keeps me warm
She keeps me warm

So don't be surprised Macklemore and Ryan Lewis.  Don't be surprised if some random woman - old enough to be your older sister or your mom - stops you, holds you tight and whispers in your ears, "Thank you.  Thank you.  For standing up, for speaking out, for sharing love." 

Friday, June 21, 2013

These thighs are not made for sconce light.

Sconce light and candle light are not the same thing.  We have these wall sconces on either side of the fireplace.  They are adorned with vellum-type shades which cast a nice glow.  The room looks warm and inviting.  My thighs in this light?  Cottage-cheesy and terrifying.

"Don't look!" I tell David.  "DON'T LOOK!"

"Don't look at what?"

"At anything!  Just close your eyes."  I desperately try to pull down my chemise so that it covers me to my knees.  My knees, at least, are pleasing to the eye.  Trouble is, the chemise really doesn't go down to my knees, so I'm now bent over at the waist, shielding the offending thigh region from the unflattering light.

All David can feel is me wriggling.  "What are you doing?"

"NOTHING!  Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain."

His eyes begin to open.


"Would you stop?"

"I'm hideous!"

"You're not hideous.  You're badly lit."  He then gets up and turned off the sconces.  By the light of the tv my legs are spectacular!

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Kick-Ass Uses for Crafting Supplies!!

Too much?

I've got boobs.  Largish ones.  On occasion, there'll be a day where I'll get dressed for work and as I'm walking to the office, I'll notice that my attire for the day is a little more low-cut than I had originally thought.  I'm not talking porn low-cut, but enough that as I'm looking down, even I get the urge to motor boat.  You know... 'cause they do look so inviting.  It's the kind of low-cut where it takes every iota of focus for David to have a conversation with me.

Sure, I do my best to make the outfit more public-appropriate.  I play around with the shoulder seams to get the neckline as far back as possible - make sure that my posture is overly straight - all the tricks so that I my co-workers don't get distracticated 'cause let's face it, even in an office full of women - 'out there' boobs can cause some commotion.

Yesterday, I thought I'd try using scotch tape to secure the edges of the neckline to my decolletage.  To no avail.  No matter how tightly you make your tape loop.  You really need double-sided clothing tape - or... OR... those super adhesive dots that you use in scrapbooking or card making!!!  I could have one of those dispenser thingies in my desk and just pop out a line of adhesive dots when a cleavage emergency arises and I'd be good to go! KICK-ASS USES FOR CRAFTING SUPPLIES!!!  Send along your own quick fixes!

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

What would you pay for this cat?

His name is Steve.  He's an orange tabby.  Sure, exceptionally affectionate and purrs up a storm, but really your typical tom cat.  If I were to put him up on Ebay, or Kijiji - what do you think he'd go for?  Any guesses?   $100?  $500?  How about $1000?  This cat must have freakin' gold in his faulty kidneys, because as of last night, Steve is worth $1232.38.  One Thousand, Two Hundred, Thirty-Two dollars and 38 cents. 

He's supposed to be dead.  If we'd done what we'd said we were going to do, we'd have had the vet call our animal care proxy, and Steve would now be dead on account of the fact that he's past the $500 mark.  Once it gets to $500 we're supposed to get the vet to call our friend Narda and she's supposed to say "Kill it," when we can't.  (She's also our medical proxy in the event that someone has to pull the plug on us; with the proviso that she has to laugh maniacally and say "Revenge is mine!" after we've been declared dead.)

I know, I know, you don't want to put a monetary value on your love for a treasured pet... but for a cat we got FOR FREE... $1200 freaking dollars?  Steve went in to the vet's on Thursday night - and by Friday when I thought to inquire as to the balance, we were at $800 and change.  Which is why Narda didn't get a call 'cause it was already past the $500 mark.  And now we're into increments.

"Okay, we'll do the x-rays to see if he has stones in his bladder, but if he has stones, we're not operating."  (Suitably heartless gesture of  fingers slicing across the jugular, with accompanying gurgling/choking noise).

"Okay, we'll let you 'relax' him so that you can express his bladder, but if you have to catheterize again, he's done."  (Again with the heartless gesture.)

Treating a cat with a bladder infection is kind of like being a compulsive gambler or playing the stock market.  If I play one more round, just one more round, if I make this one last investment, I'll make my money back, except you won't - what you get in the end might be a healthy cat.  Or you might not.  But now, after having poured so much money into the cat, if we stop treatment - we have literally just wasted all of that money.

We could still lose this sucker all on account of the fact that animals are poorly engineered and can't talk.  They can't say "Ummmmm, excuse me?  It's hurts when I pee."  Cats are healthy, healthy, healthy... until they're NOT.  Until they almost drop dead.  That seems like a pretty big evolutionary flaw to me.  You get this close to death from a bladder infection? What the hell is that? 

So that means, as of today, Steve is worth about $3.37 a day over 365 days.  And I think he's worth that.  For the sheer joy that he gives me, when he demands to snuggle down under the blankets at bedtime and curls into the crook of my arm.  Now, if that were to be $13.69 a day?  Not so sure.  We don't have that spare money just sitting around.  The last time one of our cats got really sick, David had just received an inheritance.  We couldn't say we couldn't afford to treat the cat, because at that time?  We could.

Now?  We need to re-roof our house - we're going to have to do that on a payment plan.  I just spent my entire month's wages on possibly fixing a cat.  I had to move money around from our already overly-extended credit line to make sure there was room on my Visa.

There are those who will think that I'm stupid for putting that kind of money into an animal.  There are those who think I'm heartless for even contemplating having him put down, when just another $1000 or $2000 would ensure his health.  I'm driven by guilt and finances and... love.  LOVE.  For this stupid cat who couldn't tell me before he was at death's door that it hurt when he peed.

Monday, June 17, 2013

Trying to love my turkey bum...

WARNING: There is Too Much Information in this post

After the second baby, I ended up with a turkey bum.  The midwifery student was given the chance to practice her stitchery on me after the episiotomy.  I think it might have been her first.  She fucked it up.  I have this extra piece of skin, that, were I a roasting fowl, would be considered a delicacy.   This extra flap - between the IN and OUT doors.  A place that I could maybe hide extra subway tokens in. 

We, as women, are encouraged to accept ourselves.  We are encouraged to revel in what makes us unique, what separates us from the flock as it were.  I find it hard to revel in my lady bits when they resemble the ass-end of a  Christmas dinner.

Is it wrong of me to wonder what would happen if I just wrapped this "Pope's Nose" really tightly with an elastic band... Would the blood flow  be cut off to such an extent that the offending skin might just fall off?  I've read that this can work for hemorrhoids.

Or wait, maybe I could vajazzle it!!!  Little bit of bling on my special thing?  Hold up now!  I'm sure there's a kink out there for this sort of thing.  There are kinks for everything.  This will be my path to making millions!  Who's with me ladies?

Friday, June 14, 2013

Not after you've had a baby vaginally you can't...

We took Rissa to Sky Zone in honour of her 13th birthday.  In case you've been under a rock, Sky Zone is Trampoline Heaven.  It is an indoor TRAMPOLINE PARK!!  Imagine a velodrome, but covered in trampolines!!!!  I know, right?!?  After having seen versions of this mythic place popping up in people's Facebook feed, David and I were so excited to discover there was one a mere hour and 15 minutes away!!   Sure, we were going 'for Rissa,' but really it was so we could bounce ourselves.

I made sure that I peed before I got onto the tramps. (Okay, now I'm visualizing myself either on top of hobos or really drunk chicks, depending on my mood.)  It's a good thing that I did pee before I bounced - otherwise I would have drenched not only my crotch, but my pant legs and probably those tramps as well.

2 bounces.  One to test the waters (oh the irony of that) and one to see how high I could get... Not very high.  It was the 2nd that had me squirting into my panties. (And not in a good way.)  2 bounces folks.  Sure I could do gentle, sorry-ass bounces and not wet myself, but any time I actually tried to show true trampoline form (I used to be a frickin' gymnast for God's sake!) I peed my pants.  I could NOT take a nice wide stance before bouncing high into the air, legs coming together, toes pointed.  I couldn't concentrate on pointing my toes when I was concertrating on NOT drenching my pants with urine.  I couldn't bounce from tramp to tramp, because every time I gathered enough kinetic energy to leap, I'd pee a little.

David was bouncing all over the place like that freakin' Jackalope from Boundin'.  He was bouncing off the side walls and leaping ALL over the place, chortling like a mad man.  He was giddy with joy. It was a sight to see.

Next time, I'm totally wearing a pair of Depends and I'm doing a frickin' routine - with my toes pointed.

  NOT what I looked like yesterday
This is Rosannagh MacLennan

Thursday, June 13, 2013

How many times must I pee to get a control line!?!


I bit the bullet.  I bought a pregnancy test.  Even though I'm in peri-menopause and David is fixed.  I used it yesterday afternoon, right before my Mom, Dad and brother Michael came to visit.

I peed for "at least 3 seconds" and "no more than 5."  I counted my Mississippis to make sure, just as the doorbell rang.  I put the test on a flat surface and let my family in.  Hellos all around.

I think that Dad was the first to notice the test on the counter.  At this point we were at the 2 minute mark.  It showed nothingNOTHING.  After 5 minutes - still NOTHING.  Not even a stinking control line!  The paperwork on this sucker said that if I hadn't seen anything after 10 minutes that I should take another test.  10 minutes came and went and still NOTHING.  I knew I should have bought the frickin' two-for package, but nooooooooo,  I had been logical at the drug store.  Why would I buy two pregnancy tests when I only needed one?  I wasn't going to need more than one test.  Not me!  Nope!  One would do!  And I sure as shit wasn't going to spend $27 on a test.  Which means that I spent $9.99 on a single bastard dud test.

No matter how hard I looked at that sucker there was still nothing in the control window.  I internalized my cursing and did NOT say, "I fucking paid $9.99 for you, you rat-fucking pee stick - now show me a fucking control line and tell me that I'm not fucking pregnant!"  Instead I grumbled under my breath "bastard pregnancy test," with Dad mocking me saying that my moodiness surely was a 'sign.'  When I offered my visiting family muffins, Dad queried,  "Are they dill pickle and ice cream?"   "Har-dee-freaking-har Dad."

By the time David got home from work there was still nothing.  After dinner (an hour later) there was a band of red approaching the windows but still no discernible line.  Then, after my family left, I checked  the test and there was a single line - in the control box.  Which should mean that I'm not pregnant, but all the literature with the rat-fucking test told me that I shouldn't trust the test after 10 minutes, which means I'm still going to have to buy another one.  Even though I know that I'm not pregnant.  (In spite of the fact that I haven't had my period for over three months, I'm weepy, gaining weight and my nipples hurt.)  Even if I could convince myself with sound logic that this is all peri-menopause, all that went right out the window with the stories Mom had recounted during her visit of at least 2 instances where she knew folks (personally) who'd had post-vasectomy "oopses" years after the fact.  "Not helping Mom - that is not helping."

Any bets on how much I'm going to spend before I get my negative test result?

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

This is not the Magic Sword I thought it was...

I used to go to Saturday matinees at the CFB Winnipeg movie theatre.  Between the ages of 5 and 8, I'd get dropped off with a girlfriend (probably Kristen), we'd enjoy our 2 hours with snacks and then late in the afternoon we'd emerge bleary-eyed into the sunlight seeking out our parents' waiting arms.

When I was about 8, Kristen and I went to see The Magic Sword. Our parents thought it was the Disney version.  They were misinformed. This Magic Sword was the one with Basil Rathbone as an evil wizard and Anne Helm as the beautiful princess he was going to feed to a scary-ass dragon.  It was made in 1962 with all its attending camp and cheesy special effects.  It was the one where George (Gary Lockwood.) went on a quest to save the princess and people's faces melted off and there were vampires with electric green eyes who morphed into hags.  George's attending knights kept dying, in more and more hideous ways.  First Sir Ulrich of Germany and Sir Pedro of Spain are slain by an ogre (which in retrospect I can now totally see is a dude in a Planet of the Apes-esque suit filmed so that he looks like he's 25 feet tall).  Then Sir Anthony perishes in a swamp, followed by the deaths of Sir Dennis of France,Sir James of Scotland  and Sir Patrick of Ireland. All dead.  All of them.  Dead knights everywhere.

Crouched behind the seats in front of us, our hands over our eyes, Kristen and I glimpsed the movie...  Unable to breathe for terror, knees sticking to the gum and pop-encrusted floor of the theatre.  Hearts pounding, near-vomiting with fear.  Running to our mothers after the show was over, pale-skinned and wide-eyed.

After seeing The Magic Sword, my already over-active imagination went into overdrive.  I could relive every image from that movie as soon as I closed my eyes.  Two bald dudes in a Siamese-twin outfit, 2-headed dragons, a chimp in a suit...  some weird-ass shit.

My Mom came to kiss me goodnight and I wouldn't let her near me.  She had green eyes, just like the morphing vampire.  I was pretty sure that her eyes were glowing - I knew that she was going to suck my blood.


I was in hysterics before my Dad, who didn't usually do bedtime, rescued me.  That might have been one of the times that they gave me cough syrup to aid in knocking me out.  After that Magic Sword fiasco, my Mom learned to double check what movie was playing at CFB Winnipeg before dropping me off on my own.

I was pretty good at avoiding things that would feed my imagination until  The Exorcist was shown on primetime network television when I was 12.  I was at a sleepover - I think her parents were out - I have a sneaking suspicion we were left with her older brother.   That shit messed me up.  I had post-traumatic stress after seeing it.  Seriously.  I slept with my little brother for 4 months afterwards, and to this day, if I even see a picture of Linda Blair from the movie, I want to throw up. 

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Quick! Pass me the pregnancy test!

Is what I'm thinking because I haven't had my period now in 12 weeks.  I know I'm in peri-menopause and all, but there's still this little part of me that worries, you know?  It worries that this extra weight which I can't seem to get rid of lately, no matter how much I over-exercise and not eat - what if that's not extra weight?  What's if it's BABY?  What if that muffin top has nothing to do with muffins?!?  What if I'm nearing the end of my first trimester and should be making some big decisions?!?  Oh sweet Jesus!  Quick!  Pass me the pregnancy test!

HOLY FUCK!!!  Panic attack!  I am having a PANIC ATTACK!! I need to put my head between my knees.  I am 44 and 11/12  fucking years of age!!  I'm on medication to try to regulate my periods because they've been so freakin' wonky.   

Logically, I know that I'm not pregnant, (David has been fixed for 7 years and I know that I haven't been having sex with anyone else but my Hitachi Magic Wand), but you know how you get a thought in your head that just won't leave?  And the more you think about it, it just starts to seem like it's completely plausible and then completely possible?  Like, what if the vasectomy clips slipped? Or corroded...  Or were absorbed by male body parts?  How am I to know know what's going on with David's junk?  Maybe those crazy sperms really wanted to squeeze out the eye of the snake just one more time.  Their last hurrah...

Don't Google it Heather!  Do not Google pictures of a 3 month old fetus.  Do NOT open another browser tab. Don't you do it...  FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.  That's it, I'm going to Shopper's. 

Monday, June 10, 2013

Still Crushing - after all these years...

1984.  I was 16.  I had a crush on a kid three years my junior.  He was strong, he was brave, he was determined.  He was open-vested.

Atreyu.  (sigh)  Oh Atreyu.  Screaming to save Artax - yanking on those frickin' reins.  And then (SPOILER ALERT) the damn horse drowns and now, almost 30 years later, I still get a lump in my throat.

And then when Atreyu meets up with Rock Biter when he is washed up on shore... Only the soulless cannot be affected: 

So what am I doing now?  Ordering the book online, because in spite of having seen the movie at least a dozen times, I've never read the original text by Michael Ende.  I may have to have box of tissues handy.  Because of the tears you sick bastards -  the kid is still 13, even after all these years!!  And it was the purest kind of love.

Friday, June 7, 2013

Tell me I don't look like that when I kiss!

We recently went to a wedding.  At this wedding there were many young, beautiful couples - years, perhaps dozens of years, younger than us.  We were seated with one of these couples.  They were hip and happening and 'NOW.'  But they sure as shit didn't know how to kiss.

I watched this beautifully coiffed and gowned young woman as she kissed her husband.   She looked like a clown blowing up a balloon.  Like a guppy sucking in air.  Like an infant trying to latch onto a nipple.  And he was digging it!

It was the least sexy kissing I've ever seen in my life.  And I've seen some bad kissing.   Pretty much every kiss that Colin Firth has given on film is a bad kiss.  And before you nail me to the wall for dissing Mr. Darcy - I urge you to go back... Go back and watch videos of Mr. Firth's kiss at the end of Pride and Prejudice and Love Actually and Bridget Jones' Diary - those are not sexy kisses.  Mr. Firth looks like he's worried that he's going to catch lip cooties from those gals.  But those terrible kisses, were like from Lady Chatterly's Lover in comparison to the kisses I witnessed at the wedding.

If someone had caught my reaction on film it would have been something like this:

Thursday, June 6, 2013

You ever have one of those days?

It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon.  I was driving into Toronto to see a friend's show.  I had Q107.1 on (the home of classic rock) - it was Psychedelic Sunday and a Beatles A-Z weekend.  The tunes were stellar.

I made sure I checked the highway update signs all the way along my route.   "Express and Collectors moving well after next transfer."  That's what I like to hear.  Singing along with the Beatles "Goooolden slumbers fill your eyyyyyyyes!" - anticipating a great show - happy to be alive.

I eased into the exit lane at the DVP and had a moment of stupification.  It was CLOSED.  The DVP was CLOSED.  But a driver wouldn't know this until they actually exited and drove 100 m and saw that they couldn't travel south because there were big freaking road blocks there, and instead everyone was being re-routed north - towards Newmarket.  The complete opposite direction of where I was supposed to be. 

My best laid plans had gone to shit.  And in that moment, I knew... I knew that if I ever was to murder anyone in my life, it would be one of those people in charge of the update signs on the highway.

I'd be introduced to a guy at a party 5 years from now and I'd ask,  "What do you do?"

And he'd say, "I program the highway update signs on the 401."

And then I would stab him in the throat with the first thing I could get my hands on (a cocktail skewer) and when he fell to the ground I would jump on his testicles... a lot.  And as he was crying and bleeding out and asking "Why?  Why?  Why?"  I would say this:

"Because you ruined my Sunday!!!  The trip that was supposed to take me 1 hour and 15 minutes mutated into a BILLION times longer!  And I missed the thing that I drove all the way into the city for!  I had to circumvent the gridlock on the 404 and when I finally got back on the highway I almost ran out of gas because I'd had to drive for so long out of my way, so I had to get off the highway and find a gas station - do you know how HARD it is to locate a gas station CLOSE to the 401 even with a GPS?!?  And then I had to use the stupid Allen Expressway which took me 25 minutes to travel 2.5 km and then when I finally got to my destination and paid for parking, I couldn't have an alcoholic beverage because I had to drive home, and when I got back to the car, there was a FUCKING PARKING TICKET on my windshield!!!  That is why!"

And then all of his highway update sign programmer friends would know.  They would know how important it is to update those signs on the highway.  He would be a lesson to them all.

That being said.  I did manage to have a lovely warm apple cider with my friends.  After I'd missed the show. 

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

Cannibal Chickens

Lesley has chicks.  Baby chicken-type chicks.  In her house.  Four adorable balls of feathery fluff.  I can barely contain my "squeeeee" of joy within the confines of my head.  I have picked them all up - pressed them against my cheek.  They are fluffy yellow examples of the perfection of our universe.

I just found out that these chicks are 'eating chicks.'  By that, they are meant for eating.  Not, as Rissa and David supposed when I explained this to them, cannibal chicks who are eating other chicks.  Lesley will be slaughtering these chicks after they become full-grown chickens, and then, she will eat them.  These baby chicks whom I pressed to my cheek.

And I'm going to help her do that.  Because I think I need to know how to do this.  You know, when Armageddon comes, we'll all be living on homesteads in the remaining wilds of Canada raising our own food, and I'm going to need to know how to slaughter chickens and whatever else that can be food, including humans.  'Cause ME turning into a cannibal??  After Armageddon, that's gonna be an eventuality.  I know human is supposed to taste like chicken and all that, but say you've spent the last several months/years with George the cobbler, or ferrier or whatever in post-Armageddon times George does... I don't know if I'm going to be able to eat George on account of the fact that we'd have had a relationship of sorts, you know because he makes my shoes or puts shoes on my horse - which is all we'll have left for transport, because it's after Armageddon and we'll all be riding horse or elk or reindeer - and then when the regular food runs out we're going to have eat the Georges of this world  and I want to be prepared for that eventuality. So I'm starting with chicks.   

Tuesday, June 4, 2013

I WON'T resort to bulimia, I WON'T resort to bulimia...

I had a good week last week, I really did.  I was a good girl.  I limited my intake of all the bad-for-me stuff.  I did.  I didn't eat after 7:00 p.m.  I had club soda with lime instead of the Rusty Nails and Chocolate Martinis that called to me. 

Until Saturday night.  That night it all went to hell.  After a sensible dinner of pork tenderloin salad, where did David and I go?  No Frills.  What did we buy?  Bags of gluten-free brownies, and rice chips and a tray  of Nanaimo Bars.  We went out for eggs.  If I really think about the calories I ingested, I might have to commit Hara-kiri.

Food rehab may be my only option.  If I went to food rehab, I could maybe sweat out the addiction to chocolate, sugar and salt.     This once-a-week bingeing is going to kill me.  I know that I'm an emotional eater.  I know that.  So when I'm feeling low because of my freaking ridiculous health issues, that's when I should just go to bed.  Even if it's 7:30 p.m.  I should NOT have two bowlfuls of cut up miniature gluten-free brownies with added chocolate chips, topped with a dollop of sour cream, followed by an ENTIRE FUCKING bag of dill pickle flavoured rice chips.  That is stupid.  I know that it will make me all dopey and stoned on the sugars and that I'll then feel like crap.  So why do I do it?  Why can I not eat healthfully?  Why can I not ignore these stupid-ass cravings?

Although honestly?  After I ate the two bowls of miniature gluten-free brownies with added chocolate chips,  topped with a dollop of sour cream, followed by an ENTIRE FUCKING bag of dill pickle flavoured rice chips, I didn't feel all that bad.  I thought I'd have the urge to purge, but... no.  It was all good, except for the all-consuming guilt, of which I wanted to rid myself immediately.  My strategy will now be this:  eat ALL the remaining gluten-free brownies to get them out of the house.  In one sitting if I have to.

'Cause my body can't take this.  This health issue roller-coaster is sucking the big one.  I exercise every fucking day of the week for at least 60 minutes - I shouldn't have to worry about weight gain!  This shit is actually making me contemplate bulimia.  I contemplate heading to the basement with a bowl into which I could blow chunks so that David and Rissa wouldn't hear me hurling my guts out in either one of the bathrooms.  Although, if I turned the fan ON in the upstairs bathroom... NO!!  This is NOT healthy behaviour!  Plus, I'm sure that I'd still get caught, noise really has a way of travelling in our house what with the extra staircases.  The echo of my retching into a stainless bowl would probably resonate through the entire house.  Plus, if you're woofing your cookies from self-induced retching?  You give yourself a headache and burst those wee little vessels around your eyes.  That is not a good look.

If I were an alcoholic, this is where I would now call my sponsor. 

Monday, June 3, 2013

Erotic Spiders - or how David doesen't listen...

I have hallucinations during the night.  The hallucinations generally centre around the ceiling fan in our bedroom.  The fan turns into a starfish, an alien life-form or a hobbled octopus missing three legs.  The other night it was a Robotic Spider.  Matrix-like in its design, with cameras in its abdomen - massive eyes, whirring noise, looking down on me as I slept.  I had the presence of mind to be aware that I was buck naked and pulled sheets up to cover my ta-tas in case the robotic spiders were broadcasting video of me sleeping to the world at large.

I was telling David about it over breakfast.

"Erotic Spiders?" he asks.

"No, not EROTIC spiders.  ROBOTIC spiders!"

"Earn more sessions by sleeving?"*

I took in what he'd originally said.  "EROTIC spiders?  Are spiders a fetish thing now?  'Cause... EEEEEWWWW!  Oh, and, you and your daughter both have bad ears."

"Bat ears?"

I roll my eyes at him.  "Cute."


* ps.  From Roxanne

C.D. Bales: [shouting through the front door] Ten more seconds and I'm leaving!
Roxanne Kowalski: [opening the door] What did you say?
C.D. Bales: I said, ten more seconds and I'm leaving! Wait a second! What did you think I said?
Roxanne Kowalski: I thought you said, "Earn more sessions by sleeving."
C.D. Bales: Well, what the hell does that mean?
Roxanne Kowalski: I don't know. That's why I came out.