Taxidermied Gophers

Does anyone else do this kind of stuff with their daughter?

David and the Dumpster of Death

"SON OF A..."

"MOTHER-$@*%&$!"

We had a dumpster delivered Monday morning.  We're down to the crunch before the move.  What hasn't been sold or donated by the moving date ends up in the steel depths of the most dangerous dumpster in Southern Ontario.

Before the dumpster was deposited on our driveway, we had snow.  And then rain.  And then more snow and more rain.   At this point in the winter, our driveway is the Skating Rink from Purgatory. There've been a couple of nights when it's taken me a good ten minutes to walk the 50 feet from the garage to the front of our house.

On his way to the garage, hands full of a box of  used hazardous materials, David tried to skirt by the newly placed dumpster... in the dark.  The dumpster is so wide that it leaves only 6-8 inches on either side of the driveway.  These 6-8 inches slope up to our lawn and, what with the accumulated winter precipitation, are now sheer ice.  Every step David took culminated in language that would make a dock worker blush, as his ankles repeatedly slammed against the steel of the dumpster.

Step.

"JESUS -*&$^#@ CHRIST!"

Step.

"C#&$-sucking RHINO!"

Step.

"You  $*#^@!$# - #&*#@^! -  #$@% - #&@^&! - #%!*&ING - #&*@^!*!!!!  I hope that your @#%&! - #*&^!$ and your #&@^%!# ends up with a #@&$^#%!!"

He showed me his bruised ankles upon his return.

"So what you're saying is that you injured yourself by walking with hazardous waste?"

"Yes."

"Lives up to its name, don't it?"   Then I ran, because I wasn't injured.

Bum Pocket, Boob Pocket.

It's Rissa's bedtime witching hour, when she winds up instead of down, when she giggles and plays instead of succumbing to slumber.

"Psssssssst.... do you see this tiny pocket??  It's wee!"

She has this thing for pockets.  Wee pockets in particular.  She likes to draw your attention to them - to share her love of pockets.  

Victoria's Secret makes these thermal long underwear jammies...  they have pockets.  Rissa and I have a both have a pair.  Me in a large - Rissa in an extra-small.  Rissa's bottoms fit her in length for about 6 minutes before her legs grew again.

She began mumble-singing.  Hmmmmmm-hummmming a tune that I couldn't quite hear.  She was turning this way and that.  Showing her back and  then her front.  I put my book down.

Rissa, with her tailend waggling towards me, "Bum pocket."  She jumped around and pointed to her chest. "Boob pocket."  Turning again, "Bum pocket."  And once more, "Boob pocket."  A quick jump around, "Bum Pocket!"  Another full leap, "BOOB POCKET!!"

Then the inevitable crash onto the bed - snorting with laughter -  laughing until she gives herself the hiccups.  I love bedtime.

Failure to Affix

For weeks now, in preparation for our impending move, we've been packing up our ginormous home.  Over the weekend I was tackling the office space and I ran out of packing tape.

"NO TAPE!!!  WE HAVE NO TAPE!!!"

"There might be some duct tape downstairs," says David.

Duct tape!  Perfect!  Duct tape sticks to everything - it's freaking awesome for its stickiness.  I practically skipped down to the basement to grab the tape.

I sang a happy little duct tape song when I climbed back up to the office.   I happily packed up many boxes of office supplies. ZIP-BOOM-DONE!  I brandished the roll of duct tape like a sharp shooter in a Western Film.  I used the fancy-dancy True Block labels so that all boxes could be labelled the same way, in the same corner.  It was a beautiful thing.


We're storing the office boxes in the guest bedroom.  I can see them through the pass-through from the office.  As I caught up on some writing, I looked across, feeling ever-so-accomplished at my afternoon's work. So I was actually watching as the duct tape slowly released its hold on the cardboard and the True Block labels fluttered down from the top left corners of their boxes.

Since when did duct tape NOT stick to cardboard?  When did that happen?  You get duct tape stuck to your freaking arm hair and you're praying for a bottle of paint thinner to release its seal.  You get duct tape stuck to itself and you have to throw it out.  But those cardboard boxes staring right at me - with their limp pieces of tape just lying there - all of them - middle-aged men in the midst of erectile dysfunction.  What's with cardboard??  It also repels those True Block labels. My system was ruined.  I began to panic as I realized that I'd have to use a Sharpie on raw cardboard.   I should have wrapped the entire box with duct tape and stuck the labels to that, instead of attempting to pack like a normal person.  If I'd done that I wouldn't have been sobbing on the floor when David found me.

"Okay love, you're done."

"I'm NOT done!  Look at them!  JUST LOOK AT THEM!!!"

"Come on.  We're going to get you a snack, maybe some juice..."

"I don't WANT any juice!"

"You may not WANT it, but you NEED it."

"Disproportionate emotional response?"

"Disproportionate emotional response."

And that's how she stabbed herself in the eye.

It was a beautiful sunny Sunday.  The kitchen was brightly lit - we soaked up the Vitamin D.  We were taking a break from our packing... David and I were enjoying fried eggs on toast and had called up to Rissa to come down for lunch.  Eventually she came into the kitchen, grabbed a juice box and turned on the overhead lights.

David and I shared a look.  The kitchen has 5 windows - each of them is 18 x 50 inches...  It was a sunny day.

"Ummmm.... Riss?"

"Yes?"

"I'm thinking that maybe we don't need the lights on right now."

Rissa looked around.  Looked out the windows.  Looked at us.  Her head slumped as she slowly rose. She slouched over to the light switch and flicked them off  petulantly.  "Fine. Fine.  I'll just turn off the lights and drink my juice in the dark then."  She made a show of searching for the juice box straw.

"Do you want to use my knife for your egg?" I held it out.  "Can you see it?  Careful... I mean, seeing as it's so dark..  Here you go..."

Rissa grabbed for it - deliberately failing several times.  "No, I couldn't see it." Rissa denied vehemently.    "I almost stabbed my eye out because it's so dark in here."

PMS is a PERK...

"I don't really have PMS do I?" I ask as we're driving home.

"Hmmmmm?"  David queries.

"I'm more an MS kinda gal.  That's when I lose it..."  I toss him a look.

David's eyes narrow, almost imperceptibly, but I can still see it.  How can he answer this?  What WON'T drive me to have a volcanic emotional eruption? "Well..."

"It's not a trick question!!!" I bark.  I take a couple of deep, cleansing breaths.  "Sorry.  Sorry."

"Frankly, when you're having PMS it's a good thing for me," he says.

"It is?"

"Yep.  I always know that you're period is coming by how horny you get the week before.  PMS is a perk week for me."

"It is?"

"Yep.  You're insatiable."  Then he tosses me a look.  "The first couple of days of your period... you are..."  He's thinking so hard about choosing the right words to use here...   "You're... angrily fragile."

I roll that phrase around in my mind.  Angrily Fragile.  I guess that aptly describes my disproportionate response to emotional stimuli.  And it's a lot better than calling me a psychotic she wolf - which is how I generally refer to myself during that time.

"Perk Week, huh?"

"Yep."

I waggle my eyebrows.  "Well, hold onto you hat, because in another 10-18 days, you'll be getting another one."

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!

"Heather!  Heather!  Wake up!!!"

I startled awake, feeling tears on my cheeks. I was crying?  Why was I crying? 

"It's okay... It's okay..."

It all came flooding back.

"Oh David... David I had the most wonderful dream!"

"You did?  But if it was wonderful, why are you cyring?"

"Our new house had a split-level basement!"  I grabbed him by the shoulders.  "We had a second basement!!  We had an extra 1/2 bath and a guest room and a whole other storage room!   And then you went down another small set of stairs and you got to our real basement.  The one with the gravel and dirt floor and leaky walls... where all we'll ever be able to store is things in Rubbermaid containers off the floor on plastic shelves"  I hiccuped another sob. "It seemed so real!  Our storage problems were non-existent... there was a place for everything... I could keep all my old albums and craft supplies, but it was JUST A DREAM!!!!"

I don't know if I'll make it through this move.

The Panty Conundrum...

"Why do you never fold underwear?" I yell.  I am staring at a pile of unfolded ladies' panties in various colours and materials - bunched up on the top of the laundry pile - a secondary, equally-crumpled pile, is on the floor.

"They can't be folded!!"  David yells back from the kitchen.

"Come here!"

He arrives at the door and rolls his eyes.

"Weclome to Ladies' Panty Folding 101..."

"Yes," David says.  "But if I do that and try to stack them when they are folded they become this precarious tower of panties that just falls over.  If I just lay them flat one on top of the other, then there is no precarious tower and you can stack other clothes on top of them.  Like THIS!!!"  He shows off his stack of flat panties.

"Yes, but when you put the panties into a drawer like that, you can't see what pair is underneath the top one."

"You are assuming that I need to see what's underneath the top one.  Underwear are like Kleenexes - you just pull from the top."

"Boys just pull from the top.  Girls decide depending on what we're wearing that day and whether or not we need a thong."

At the mention of a thong - David winces a bit.  "You can't fold thongs!!!"

"It's not really about the folding is it?"

"Pardon?"

"You don't like folding them because now you can't tell the difference between my underwear and Rissa's and it freaks you out."

"Maybe."

"Do you fold them with your eyes closed now?"

"Maybe."

"That explains a lot then."

Me and Igor, we're like this...

If I were a horse, I'd have been taken out back and shot.    Or at least, that's what my parents always threatened to do when I was younger.

The limping started about a week and a half ago.  I blame 'Art.'  See, I'm in a show. I needed to get used to my costume before we moved to theatre.  It's the shoes' fault.  The shoes are kick-ass red.  They zip up at the back with these snazzy make-you-want-to-do-unmentionable-things-to-me straps that go around my ankles.  I am fierce in these shoes. The only thing I remember before the injury was that I zipped them up.  Yes folks - injury by zipping.   (How many men just winced?)  I had to convince my Achilles Tendons to fit into these fabulous shoes - you know, on account of the fact that I have such... well-defined... tendons.  I think maybe I convinced my right foot too hard - now it hurts to go downstairs.  And when I point my foot.  And when I flex it.  Strangely enough it doesn't hurt to just WALK on it.   But I do have quite a hitch in my get-along when I'm descending a staircase.

The incomparable Marty Feldman as Igor
and Gene Wilder as Dr. Frankenstein
in Mel Brooks' Young Frankenstein

Last night... Injury by tucking in.  Bed time with the kid.  Me, exhausted, from packing up our office.  I flopped down on top of Rissa - not unlike a dolphin out of water.  Then, as I prepare to hug her, I moved my right arm along the top of the quilt - and something 'popped'.  Rissa didn't hear the pop - all she heard was the screaming the accompanied the pop.

"OH NO!!! NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO NOOOOOOOO!!!!  Oh CRAP!  CRAP!!!!"

"What?!?  What did you DO?!?"

"I think I just separated my shoulder."

"AGAIN?!?  Mummy!"

"I didn't do it on purpose!  I was just trying to hug you!"  I tentatively try the movements that usually hurt when I've injured my rotator cuff.  To the side - not terrible... To the front - a little more ouchy.

"Daddy!  You better come in here!  Mummy just hurt herself."

"AGAIN?!?"

"I am not as clumsy as... Would you help me up please?... as you think I am."

"Un-huh..."

"I'm NOT!"

David, enters with the Traumeel.   "Where does it hurt?"

"From my shoulder to my elbow..."

"Pardon me?"

"FROM MY STUPID SHOULDER TO MY STUPID ELBOW!!!"  I'm already starting to favour my right side.  The hunching has begun.

"How?  How do you do this to yourself?"

"My ligaments are weird.  I'm a dork."

"Yep."

"This is a different pain though, so I don't think that it's the rotator cuff this time.  That's good, right?"

David kisses me.  "I'm so glad that you're a glass half-full person."

Who are you wearing?

"Rissa, come look!!"  I yell.

"What?  What?"  She slides in the kitchen in her socked feet.

I point out the window.  "Look!  The snow is falling all in slow motion!  Isn't it beautiful??"

"OOOOOOOOH!  It's so pretty!"

(Given this year's snow ridiculous accumulation, I don't know how we can still be impressed, but there it is.)

"It looks so... so... sophisticated," she says.  "I feel like I'm not fancy enough to even watch it fall.  I should avert my eyes."

"Do you feel under-dressed?"

"I do."

"Shall we change into our ball gowns?"

"Oh, yes!  Let's."

It was one of those "little things" days.  I love those days.

The Human Whisperer

It was one of the worst days of my life. My friend Shannon had died. It was about 2 weeks after she'd had a successful stem cell transplant - her prognosis had been good. Except now she was dead. I almost threw up when her partner John told me, my knees threatened to buckle, white-knuckled fingers held the top of our kitchen island so that I wouldn't crumble. The rest of my day was bi-polar.  I'd be okay for a few minutes, but then I'd choke on sobs - I couldn't breathe. The pit of my stomach was roiling - my own internal hurricane - I kept swallowing bile.

We watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button - a really bad choice when one of your best friends has just died. Life and death are so skewed in that film. I collapsed in bed at the end of the night - another crying jag - David smoothing his hands across my back - me trying to catch my breath - clutching for calm before the emotions slammed me again.

Our cat, Minuit, leapt onto the bed. She dropped a soft toy on my chest. It was part of a monster doll set - little plush pieces that velcroed together - you could add an arm or an extra eye, a tail or horns - like making your very own tribe of Wild Things.

"Honey," I said to her. "I can't.  I can't play right now." Minuit liked you to throw the toy and she'd fetch it for you - it was one of her favourite games. I took the toy away and stashed it in my bedside table.  David held me as I started to cry once more.

A few minutes later, Minuit dropped another piece on me.

"Minuit. No. I can't." That piece, too, ended up in the bedside table.

A few minutes later - another piece, and then, when I refused the throw that one, another...  and another... and another...

She didn't want to play. She was bringing me gifts. We were on the second floor, and every time I took a toy, she'd tromp two floors down to the basement - jump into the toy box to find a piece and she'd offer it to me. 

I guess she didn't know what else to do, given my bouts of hysterical sobbing. She was giving me the equivalent of dead mice - she wanted me to feel better. It went on for about half and hour. I found myself laughing and crying, with 23 monster toy pieces in the bedside table by the time she was done. Then, she lay beside me, pressed to my side - pumping her paws against my ribs to let me know that she was there.

So go ahead, try and tell me that cats are anti-social. You're wrong.

Where's the frickin' SNOOZE button?

I used to be a terrible sleeper.  Before I gave birth to progeny.  My brain wouldn't shut down.  If something woke me at 6:25 a.m. on a Saturday morning, no matter how tired my body was, I was incapable of returning to slumber.  Thoughts would careen from synapse to synapse.  Bits of songs,  lines from a play, whatever most occupied my waking moments, would sabatoge my rest.

Then I had Rissa.  After experiencing new-parent exhaustion, falling back to sleep wasn't an issue.  When I pushed through those 2 a.m. feedings, I found that I could sleep through anything. And as long as Rissa wasn't calling for me specifically in the middle of the night - I was good.  I could coast on that bleary-eyed mental fog,  my constant companion in those early years, and let David handle the middle of the night.  If Rissa was calling for me?  If she was whispering for me in the middle of the night?  I was up immediately.  That maternal protection gene is wicked fierce when it hits you.  But if David was there, I could tune out any noise. I could let him grab her and bring her to bed - I could sleep while I was nursing her.  I did.

Which means that for the last 13.5 years, apart from trips to the ER with croup and dealing with the hot flashes,  I've been pretty rested. And then, we signed the papers to buy the new house.  Which means that now?  My sleeping is completely ravaged.  If I wake up needing to pee before dawn - I'm screwed.  As soon as my eyes open, my natural inclination to obsess rules the rest of my body.

How are we going to convert the buffet to a vanity for the new bathroom?  Is the kitchen faucet a single hole or a three hole - we have no closeup pictures of the sink!!!  Do we have enough boxes for our books?   How much will we have to pay the electricians for their re-wiring job of the 3-way switch in the front hall - why haven't they invoiced us for that yet??  Where will the kitty litter boxes go in the new house?  "Where are you from Jesus, what do you want Jesus, TELL me!"

When David came down this morning, I'd already been up for hours.  "We're going to have to drug you, aren't we?"

"Either that or whack me on the head whenever you feel me stir in bed.  I'm willing to take on a concussion if I get more sleep.  What's your blunt instrument of choice?"

Shredding the Past

Boxes... and boxes... and still more boxes.  And there I was, on my ass in the Rec Room, sorting through them.  Boxes of books and fabric.  Boxes of craft supplies and more fabric.  Boxes of Tae Kwon Do equipment and MORE fabric.  And the mother lode of nostalgia... a box of letters.

Decades of correspondence in a bankers box.  Untouched letters, languishing in a box for the 8.5 years we've resided in our present home.  And before that, they languished in another box in our other two homes and before that, I carted them around in an old Cougar boot box until there were too many letters to fit into that box.  Letters, read once, then stacked in order from past to present - wrapped with elastics, now so aged  that the elastic is stuck to the paper and disintegrates if you touch it.

I sat amidst my paper equivalent to carbon dating.   Letters from childhood friends written on Care Bear cards with stickers of horses and kittens,

international penpal letters from France and Australia, letters from  high school friends (Bug, Skin, PJ and Cam),  notes from a "Secret Admirer," that had appeared in my locker first year university.   Love letters from old boyfriends.   Letters from my parents and grandparents, my Mom's best friend Vivien.  Cards and mementos from my friend Shannon who died unexpectedly in 2009.

A box full of forgotten history.  Glancing through, there were return address names that rang NO bells at all and yet I found an old napkin, from when I was 16, that I'd slipped to an older guy (he was probably all of 23) at the mall that said, "Dir Sir, you are incredibly handsome."  He'd returned it to me, having written on the other side, "Dear 'Madame' THANK YOU!" with a smiley face below.

I was prepared to shred it all.  I'd hefted the shredder down from the office when David demanded I eat lunch.  After eating though, I was going to bite the bullet and purge it all.

"I haven't looked at them for this long.  It'd take me months to read through everything and distinguish the good from the bad.  I don't have the time.  We don't have the space."

David shot me a glance.  "We can make space.  It's one box.  You've kept them.  They're part of your past.  One box isn't going to make a difference.  We can tuck it in under the stairs."

"Maybe..."  A weight lifted.  That felt better.  "Plus when I'm dead, and Rissa has to sort through them all, it'd probably be fun for her..."  I stopped.  

"What?"

"Nothing," I said, swallowing my last bite of grilled cheese.  "It's okay.  I'll just... I'll just..."  I ran back down to the basement.

Read.  Shred.  Read. Shred.  Read. Shhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrread.

"What are you doing?" asked David from his shop area.

"So I found this erotic story that, uh... Tim wrote me..."

He raised his eyebrows.  "You did huh?"

"Yeah..."   Shhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrread.  I was blushing.

"That good huh?"

"Yep..."  Shhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrread. "I'm thinking that reading erotica where one's mother figures prominently, might not be quite the nostalgic experience Rissa would be hoping for upon my death."  Shhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrread.

"You might be right."

I glanced through the other letters.  They were innocuous enough - slightly titillating, but not downright graphic.   Proclaimed affection - even love - my romantic past in ink.  That, I thought, she might want a glimpse into.  Hell, I do to.  Maybe next weekend, I'll sit down with a pot of tea or a good single malt and dive into my past.

What's happening to our Tupperware?

I must have a symbiotic worm hole in my house.  I swear to God that for every lost sock in the dryer, a Tupperware container also disappears.  I could earn a doctorate in this area.  I'm going to get a grant for the next phase of my thesis.

We have a billion Tupperware lids - all stacked in the island drawer - they must be going at it like rabbits in there.   I always check the fridge when we seem low on containers, and sometimes there are the science experiments in the back of the fridge, but that still doesn't explain the multitude of extra lids residing in the drawer.  We haven't been doing any house painting which usually takes up containers.  And let's face it, you can't really take a sandwich container without a lid unless you want a stale sandwich for lunch. 

Are gremlins in our house destroying just the containers?  For gremlin fun?  Are they dancing madly upon them as we sleep - cracking the questionably recyclable plastic - leaving us with only the lids -  which are freaking useless?? Strike that, not useless.  I have an artist friend, Lisa, who does eco-art.  She can take bread tags and create lighting shades for twinkle lights.  She has salvaged copper wire and bicycle wheels and made a freaking Korean Dragon.

Dragon, 2005,  Lisa Brunetta

So I'm going to send her all my old lids - she'll know what to do with them.  She'll create art, it will be astounding.

And I?  I will take my ass to the No Frills and purchase my biennial replacement containers.  WAIT!    WAIT!   GPS chips!!  We could put in wee little GPS chips...  create another layer of plastic on top - like a skin graft, but a plastic graft - which would allow them to still be washed, but would have them programmed so when you asked a family member if they knew where the containers were and they said no, you could say "AH-HAH!" and dance around calling them a liar, when you found said missing containers unde their bed. The technology's not quite there yet, but I feel confident that, within the next year or so, I could perfect it.  I will be having my IPO in 2015.  Who's in?

My ass is not happy.

We are on the hunt for a sofa bed.  On account of the fact that our new house does not have a guest room.  As Canadians, we need to be able to offer extreme-weather lodgings.  It's in the Canadian Manifesto.  Or it would be if Canada had a Manifesto.

My Mom took great pride in emphatically stating that we could sleep 22 people in our house.  We were military - you never knew who might stop by.  We had more sofa beds and guest beds than your average bear. It's a badge of family honour for me.  A tradition.   I need to be able to find space for 22 people to sleep in my new home.  My new, 1500 sq. foot home with NO guest room.  David's already started devising plans to jerry-rig some beds from an alternate dimension.  Patent pending.

I am determined to be able to sleep at least two.  At the very least we need a sofa bed to take care of overnight guests.  All I want is a functioning sofa bed that is actually comfortable to sit on.  Okay, a functioning sofa bed, comfortable to sit on and that doesn't look like crap.  Is that so much to ask?  Is it?  Not a fricking futon on a pine frame - I'm 45 years old - not a first year Arts student.  Not something that feels like you're balancing your derriere on concrete.  Something with a modicum of style that can accommodate overnight guests.  It's like searching out the Holy Freaking Grail.

I have been trying out sofa beds for weeks now.  My ass going from shop to shop to shop.  Kind of like Goldilocks, but with no "just right" in sight. 

This has nothing to do with the post,
but when I was trying to find a good Goldilocks
illustration I got distracted.

They're ALL too hard.  All of them.  You can look all you want online, but you cannot buy a sofa without letting your ass feel it. So we've been trolling the furniture shops.  We find the exact model that we like, that our asses enjoy - ask if it comes in a sofa bed - and the salesperson won't meet our eyes when they say "Yes."  Because they know.  They know that somewhere in the fabrication of inexpensive sofa beds, (Because, let's face it, we are NOT going to spend $3,000 on a piece of furniture.  EVER), that the base and ass cushions are injected with some sort of concrete polymer that ensures that one would rather sit on the floor than on this piece of furniture masquerading as comfortable. 

I'm desperately trying to find an alternative to IKEA here folks.  I'd love to shop local and support the little guy, but those damned Swedes with their good prices and relatively comfortable pieces and delivery are calling to me.  "Ve huv sofas end matchink sofa beds end cumfy chayerrs - ull vith slip cuverrs...  Cooom to de Scandinavian siede Headder!"  Oh God, it may be too late!

Did you guys KNOW about this?!?

It was a revelation.  With the first one I thought I'd just been lucky.  Even the second.  What a happy coincidence!  How delightful!  It was only upon savouring the third that I thought something was up.  I looked at the box.

Ladies and gentlemen, Pot Of Gold makes a CARAMEL collection!  I am undone. 

Dear God what was I thinking? I had five of them.   Okay, possibly six.   Which means that in 6 mouthfuls of sin, I ingested over 30 grams of sugar and 380 calories. Which, when you really think about it, considering the oral orgasm that I had, isn't that bad a calorie count.

I'm in rehearsals right now, we're getting down to the crunch - rehearsing on the set, bonding with the cast and crew, and people are bringing snacks to the rehearsals.  And apart from a fantastically healthful crock pot of lentil stew on Sunday - the food is utter crap.  I mean, it all tastes a-fucking-mazing, but it's crap.  M&Ms, chocolate cupcakes, chocolate bars - the newly discovered box of caramels...

Fruit plate.  We need a fricking fruit plate.  Or a vegetable plate.  Communal food is terrible for me.  The snack table, in my peripherals, beckons - it seduces.  Shiny wrappers and colourful bags with their upwards of 25 grams of sugar in them, waiting to spike my blood sugar and then allow for a good old, wallowing in my willpowerless misery, sugar crash.  High, and then not-so-high, in the space of minutes.  Eyes rolling back in my head.  People with 911 at the ready, in case I actually do slip into that sugar coma.

I need to get my shit together.  I have two days before I'm called again.  I shall gird my loins for battle.  Time for the buddy system.  Time to call in the big guns.  I have at least 5 girlfriends in the show who know me well.  They know what sugar does to me.  They shall be my security team.  See?  The first step is admitting you have a problem.  The second?   Asking for help, so that you don't have to conquer this shit alone. I'm following Bill Withers's advice.  I know I'm not strong.  I'm leaning. 

WARNING: Prone to Theatrical Displays of Melodrama

"Mummy, do you know where the plastic container with the clicking lid is?"

"No.  I do not.  I'm not sure where it went.  Maybe Daddy took it to school."

Rissa sighs deeply.  I barely hear her say,  "I call her 'Clicky'."

"Pardon me?"

Rissa now speaks loudly and clearly.  "I call her 'Clicky'."

"Did you just say that you call the container 'Clicky'?

"I call HER 'Clicky'!"

"Sorry.  This container is a girl?"

"Yes, she is a girl.  Don't judge my love!"

"I'm not judging..."

"You don't know what we have together..."  I think at this point, Rissa flings an arm up to demonstrate her heightened emotional state.

"You are completely right.  I DO NOT know, nor do I understand, the relationship that you have with the, uh... plastic container you have dubbed 'Clicky'.  Not that there is anything wrong with that."

Still doing her best Garbo, Rissa exclaims, "Why can't you support my choices?"

Then she dissolves into snorting laughter.  In betweeen snorts, "Today will be a laughing day, I can just tell!"

"Awesome."

"Every time I laugh today, I will do a different laugh."

"You do that little thing." 

"I will!"  She then lets out a burst of mad scientist mania. 

"MOO-HOO-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAA!!"

"You are SO weird."

"Unique.  I am unique."

"You're something alright."