Wednesday, January 28, 2015

If my breasts were 22, this wouldn't happen!

"Just one more?  Please can't we watch just one more?" I beg.

"No Mummy.  We've already watched three episodes.  You're done," says Rissa.

I look over to David forlornly.

He shrugs.  "The kid has spoken.  It's bedtime for Bonzo."

I throw myself across their laps, wailing in dissatisfaction.  They are unmoved.  As I am lying across their laps, I look down at my chest.  My breasts have caved in.

"What the?!?"  I struggle up and look down again, poking at my chest.  The girls are up where they belong.

I lie back down sideways across Rissa, my gaze now chestward.  Dents.  My breasts have DENTS!!!  The padded t-shirt bra cups are DENTED!!

"What are you doing?" Rissa asks.

"My boobs have dents," I say, poking at them.  I move back to sitting.  "See this?  No dents!"  I lie across Rissa once more.   poke, poke...  "Now?  DENTS!!!" 

My spouse and child do their best not to laugh, but are unsuccessful.

"Not funny, guys!  NOT FUNNY.  This means that I have floppy breasts.  FLOPPY BREASTS!!!" No longer wailing because they won't let me watch another Mindy Project, I am now wailing in narcissism.

"It's okay Mummy," says Rissa patting my arm.  "No one will know."

"I...  I will know!!  And your father, because he sleeps with me when I am naked.  "My breasts are DEFLATING!!!"

"They are not deflating," says David.  "They are..."

"Don't you dare say aging!"

"I wasn't..."

"Or ripening..."

"How about...?" 

"Or curing..."


"Into what exactly?"

"...soft pillowy... butterflies?"

"Okay, I can get on board with that."

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

My get up and go has f@¢#ed off... how do women survive middle-age?

On the plus side?  I'm 46 years old and still alive.   If this were the Middle Ages, I'd be dead already, or close to dead, or, at the very least, a great-Grandma, with incredibly saggy boobs because they didn't have proper brassieres back then.

On the minus side?  The part of my brain that is proactive, gives me moxie, lights a fire under my ass?  It's fucked off.  At present, I feel as though my picture could be placed beside the word apathetic in the dictionary.

Hey look over there, it's a pile of clothes that's needed to be ironed for the last 5 months... I should... meh...

I'm not saying that I was a 'get it done right now' gal - not like my friend Nathalie, who would buy something at a junk shop to turn into a chandelier and then the next day it would be spray-painted, wired and fucking lit up in her dining room - that wasn't me... but it didn't used to take me 10 frickin' months to hem a set of curtains. 

And although I know that I have a a couple of things working against me (thank you ever so much, thyroid disease and peri-menopause), on bad days, I am convinced that  I have morphed into a giant, corpulent, reticulated slug.



Have you met my sister? 
(cut to closeup of slightly younger female Hutt)
She is renowned throughout the universe for her
excessive weight and sallow colour.

Checking out the back of my hair in the mirror, I have to quell the urge to self nip and tuck... "Okay, seriously??  How many rolls of back fat can a girl have surrounding her bra??"  Then you play the how can I look fine from the front, but utter shit from the back? game - rotating in front of the mirror like you're a car on a  pedestal revolve at an auto show.

I get home from work and it's all that I can do to walk over to the refrigerator to see if we have vegetables in the crisper.

I don't think my Mom went through all this shit. Yes, hot flashes - she flashed for years and years and years... but she didn't bitch out, she didn't crawl into bed at 8:00 p.m. and she sure as shit didn't resort to grilled cheese sandwiches with a side vegetable of pickles several times a week.  Oh, don't mind my daughter, the malnutrition will right itself when she's in university on a proper meal plan.

Overwhelmed is a constant.  I was at the grocery store on Saturday and found myself near tears in the canned goods aisle.  Too many people, too many colours, so much to consume...  How many children in the world can't have cereal?  What are they using to clean their floors?  That person has 17 items in the 16 item lane!!!  If I've been out in public, David generally meets me at the door with a cocktail.  He sits me down, wraps me in a blanket and stands guard for the emotional implosion. 

This hormonal shift is akin to when I was in adolescence - but now there's an added level of soul-crushing despair and self-loathing that I have to mask in front of the public.  Jazz hands Heather, keep up those jazz hands!

Big things?  They ain't happening.  It's time to refocus on the minutia of joy.   Tying on an apron to successfully finish cooking a meal that involves more than bread and cheese is a win.  And last night? I emptied the ironing basket - and not just by hiding it in a bag somewhere else in the house.  I dusted my bedside lamp, reorganized the face cloth basket, I mended a sweater of Rissa's that had been waiting for a year and a half.  By accomplishing  the seemingly inconsequential - I may just keep myself out of the nuthouse.

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Why yes, this IS what middle-aged hair looks like...

"Heather, what do you want for... HOLY CRAP!!!" says David as he sticks his head behind the shower curtain.  He's reacting to the shower wall, upon which I have left all the 'extra' hair from my head.  And by 'extra' hair, I mean the hair that I regularly lose when I wash my hair. 

"Are you okay?" he asks, genuine concern in his voice.

I glance to the wall.   "Oh, this?"  I shrug.    "This is pretty much normal."  I scoop it up and offer it to him, a hamster-sized practical example of what happens when you're a middle-aged woman in peri-menopause with thyroid disease.  He shrinks back a titch.

"No, I think I'm good."

"By March Break we could make another ME - out of hair," I suggest.  "Which I will then sell to the AGO and become ridiculously wealthy and famous."

He nods mutely and backs away.

I go back to conditioning my hair.  I've never had silky, manageable hair.  My hair never bounced and behaved.  It has always been coarse and disorderly and then after I had kids, it went curly with the coarse and disorderly.  If I brush it out I resemble Rosanne Rosannadanna.

The incomparable Gilda Radner...

But on the plus side, I now feel an odd kinship with Pamela Anderson.  Although I'm less leather corset and more just barbed wire on my head.  Almost 30 years of hair dying and strangely my hair is... dry...   I've been hanging out in the alley behind the beauty shop...

"Psssssssst.... Hey... HEY!!!  Can you slip me some deep conditioner?"

I Google up on how to deep condition and apparently, I have to find another 15 minutes in my day to sit under a bonnet hair dryer with a plastic bag on my head allowing my hair to suck up moisture.

Wait a second!  I actually own a bonnet hair dryer!  And 15 minutes?  There's gotta be 15 minutes somewhere in my day!  And I'm supposed to sit during that 15 minutes?  That's a requirement?  Oh sweet Jesus, I could sit and read... an actual book!! Because you know, I 'd be trapped under the hair dryer and all...  I could have a book in one hand and a cocktail in the other!!!

If my hair weren't in such terrible shape, deep conditioning would make it greasy...  Because my hair is such crap, I will now be required to read and drink alcohol.  15 minutes??  Hell, I'll make it 30!   Watch out world!  My hair will soon be so smooth and soft that I will injure myself and others when I whip it around as I travel in my own imagined deep conditioning commercial.

Wednesday, January 14, 2015

Who let the dwarves into my uterus?!?

WARNING: There will be foul language in this post.

MOTHERFUCKING DWARVES.*  I'm sorry, but... REALLY...   REALLY?!?  I'm sure that the lining of my uterus is chock-a-block with rich mineral deposits which can be sold at a premium on the Disc World, but I would just like to state for the record that I did NOT give my permission for a team of mining dwarves to bring their motherfucking pick axes into my uterus to collect its bounty.

At the very least, the little rat bastards could give me a cut.  If the (WARNING: TMI) 2 and a half inch blood clot, which they apparently spent the entire night chipping away, is worth so fucking much - I deserve at least 75% of the take when they sell that fucker to the black market.

I am sure that peri-menopausal blood clots hold a certain cachet - maybe the sick twisted pricks who buy them from the motherfucking dwarves eat them à la placenta ingestion...  I don't give a cat's fragrant ass who is doing what with them, I just want my fucking cut.

There are a lot of us out there gals - if we unionize, I'm sure that we can negotiate a more than fair business contract.



*I choose to go the Tolkien route - not the Disney route

Thursday, January 8, 2015

It all comes down to chicken vaginas...

"So what did you do in school today?"

"We had a work period in English."

"Journal entries for your ISU?"


"Oh, and in Geography we got to watch a video."

"What kind of video?"

"A video about sewers.  It's called Crap Shoot."

"Seriously?"  I burst into laughter.  "Madame showed you a video about sewers and it was called Crap Shoot?  That's freaking brilliant!"

"Not only that, but this is the second time I've seen it."

"I'm sorry?"

"I've seen it twice now."

I almost pee my pants.  "You've seen Crap Shoot twice?"

"Yes.  Last year in Science Class.  But that's not even the best part."

"There's a better part than just getting to watch a documentary about sewers called Crap Shoot?"

"There's this big sewer in Rome, one of the earliest sewers ever, and it's called the Giant Chicken Vagina."

"I'm sorry?"

"It's called the Cloaca Maxima - which is latin for Giant Chicken Vagina."

I snort.  "You're making this up!!"

"I am NOT!"

"This was in the documentary?"

"No, Connor just knows this because she lives on a farm.  A cloaca is part of the reproductive tract - pretty much a chicken vagina."

"So Cloaca Maxiuma would be...?"

"Giant Chicken Vagina."


"What is going on up there?" asks David from the kitchen below us.

"Clo...clo... Max... i... ma!"  My stomach hurts from laughing now. "Seriously??" I ask.

"Seriously.  Connor and I almost got kicked out of class last year because we were laughing so hard.  This year, Connor isn't in Geography class with me, so I had to keep the hilarity inside."

Even better?  I get to recount this to David when I go downstairs.  He too, was impressed with a sewer documentary called Crap Shoot.

"Hey Rissa!" I yell upstairs.


"Cloaca Maxima!!"


Wednesday, January 7, 2015

Cat Lap Dance...

Minuit, the oldest and most crotchety of our cats has a predilection for lap dances.  Not the pervy receiving of...  it's not like she's hanging around at the Brass Rail with $5 bills in her paws, waggling her eyebrows at the dancers.  This cat, this 6 year old, overweight feline... she gives a kick-ass, albeit slightly disturbing, lap dance.

Seconds after you sit on any sofa in our house, Minuit appears.  She wends her way over the arm of the sofa and begins her descent lapward.  She'll take a moment before slowly placing one paw at a time upon any and all available thighs.  On occasion, she has been known to straddle two laps, front paws on one and back on another.  Then, the kneading begins.  It's usually at this time that David says 'I'm out!'  and shifts her to my lap.

This morning, as Rissa snuggled up to me on the family room couch, Minuit bestowed her lap dance upon us.

"WHOA!!  NOT COOL MINUIT!!" from the kid.  Rissa turns the cat around so that her front paws are now on my lap.

As Minuit once more displays her mad kneading talents, Rissa cuts me a glance. 

"What?" I ask.  "I'm just trying to figure out how we can make money off this ability."

"You're so gross."

"I believe the word you're looking for is 'practical'."