Wednesday, December 5, 2018

Baby It's Banned Outside...

December 2018 - "Baby It's Cold Outside" is being banned from the radio waves left, right and centre - okay probably not from the right, but left and centre most definitely. Frank Loesser crafted his 1944 call & response song as a fun party piece to perform with his wife who thought the song was a gas to sing and was distraught when Loesser sold its rights to be used in the film Neptune's Daughter. If you've been living under a rock and don't know the plot... a "Wolf" (usually voiced by a male singer), tries to convince a "Mouse" (usually voiced  by a female singer) to stay the night or at the very least get to 1st base and maybe steal 2nd. (See lyrics at the bottom of this post.)

Yeah, when taken in a modern context, a couple of phrases read questionably. "Say what's in this drink?" and the 'aggressor's' continued pushing after she says "The answer is no," take on a whole new flavour in the MeToo era. Thing is? I can almost guarantee that Loesser didn't write this song about slipping the girl a Mickey Finn and wasn't intent on promoting date rape. When you contextualize the song given the time period, it is truly less about a guy strong-arming a girl into putting out, and WAY more about a girl worried about how her reputation will fare if she does. When sung well, (apart from the juxtaposition of those two lines) by a couple who obviously have the hots for one another (either with a man in the so-called 'power' position or with the woman in that role), the song should read as clever and flirtatious.

That said, last night when I watched Ricardo Montalban man-handle Esther Williams in this clip  from Neptune's Daughter, it creeped me the hell out. The pair don't really have any chemistry and I can almost feel the bruises on ol' Esther's arms after the choreography. But keep watching, because seeing Betty Garrett and Red Skelton do the role reversal is incredibly charming and very slap-stick. Double standard? Yep, you betcha.

I would love to say that sexual mores have changed a lot over the past 74 years. They haven't. Women continue to be shamed for proclaiming any sexual inclination, unmarried or otherwise. The song is rife with sexism - but the overtone of persuasive sexual advances is much less offensive to me than the expectations of female behaviour.  Why does she care what her mother, father, sister, brother, maiden aunt and neighbours think? What business is it of theirs if she is having consensual sex with someone?

All the mouse's waffling in the song - and there is soooooo much of it - seems to come from a fear of owning the fact that she wants to stay: "Well maybe just a half a drink more," "I ought to say, no, no, no..." "At least I'm gonna say that I tried," "Well maybe just a cigarette more." When one reads into every nuance of this ditty (and that's what we're supposed to be doing now), it becomes fairly apparent that somewhere between verses 3 and 4 the couple has had sex or at least a near facsimile thereof. She's asking for a comb to fix her state of disarray. I don't know about anyone else, but when I'm truly rumpled, it's from more than 1st base. I might have wrestled a bit before hand, 'cause I get off on that. And maybe this girl does too.

Apart from those two problematic lines, I dig the song.

But maybe I shouldn't. If this 1944 holiday song was filled with allusions to minstrel shows or outdated referrals to northern peoples - we wouldn't be having this discussion. The song would already be banned. But because it's garden variety sexism and sexism continues to cloud the lens through which we view the world, maybe I'm only a slightly more 'woke' version of women the generation before me who say "Aw c'mon - boys will be boys." Should I be more offended? By allowing this duet to play on public radio will it continue a pattern of sexual coercion and shame?

What I want is to have a dance company take multiple versions of the song and choreograph them to show the difference between flirtation and assault. I want a dozen covers showing exactly how charming and how uncomfortable it can be.

They can start with Pearl Bailey and Hot Lips Page's version.  It's just about perfect and Pearl is definitely the driver - in the Mouse role.

I really can't stay (Baby it's cold outside)
I gotta go away (Baby it's cold outside)
This evening has been (Been hoping that you'd dropped in)
So very nice (I'll hold your hands they're just like ice)
My mother will start to worry (Beautiful what's your hurry?)
My father will be pacing the floor (Listen to the fireplace roar)
So really I'd better scurry (Beautiful please don't hurry)
Well maybe just a half a drink more (I'll put some records on while I pour)
The neighbors might think (Baby it's bad out there)
Say what's in this drink? (No cabs to be had out there)
I wish I knew how (Your eyes are like starlight now)
To break this spell (I'll take your hat, your hair looks swell) (Why thank you)
I ought to say no, no, no sir (Mind if move in closer?)
At least I'm gonna say that I tried (What's the sense of hurtin' my pride?)
I really can't stay (Baby don't hold out)
Baby it's cold outside
I simply must go (Baby it's cold outside)
The answer is no (But baby it's cold outside)
The welcome has been (How lucky that you dropped in)
So nice and warm (Look out the window at that storm)
My sister will be suspicious (Gosh your lips look delicious!)
My brother will be there at the door (Waves upon a tropical shore)
My maiden aunt's mind is vicious (Gosh your lips are delicious!)
Well maybe just a cigarette more (Never such a blizzard before) (And I don't even smoke)
I've got to get home (Baby you'll freeze out there)
Say lend me a comb? (It's up to your knees out there!)
You've really been grand, (I feel when I touch your hand)
But don't you see? (How can you do this thing to me?)
There's bound to be talk tomorrow (Think of my life long sorrow!)
At least there will be plenty implied (If you caught pneumonia and died!)
I really can't stay (Get over that old out)
Baby it's cold
Baby it's cold outside!


Big Apple Blindness

I feel it happening almost as soon as I step outside of the conference. By the time I make my way to the top of Columbus Circle I know it's a goner. It's gotta be the cold air. My thighs have gone cold with the breezy NY air. My left thigh still has some warmth, but my right? Not so much.

My silicone-topped, stay-up stocking is slowly sliding down my thigh. I mince my way along to the benches adjacent to the entrance to Central Park and surreptitiously hike up the right stocking to its original resting place. I give myself a virtual high-five and begin walking to the Plaza where I have arranged to meet my friend Narda.

Five steps into my journey, my thigh and the stocking decide to part ways.  Victim to the unexpected meteorological changes, the stocking's lacy band slowly unfurls before resting delicately at the top of my ankle boot. My steps slow, but they do not stop.

My entire right leg is now visible. My pasty-white leg a beacon for all those walking on 59th Street. Then I start to laugh. I remember a story that my mother told me about a trip she'd taken to see the Parliament Buildings in Ottawa when she was 16. While she was walking on Rideau Street, one of her stockings had come loose from her garter belt, leaving her leg open to the elements.  She and her friends popped into a department store - probably the Bay - and attempted to rectify the situation in the elevator but found it too crowded and had to seek out the bathroom.  Like mother like daughter.

I put my shoulders back, lift my chin and just keep walking.

No problem Heather. This is not a problem. You're just an eccentric lady out for a walk... laughing in fits and starts as you make your way to the Plaza.  No one in NY looks down - there's too much to see around and up. So you just keep on smiling and keep on walking... 

Cheeks hurting from my manic grin - I make my way to the Plaza. And nobody paid attention. Not even the doorman for the Plaza apartments who can't help but see me as I crouch down to shove the lacy stocking top into my boot.

Narda and I meet up and head into Central Park, at which point I make a bee-line to a fence against which I can prop myself to take off my socks and stockings. I stash the defunct lingerie in my conference bag and then put my socks back on before zipping up my ankle boots once more.

"All right, let's move! Gotta walk to keep warm!"

I give Narda a quick and dirty tour of the Southern end of the park before we make our way to Macy's on 34th Street, where Narda purchases fun socks and I purchase some tights.

I of course forget to put the tights on while we're in Macy's proper. It isn't until we're in the vestibule at the main entrance with its LED ceiling and walls bathed in Christmas reds and greens and holidays scenes, when I remember that it is now cold outside and my chiffon dress will not offer much warmth especially now that the sun has gone down.

"We can go back in and find a bathroom," suggests Narda.

"Nah... I'm good here." I scoot off to the side and nonchalantly pull off my boots and socks.

Narda shakes her head.

"I'm telling you - this is NY - nobody notices anything outside their own sphere." I take my new tights out of their packaging. Crowds of people are heading through the vestibule - no one has yet to notice my bare feet.

"Uh-huh..." Narda rolls her eyes at me.

"Seriously." I lean against the wall and bend over, pull on the feet of my new tights and prep for a clandestine tight raise.

"Uh... miss? You probably don't want to be doing that here."

I look to my left, there is a hairy hipster in a plaid jacket looking very disappointed in me.

"That's the entrance panel to the store front windows. People need to get in and out right where you're leaning."

"Oh, I'll be done in just a moment."

Dude looks at me and then pointedly looks at the entrance panel.

"Oh. Right. By someone you actually mean YOU. Oh... YOU'RE doing the windows!  Very cool! Sorry about that."  Tights up to my calves, I bounce out of his way.

Stolen from a Guardian article about tights. 

Narda snorts. "Only you Heather. Only you."

"Not a problem. Window dude is now in there. He won't come out for a while. Nobody is paying attention, you shield me..."

I bend down to grab the waistband of the tights. Instantly, all the LED lights in the vestibule turn brilliant white.  No longer bathed in Christmas reds and greens - there is a blinding white LED light show of a festive snow storm bouncing off every surface in the space. The area around me is glowing - there may as well be a sign with flashing arrow pointing:


Narda and I are almost sick we're laughing so hard. And not a single person noticed.

Thursday, September 20, 2018

Welcome to 50!

Dear Heather:

"We are writing to invite you to get checked for colon (bowel) cancer." I'm sorry, you're...? reads the sentence again... You're inviting me to WHAT??  

"After age 50, your risk of getting this disease goes up."  How much?  How MUCH does it go up?? Could I get actual percentages here? Into what level of panic should I descend? And why have you BOLDED this text in your letter?!?

"The good news is that you can take steps to protect your health by doing an easy test called the fecal occult blood test (FOBT)." Fecal Occult Blood Test? OCCULT?!? Am I taking my poo and smearing it into a pentagram on the floor while I call up various demons from the Netherworld?

"The FOBT is a safe and painless cancer screening test that checks your stool (poop) for tiny drops of blood, which can be caused by colon cancer. You can do the test in the comfort and privacy of your own home, and it only takes a few minutes a day on three different days to complete." Wait? Have enough people sent in three pieces of wood from actual stools that Cancer Care Ontario had to define what "stool" is?

"Get your free FOBT from your family doctor or nurse practitioner!" 

Of course I had to Google it. There's a handy-dandy video!

Another perk of turning 50? My friend Kelly got me this great book!

I immediately open it, eager to discover new things. Its pages are completely empty. "HAH! This is amazing! It's a sex journal!"

"What? No! It's a gag book! It's empty! No sex after 50!" says Kelly.

"Gag book? You mean I'm not supposed to write all my post 50 sexcapades in here? I could invest in a fabulous sex pen!"


Thursday, September 6, 2018

And then we were carjacked...

Driving towards Rissa's university residence, we blithely follow the directions offered by the nice young people in their bright orange safety vests.

"Just drive around there folks, and they'll help you out."

I'm a bit confused - we are still relatively distant from her Residence. But we do it, we drive through the parking lot towards the dozen or more colourfully clad students. "Oh look there's a welcoming committee, isn't that..."

Clapping, stomping and whooping, these hoodlums swarm our Honda Civic.


"What's going on?!?" asks Rissa.

"They are apparently encouraging you to leave the car."

Our "Welcoming Committee" comes closer, faces at the window, yelling to a decibel level that seems impossible.


"Oh, crap!  Crap, I guess I'd better get out!" Rissa departs the vehicle.

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" The students explode with joy.

"I've got her!" says a young man in face paint and a dozen bandannas wrapped around his limbs. "You just drive up there and the guy in the vest will tell you when it's safe to go."

"When it's safe to go?"

"What's her name?" asks another student.


"RISSA!!" she yells as she checks off the name.

"RISSA!!!!!" Everyone else yells.

The student Sharpie scrawls onto a pre-printed, university-issue, green paper. "Here's her room number, you drive up to the Res. We've got your daughter." She hands us the piece of paper "Don't lose it or you'll never know where she is." She laughs.

They've got our daughter?  What the fuck just happened here?

We drive up to the guy in the vest.

"Is everything..."

"You just drive up there and we'll take care of everything."

"So she's just..."

"He's got her. She'll get there."

O...kay. We drive towards the Res.

"RIGHT THROUGH HERE FOLKS! RIGHT THROUGH HERE!!" Music is blaring, new packs, larger packs, of university students bounce up and down in excitement.


We show them the green paper.


"Uh... yeah, yeah... sure... it's okay."


(Perhaps now is a good time to mention that I was recently diagnosed with Endolymphatic Hydrops - an inner ear disorder that affects the fluid in the ear canals. Some of the symptoms make me super sensitive to sound, which in turns makes me dizzy and nauseated. Usually this isn't an issue outside, unless it's incredibly loud.)

I stagger out of the Civic. So much yelling. Music SO loud. I grasp blindly for anything to help me regain my balance - finally finding the car's side mirror. Okay... now I can help with the... I do a cartoon double-take to the back of the car. Everything's gone. All Rissa's stuff is GONE - two shopping carts are disappearing into the Res. They took my daughter and now they've taken all her stuff! I start to hyperventilate.

David is  incredibly thankful and commends everyone on their organization and energy. I can't breathe.

"You guys are fantastic!! Can we get a picture?"

A picture? He wants a picture of these people?!?


Head OUT? But we haven't... I haven't...

"PARKING LOT IS LOCATED HERE." The university-issue paper with Rissa's room number is turned over and we are shown a map to parking. "THIS ACTS AS YOUR PARKING PASS. YOU GO PARK NOW!"

We get back in the car. David says, "Wow - that was amazing! They are like a well-oiled..." He looks at my face. "Love...?"

Tears streaming down my cheeks, I shake my head. "I'm just going to..." I reach into my purse for my emergency ear plugs. "I'm just going to put these in."

We drive away from the Res. I have no idea where Rissa is. I have no idea where her stuff is. I have a few moments of hiccuping sobs before I get my shit together. Eventually, I blow out a calming breath.

"You okay?"

I nod. "They took her. Then they took her stuff. We were car-jacked."

"Oh love..."

"No, it's okay," I say. "It really is okay. It's amazing. You're right they ARE a well-oiled machine. It's  wonderful for all these kids to have such excitement, such joy when they arrive at school. I was just... I was... unprepared for it, is all."


The week leading up to this day provides me with the opportunity to do the best acting I've ever done in my life. She's so excited to get going - every day is a new thing that she's thrilled to talk about. All her Frosh Week activities, the messages on her chat groups... each thing has a new superlative and she is practically vibrating with anticipation. I respond positively to everything.

"It's so great that you're so excited for this!" I feel like I'm going to vomit. "Really? They'll have a carnival? That's great!!" I'm this much closer to death. "Yes, this is going to be the BEST THING EVER. Yay!!" My heart... my heart is... breaking.


I manage to stop the tears before we exit the car. Now in a full-fledged hydrops attack, I clutch David's arm so that I don't fall off the world as we walk back to the Res. I watch as other shell-shocked parents listen to the cheers and chanting and see their child's belongings disappear into the Res. We get directed to her floor and are greeted in the stairwell by another dozen excited students, this time chanting:


They're clapping and hooting. David has one arm and I'm clinging to the banister with my left hand; even with the earplugs firmly inserted, I'm so dizzy I feel like I could double for Sandy and Danny in the Shake Shack.

As we descend those stairs, the kids eventually notice that this particular parent is not so much "on the move," but instead, looks like she's going to keel over, or vomit, or both. They tone it down and I smile/grimace at them in thanks.

We get to Rissa's dorm, and knock politely. She bounds to the door Tigger-like, grabbing us both in a huge hug. And her smile? It could light up the galaxy. "HI GUYS!!!" She immediately goes back to unpacking her clothes. "I think I'm going to need more hangers. Can we get more hangers? I thought I'd counted them all, but somehow I think I don't have enough."

I rest on her bed and watch for a moment. I watch this person who grew in my body. This person I snuggled with, even last night, as we watched a movie together. This person I love so much, that our  impending departure at the end of the day is already making me feel like my organs will liquify. I  feel the panic creep into my chest and I close my eyes for a moment to regain my equilibrium.

And then I start helping her unpack.

Monday, August 20, 2018

Please see your doctor before attempting any new exercise regimen...

Ah, to have friends who share their cottage life! The bonfires! The smores! The water activities!!


David, 45, who spent his youthful summers at one cottage or other - boating, fishing and excelling at every water sport - is the first in the water - skiing. He gets up on the skis first try, does a quick loop in the bay before dropping a ski to go slalom. A huge grin on his face as he easily crosses over the wake - looking like a fit, fearless, 17 year old version of himself.

Back in the boat he still has a smile - flexing his hands, getting the blood flow back.

"How's your back?" I ask.

"Good!  Good. My back is fine! My arms are a little tired." He grins manically. "My hands have no feeling in them. I have forearm palsy! It's all good!!"

Rissa's turn. Our long-limbed daughter is on the tube with our friends' little girl. Rissa's torso fits on the tube, but her legs dangle in the water.  "HIT IT!" Big smile on her face as we start out. The grin slips as the speed increases, replaced by a determined grimace.  The physical limitation of not actually fitting onto the tube becomes apparent when we hit rough water and watch as she somersaults when her "leg-drag" becomes an issue. We offer suggestions when she drags herself back onto the tube

"Bend your knees!! Keep your feet in the air!!"


My turn. I'm on the same tube with the youngest of our friend's kids - a little boy aged 6, who weighs in at 22% of my body weight. Let us all cogitate on the physics of this weight disparity for a moment. Having learned from Rissa's run, I'm keeping my feet in the air,  I scootch up the tube as far as I can trying to find that distribution of weight sweet spot between sinking us and crushing the small child beside me. As the boat slowly starts out, I'm propped like a enigmatic Sphinx, resting on my elbows very pleased with myself. "I've got this!" My side of the tube is quickly dragged under the surface  and I immediately flip into the lake, inhaling 'fresh' water. I am then tasked with dragging myself back onto the tube. I reach for the handles.

"You good?"

"HIT IT!" yells the child beside me.

"NO!!" I'm channeling my inner seal - imagining that my body is all muscle.


"HIT IT!!"

"NOT YET!" My body is NOT all muscle.


I flex everything in my body (muscle, bone, cartilage, phlegm) and finally manage to hold myself propped in a somewhat balanced position.


"HIT IT!!!"

I was never that person who could rock the flexed arm hang for Canada Fitness Test. I just didn't have the arm or core strength. I wish that Ms. Rogerson could have seen me as I held my body weight on that tube for the entire length of the ride. Afterwards, my arms ache from my armpits to my knuckles. When I put my pajama top that night, I think I might die.

DAY 2 

David enjoys another stellar ski run - a little longer this time. Upon his return, he looks a wee bit concerned as his arms shake uncontrollably. "You good?" I mouth. He does his best to give me thumbs up, but can't fully extend his thumbs.

Rissa agrees to try her hand at water skiing for the first time. After 4 attempts she's on the skis for a triumphant few seconds.

This is huge for Rissa. As a perfectionist, the fact that she didn't bail after the first attempt is monumental. I congratulate her when she's back in the boat. "Great job kiddo!"

"I've just given myself a Conestoga Lake Enema."

As I'm prepping to ski for the first time in 32 years, I'm feeling optimistic. I was, after all, a gymnast.

"Even if I CAN get up immediately," I whisper to David. "I won't. I don't want to show Rissa up."

On my first attempt, as I'm pushing to standing, I feel something strain in my left ass cheek. My flight or fight response is telling me to swim away. And yet, I pooh-pooh my instincts and get myself set for another attempt. As the boat pulls away the second time, I feel the strain in my ass morph into a more 'tear' like sensation.

"We're done here."

There's still tubing to be had though. David partners up with the the middle child who weighs 22% of his body weight. His shoulders are pretty much as wide as the tube and he looks mystified as to how he will be able to hold on. At one point when they hit a rough patch he manages to pull her body out of the air and back down to the tube.

"How was that?" I ask. David's face is a little ashen.

"Every time we bounced I was sacked."

"You were...?"

He looks down to his crotch. "Sacked."

"Oh hon." I gently pat his thigh. He winces.

Rissa decides to use the inner tube the next time. She wedges her ass into its centre.  "If this sucker flips over, you have to come in and save me right away," she says. "I will not be able to extricate myself without help."

Before we reach warp speed, she has a brilliant smile on her face and she balletically points her feet - preening. As the speed increases, her smile fades. On the edge of the tube, her flailing legs have a distinctly Muppet-like quality to them.

"You good," I ask, upon her return to the boat.

"Conestoga Lake enema #2."


Later, as we pull into our driveway at home, David takes a steadying breath before he exits the car. Rissa lets out a strangled cry as she opens the car door and they both help me leave the vehicle.

"Where does it hurt?" I ask David.

"My entire right side from knee to nipple. And my forearms."


"Mostly forearms. Plus two lake enemas is two too many. I've never had that much water in my body ever."

They turn to me, each holding a side as I limp to the door, waiting for my prognosis.  "I broke my ass."

We all moan as we shut the front door.

"Next year? We train for 2 months beforehand. Agreed?" We attempt to raise our arms to shake on it, but can't.

Wednesday, May 16, 2018

When Cats ATTACK!

Steve  - An orange Tom cat - goofy, playful, more than a little             bit dumb

Lola   - A very petite black cat - nervous, silly, terrified if you           pick her up.

Minuit - A rotund, older black cat - crotchety, belligerent, sounds           like Edward G. Robinson

Heather & David - unsuspecting humans



Hey guys! Guys! there's a cat in 
our back yard. Hey GUYS!!

(returns to licking her stomach bald)


Seriously, guys! Super cute cat in
the backyard - she's black and white
and kind of stripey...

LOLA sneaks a peek over STEVE'S shoulder at the window. She sees the outdoor cat, then looks at STEVE



LOLA (hissing) 

Lola, it's me - Steve - your brother.

(growling and hissing at Steve)

LOLA hits STEVE on the head several times and runs away.

(now growling and hissing at Lola)

Hey guys?  Guys?


Lola runs up the stairs, followed closely by a snarling, unexpectedly-nimble Minuit.



I'm your sister!


(hiding under the bed)
Minuit, I'm your sister! 


 (startled out of deep sleep)
What the fuck?



Hey guys! Guys? GUYS. It's all good.
We're good here.


Minuit - STOP IT!!! Lola - get out from 
under the bed - jump up on something high. She can't
 follow you if you're up on something high
Minuit! It's Lola. Steve, just stay 
out of their way.

Snarling and hissing, all three cats leave the room.

What just happened?


It was like I was Captain America and they 
were both Bucky. They didn't know me. They 
could see me, but they didn't know me.

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

Today's period brought to you by Peri-Menopause!

Feeling too structured in your cycle? Wanting more spontaneity in your underwear choices?


Women all over the world are now enjoying less frequent periods while still getting all the blood loss they typically had--in shorter (or sometimes longer) times!

"I'm just thrilled with having my period again for the 2nd time in two weeks!"

"Who knew that back-pain could add
such dimension to my life?" 

"I love the delight of discovering my surprise visitor

|after 7 months of blood-free existence!"


* Peri-Menopause may not be as enjoyable for every women who enters it. Please discuss with your loved ones ways that you can make this 'Change of Life' a better one for you!

Sunday, March 25, 2018

The perils of activewear (ou les orteils de chameau)

I finally take the leap. After years of sewing and resewing, I toss my decade-old leggings with their worn, next-to-nonexistent inner thigh seams into the garbage. And just to be sure that I won't fish them out again when that bout of clothing nostalgia hits, I cover them in more garbage. Which means that I go from seven pairs of exercise pants down to... one.  A single pair of leggings for my weekly exercise needs.

Sure, there are probably people out there who hand wash their leggings everyday, but I ain't one of them. After sweating my ass off in Lycra-infused fabrics, the last thing I want to be doing is soaking and then squeezing Woolite through that sweaty-ass activewear in the kitchen sink.  Legging replenishment was now vital.

My daughter? She invests in Lulu Lemon leggings. She hoards birthday and Christmas money along with her gift cards and then makes a yearly pilgrimage to the White Omega-esque Icon (whatever the hell that is) so that she may add to her legging collection.  I can't do that. I just can't. Yes, they are well-made leggings, yes, they make most people's asses look fantastic, but they are $118.00! For a pair of fucking leggings. I firmly believe that leggings should be $20 or less, which is probably why all my inner thigh seams disintegrate. Now, if I were to do the math - Lulu Lemon leggings might actually be economical. Spending $118 on a pair of leggings which could potentially last for 10 years, at one wearing per week, 520 wearings... that's $118 divided by 520 that's only 22 cents per wearing - fairly reasonable, but to lay out $800 on leggings in one go? Sheer madness.

Instead, I go to Old Navy where they have leggings for $35 each, which still makes me gag at the cost but at least my ass would be covered for much, much less. So I squeeze that ass into a couple of different legging styles in the Old Navy change room, marvel at the fact that they retain their shape on and off and bring them home at a cost of only $237, which means I'll be wearing each pair at only a cost of 6 cents per wearing.  Margonomics ladies and germs. My old roommate, Margo, who has convinced me many, many times to buy clothing based on what I'd be willing to pay to wear it once.  "Yes, that designer velvet vest/shirt combo might be $278, but if you wear it 10 times that's only $27.80 per wearing. If you wear it 20 times? Only $13.90 per wearing." HUZZAH!!

I get them home, take off the tags and strip them of their sizing stickers. Then it's time to christen them in an exercise setting. I pull them on sans underwear, because they all have cotton gussets and why have to wash an extra pair of underwear if you don't have to?  My Go Dry Active Fitted leggings are snug. Snugger than they had felt in the change room. Pulling them on is more similar to wedging your way into a pair of tights, but after doing a little bit of the pantyhose dance, they are on.

I am now clad in fully formed leggings, not an open inner thigh seam to be seen anywhere. I know, because I have to look down and admire the hole-less leggings. I do a bit of a presentation in front of the mirror to enjoy my new purchases when I can't help but notice that I am sporting a very pronounced camel toe. The Go Dry Fitted quality to the leggings is proudly offering up my labia for the world at large. My womanly bits are plumped out as if they've just had a collagen treatment before Awards season.

I tug the crotch down a bit to make myself a little less porn.  Better, but still humped quadruped-y. I head downstairs. David is working on his computer as I enter the room.

"These," I announce, "are my new holeless leggings!" I do a little twirl. "What do you think?"

"Very nice," says David, briefly glancing up.

"They okay?" I ask.

He raises his head once more and actually looks this time. "They are..." His gaze zeroes in on the camel zone. "They're ah... They're... ah... form-fitting." He clears his throat.

"Oh," I say nonchalantly. "You mean this?" I tilt my hips forward.

That's when Rissa comes in. "What are you doing?"

"Just showing off my new..."

"Holy camel-toe Batman!"

"RIGHT?!? How am I supposed to wear these?"

"Are you wearing underwear?" Rissa asks, peering at me as discreetly as a daughter whose checking out her mother's junk can.

"No! They have a gusset-thingie, I shouldn't have to wear underwear."

"Uh... Mama? You have to wear underwear with those."

"What? Is this not a good look?" I hike up the waistband a little higher, to add to the visual joke, nearly doing myself an injury. "Oyeeeesh!"

"Simmer down there," from Rissa.

David still seems captivated.

"Maybe this is the look that they're hoping for?' I suggest.

"No," says Rissa. "No it isn't. Go put some underwear on!"

"But these are skin-tight, how can I...?"

"A thong! Put on a thong!" She points to the stairs and doesn't drop eye contact until I move.

"Fine. Fine."  I trudge back upstairs and struggle to pull off the left leg of the leggings wondering if I can maneuver my way into a cotton thong, without having to pull down the right leg completely.  I let out a small shout of triumph and I realize that through the power of transdimensional physics I totally can, "WHOO-HOO!!!"

"You all right up there?" yells David.

"Oh yeah! I have mad dressing skills!" I shimmy back into the other leg and check out my junk in the mirror before heading downstairs once more.

"All good?" I ask, presenting my pelvis again.

David and Rissa check me out.

"You're good," says David, sounding slightly disappointed.  Rissa shoots him a look.

"You're fine. Very Rated G. Good job."

Thursday, January 18, 2018

Do you qualify for our discount today?

"Do you qualify for our discount today?"

"What discount?" I asked. Even though, from the moment the word 'discount' left her lips, in the back of my head, I knew what she was going to say. But in that 1/4 of a second it took her to reply, I found myself silently begging...  Please don't say Senior, please don't say Senior please don't say Seniorplease don't say Seniorplease GOD don't say Senior.

"Our Senior Discount."

There it was. January 18, 2018. I was mistaken for someone 65 years of age. I am 49 and a half. My birthday's in July.

Instead of laughing out loud at the absurdity of it, I woodenly said "No," while vainly reeling from shock. As I swiped my debit card I justified the mistake. She's young(er), it was because I had asked for iron pills, she saw me limp up after my dance rehearsal as my arthritic hips gave me grief, she doesn't know that asking a middle-aged woman if she qualifies for the Senior Discount is the equivalent to asking a woman who carries a few extra pounds if she's pregnant.

Just a number. It's just a number. It's a number over a decade more than my actual number... but it's just a number. I drove home, my self-pity holding me in a near-hypnotic daze.

I walked into the house. David and Rissa shouted cheerful "Hellos."

"Would you please look up what the Shoppers Drug Mart Senior Discount age is?" I asked, my confidence pathetically crawling along on the floor beside me.  Just a number, it's just a number.

"Sure," said David. "Why are we looking up..."

"Because the girl at the Pharmacy counter asked if I qualified for the Senior Discount!"

There were quickly stifled snorts of laughter from the peanut gallery.

"Not cool guys.  Not. Cool."

When I entered the living room, David and Rissa were each racing on their laptops to find the information. "65 years," David winced. "But some stores, might lower it to 55"

"I am 49 fucking years old! At the least she thought I was 5.5 years older than I am and at the most 15.5 YEARS!! Oh my God! Unless she thought I was 70!! I was having such a good week!"

And then it struck me. "When I went up to the counter, I was wearing my fucking pink sock monkey hat!!"

"This same hat, 3 years ago, got me carded at the LCBO!! Which means that in the past 3 years I have apparently aged 40 years, because they ask anyone who looks 25 years or younger for their ID at the LCBO.  Bring me my hat - this needs to be documented."

"Oh Mama," said Rissa. "You don't look 65."

"It's not that I want to be mistaken for 35," I grumped, slamming the hat back on my head. "I don't even mind being mistaken for my actual age. I don't mind being 49. I LIKE being 49! I'm kicking ass at 49!! But Sixty-fucking-five?!?"

"You totally should have taken the discount," said Rissa.

"If I hadn't been so gutted, I would have," I said, as David grabbed his phone to take my picture.

"You do not look 65," said David. "You do not look 55. You don't look 49." He kissed me before shooting the photo above. "You are a stunning woman who put all other woman to shame. A Goddess. My Goddess."

Next time? I'm strutting up to that Pharmacy counter in all my Goddess glory and I'm taking the fucking discount.