Because a cat's the only cat who knows where it's at.

"Hey there Handsome," says Rissa.

"Well, HE-LLO!" I reply, modulating my voice to a lower, much sexier, register.

"I am not talking to you," she says. "I am talking to Steve, obviously."

"Obviously."

"Because he is the handsomest being in this house," she continues.

"Yes. Yes he is."

"Did I just lose a beauty pageant to a cat?" queries David from the living room.

"You did. Sorry love."

"I am offended."

"You don't have to be. Few can compete with Steve's perfection."

Grumble, grumble, grumble... from the living room.

"If it's any consolation, your tummy is much more attractive than his, since he started licking it bald."

"I'm not sure it is."

DON'T STEP ON THE TEETH!!

"Uh-oh," I say as I'm about to step into my bedroom.

"What?" asks Rissa.

"Hold these," I say, pushing freshly washed sheets into her arms. (Sidebar: have I mentioned that I have a kid who never complains when I ask her to be my Plus One in household chores? She's a fucking unicorn.)

"Why?" She looks around suspiciously.

"I had a little ceramic box on my dresser that holds pins and baby teeth. The cats must have knocked it off. Everything's on the carpet now."

"You have a box that... You...?" She shoots a horrified glance to the floor.

"Just don't step on the carpet. I don't want you to step on a pin."

"Or a BABY TOOTH?!?"

"Or a baby tooth," I say as I start to gather up the debris.

"You kept my baby teeth?"

"Uh... yeah..." Obviously.

"You have my baby teeth in a box."

"With pins."

"Ewwwww... That's so fucked up. EEEEEEEWWWWW!!!"

I shoot her a confused look. "Everybody keeps baby teeth. Plus, you're going to be a nurse, you should be okay with this."

"A nurse. NOT a dentist." She shudders. She reaches for a baby tooth and almost vomits.

"You're SO weird."

"I'M SO WEIRD?!?"

***

FYI everyone - according to DOCTORS - parents are supposed to keep baby teeth. You know, in case your kid needs a stem cell replacement. Mind you, I didn't know this until today when I Googled it, but still...

https://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/parenting/news/a36607/why-you-should-save-your-babys-teeth/

THE PANIC LIAR

David sucks at stopping conversations. When he has the opportunity to make a declarative statement that will allow him to be able to walk away? He can't do it.

Thursday, March 12, right before it was announced that schools would be closed and the shit had yet to actually hit the fan, David was antsy to get home. He was in rehearsals with his students for the student-written, one-act play festival. They rehearsed three afternoons a week. At 4:30 p.m., the last day before March Break, with the exuberance of teenage drama kids, they were champing at the bit to go through their plays "Just one more time, Sir?"

"Guys," said David. "No can do. I've gotta get home." (This is where he should have stopped talking.)  "It's my turn to cook dinner. It's Perogy Night!"

(There is no Perogy Night.)

"Perogy Night?!?  Really?  Cool! Do you make them yourself?"

"I do!" (He doesn't.)

"Really? The dough and everything?"

"Oh yeah!" (Nope.)

"How do you cook them?"

"Oh, I boil them up first and then like to brown them in a frying pan." (Really? You don't just take them from the freezer and nuke them and brown them?)

"What are you filling them with tonight?"

"Cheddar, bacon and chive." (And chive?!?)

David is a panic liar. He can't do small talk. He invariably says something interesting enough that there will always be follow up questions. Witness what happened when he bought a suit.

When I asked him how the perogy debacle had manifested, he said, "I didn't want to tell them that the thought of having to watch them rehearse it one more time would make my brain implode."

"You were trying to be nice."

"I was trying to be nice."

"That's a good thing."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Next time though, don't tell them that you have to go home to feed your alpaca."

I HAVE BECOME A MEME

"I've decided against cutting my own hair," I say before heading upstairs to have my shower.

"That's probably a wise decision," says Rissa.

"Yeah, I can just wait until social distancing is over."

"Good choice."

I'm not sure exactly what happens before I make it into the shower, but somehow there are scissors in my hand.

I remember going into my bedroom, and divesting myself of all my sweaty exercise clothes. I know that I walk to the bathroom and remove my Fitbit. I start to pull the hair elastic from my hair... It has to be the hair elastic. I touch that hair elastic and the subliminal messaging embedded in the Unicorn Cut and Double Unicorn hair cutting videos that I'd been consuming over the weekend compel me. I am a fucking sleeper agent!

I tie my (Dry! What for the love of Vidal Sassoon possessed me to do this dry?) hair off with the hair elastic and cut.





I pull out the hair elastic to see the results.

"Uh-oh."

"You okay up there?" asks Rissa.

"Um... yeah...?"

"Heather?" Now David is calling upstairs. "You okay?"

"Yes," I say faintly, looking at the sharp line of hair that is now my first layer.

"Heather!!"

"I'm okay," I murmur, transfixed by my reflection.

"We're coming up!!"

I am standing naked and dazed in front of the mirror.

"Ma," says Rissa. "When we call you, you have to answer right away. You need to let us know you're okay." (She may be referring to previous incidences of me saying "Uh-oh" before I fall over.) Her shoulders slump and she gives me the resigned-child look. "Did you just cut your own hair?"

"I just cut my own hair."

"Ma, you just said..."

"Oh, thank God," says David as he hits the doorway, Kramer-like. Always my biggest cheerleader, he says, "Hey that's not..." I turn to face him with my dry-cut Mullet. "...terrible."

"I don't know what happened," I say, staring at the scissors. "I just don't know."

"Oh, Ma," says Rissa.

"How is it that this part is soooooo short, but this, is still soooooo long?"

"You can always take a bit more off the bottom to even it out," says Rissa. She puts my hair over my shoulders. "Just take this much more off." She indicates a couple of inches. "No, no wait, let me actually comb a part so that we're doing this scientific-like."

"I just gave myself a Unicorn Cut, can science really help me?"

"It'll be fine."

I cut another two inches from the bottom layer and then I use the twirl and cut method that I think I've seen my stylist use to get rid of the choppiness.

I hop into the shower and feel the bulk of hair at the top and the lack of bulk at the bottom. Even my hands know I've done a bad, bad thing.

Strangely though, when I towel dry my hair and throw some detangler in, it's not that bad. Oh, I'd be completely fucked if I tried to wear it straight - but curly? Curly, I might just be able to con people into believing nothing has happened. #badpandemicdecisions

I AM NEITHER PREGNANT NOR HAVE I WET MYSELF

When you dress for the day, you think to yourself, 

I feel so confident in my pseudo retro-look! My posture is something my mother can be proud of! My shoes match my skirt almost exactly!!!

And then you see photographic evidence of yourself from that day...

Ladies and Germs I give you Heather from a January 2020 event.

How far along am I? That's a great question Susan.

Why yes, I AM Ralph Kramden's sister!

"Fold and Shadow in the Skirt"

And then it struck me, This is not the first time I've created a post like this:
http://whatthepoohdude.blogspot.com/2012/12/never-take-pictures-of-me-when-im.html

Surviving your toddler's cold

There he is, seated on the love-seat next to the kitchen. In his striped onesie. Trying to blow his nose.

"Morning love," I say.

"Borning," he manages. He is adorable.

"You hungry?"

"Yeb, pleebe."

"How about some eggs?"

He nods sadly. "Pleebe." Poor guy looks so exhausted. I know that he didn't sleep well last night. I ruffle his hair.

I make him a fried egg on toast and bring him a glass of O.J. to wash it down.

"You good, love?"

"Yeb. Dank you."

I turn to plate my own breakfast.

"Oh... doh." He sounds like he's about to cry.

"What is it?"

He looks down at the front of his onesie. "I drobbed egg on me."

Sure enough there's a trail of runny yolk down his chest.  "It's okay love. I'll get you a cloth."  I grab one from the drawer and wet it.

"I'b a toddler," he says as I start to wipe off the yolk.

It is now official. My 46 year-old husband, in his striped onesie, does not have a "Man Cold," he has a "TODDLER COLD."

beware the pre-christmas pluck...

I just want to be at my best for Christmas Eve dinner, you know? Well-presented. Whisker-free. Having spent a great deal of time yesterday absentmindedly playing with my chin and neck hairs, I knew that this morning should really be dedicated to the pre-Christmas pluck.

I head to the bathroom with purpose. I ablute as per my regular morning routine and prep my supplies: industrial tweezers and magnifying mirror. All goes well for the first half dozen whiskers. Then, as I'm turning my neck to get to one of the really determined, nearly-invisible buggers, I feel a twinge. Have I? Have I really done this? Yes, yes I have. I have displaced a rib. By moving my neck. It's December 24th. We are travelling 3 hours in the car. This seems to be the perfect time to be really high on muscle relaxants.

I spend the next five minutes on my bedroom floor trying to get a tennis ball to adjust me. No luck.

I head downstairs to greet David. He notices that I'm grimacing a titch.

"What is it?"

"I displaced a rib."

He snorts. "Of course you have. How?"

"Tweezing."

He cocks his head to the side and raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

"I turned my head instead of turning my whole body to get more light on the bastard hairs." I plunk myself down sideways on his lap. "Could you please press really hard around my left shoulder blade?"

He uses the heel of his hand.

"A little up... To the left. Yeah! YEAH!! There!!" I lean into it.

"Whoa! Whoa! If my hand slips you're going to skewer yourself on the corner of the mantle. Use my head."

I move so that I'm now centred on his lap. He pushes the top of his skull against my shoulder blade. I lean back...

"Whoa! Whoa! Holy Crap you're strong!" Checking for whiplash, he circles his neck before pressing his elbow against my back.

"That's it!  That's it!! Right there!!" I am now desperately trying meld my body with David's as I push back into his elbow.

"Whoa! Whoa!! Too much!!" He moves his shoulder to ensure it hasn't been dislocated. "Have you tried leaning against a tennis ball?"

"Yeah. Upstairs." I breathe in and wince. "Yeesh." I breathe out carefully before tentatively adjusting my shoulders. "Okay... no problem. I can be high all day, right? You'll drive?"

Merry Christmas everyone! Here's to a very HAPPY and very HEALTHY New Year!

JOHN WICK'S LITTLE WHITE LIES

Originally, David wants me to go to our local Community Theatre's Costume Shop and "pick up a black suit that should fit." He is perplexed when I explain that were I to pick out a suit without him there, that the suit would not fit.

"You're going to actually have to try a suit on."

David scowls. He is not a fan of shopping.

"I'm going to have to shop? Alone?"

"Well, if you want to get a cheap suit in time for Halloween, yes, you are going to have to do this alone. You've never bought a suit so this is a good excuse."

"But where do I go?"

"International Clothiers?? Check the mall directory in Oshawa - they'll probably have one."

~~~

David enters International Clothiers. There is an elderly couple bickering about the winter jacket that the octogenarian is holding while a teen aged sales associate looks on in bewilderment.

"I don't LIKE this coat!"

"Just try it!"

"Myrtle, I don't like it!"

"It will be be warm!"

"The tag is itchy"

"You haven't put it on yet!"

"The tag will be itchy!"

"We'll cut the tag out!!"

David and the sales associate share a commiserative look before she comes over to ask if she can help. David holds up his phone.

"I would like a suit so that I can look like this." He shows her the photo.

The sales associate looks at the photo, looks at David's face and then looks back at the photo. "Oh my God! You could totally be John Wick!" She gives him a high five.

"Do you have a suit that would work??"

She glances around. "Not really. You'd really have to piece it together." She looks covertly around the store then whispers, "Go to Tip Top Tailors. They should be able to set you up."

~~~

The older Italian woman at Tip Top Tailors looks at the photo. She turns away.

"Don't you need to measure me?" he asks.

She looks him up and down. "No."

She pulls out a black suit jacket, matching pants, a black shirt and tie. "Put these on."

"Shouldn't I have another size, just in ca..." He stops talking when she shoots him a deeply offended look.

He comes out of the dressing room in shock. The sales associate has the suggestion of a smile on her face. "Good." She's not asking a question.

"It all fits!"

The sales associate's eyebrows rise. David puts his arms over his head in awe.

"The shirt sleeves are long enough."

"You need a tall shirt."

It is a revelation to David.

As the sales associate is ringing up the purchases, she asks,"You're going to a Halloween party?"

An introvert, David doesn't generally like to prolong conversations.

"Yep."

"Is it a fancy party?"

"Oh yeah!"

"Are you going with a date?"

"Yep! My wife!"

"What's she wearing for her costume?"

Now David is stuck. He is conversing. If he admits that he is actually not going to a fancy party, nor that his wife is coming along to the imaginary party, that he is, in fact, dressing up for his high school where he teaches Communications Technology, it will get awkward.

"Oh... I'm not sure what she'll wear. Something new or her old standby."

"What's the old standby?"

"A mermaid!" he blurts.

~~~

"But I have never worn a mermaid costume," I say, slightly dazed, as I gaze upon the glory of my very own John Wick. I am fingering the lapels of his slim-fitting jacket.

"I panicked."

"Apparently."

"But I remember you wearing something shimmery and silky and your face was green one year..."

My brows lower as I mentally itemize my various costumes.  "My face was... Do you mean with the blue, satin sheet as a toga and the snakes in my hair? My Medusa costume?"

"Maybe...?"

"How is Medusa anything like a mermaid?"

"If your hair was in the water it would move around sort of like snakes."

~~~

"I would like shopping, if shopping could always be this easy, " he says.

"So what you're saying is that you need a no-nonsense, Italian woman as your personal shopper whenever you need clothes?"

"Pretty much."

John Wick (pre beard mascara)

Full of Moist

I'm standing in the kitchen - fighting with a safety pin to ensure that my tatas don't escape my cotton summer dress. The sweat is... everywhere. My forehead, neck, décolletage... Between my shoulder blades, the curve of my ass... MY FUCKING SHINS!

I start to hyperventilate in discomfort. I'm nauseated.

David looks at me. "Love, are you okay?"

I burst into tears. "NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I wail.

"Oh love, it's okay."

"It's not, it really isn't. I'm SO hot. It's so fucking humid. Meaghan and Ron are WRONG. S...s...summer is n..not the b...b....best season!"

David attempts to hug me.  I recoil.

"Don't!! DON'T!! I'm so sweaty. I'm disgusting!"

"You're not disgusting."

"I AM!!!"

"Do you want to stay home?"

"YES!!!"

I am supposed to go with David to his Step-Mom's house to help him sort through his father's stuff. I am supposed to have dinner with David and his son. I am supposed to be a rational and functioning member of society.

I'm in the midst of a humidity tantrum.

"It's okay, you can stay home. You don't have to come."

"I... don't?" I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. David gives me a tissue and I blow.

"You don't."

"I w...wanted to," I sob apologetically. "I wanted to go..."

"I know you did. But you don't have to."

"I'm so sweaty."

"I know."

I start struggling with the buttons of my dress. I'm a rabbit caught in a cotton pastel plaid trap. I start to panic.

"Whoa... it's okay."  David hold me still and helps me get my arms out of the dress and undoes my brassiere.

"Th...thank you." I'm still crying.

"Go change and I'll get you the cool pack from the freezer."

Sniffling, I stumble up the stairs, dropping my slip as I go. I find a cotton nightie and slip it over my disgustingly moist body.

David meets me in the living room. The window air conditioner is on full blast. He helps me drape a cool pack around my neck. He cracks open a sparkling water and sets it on a tray on the ottoman.

"Okay. Here's your phone and your e-reader. You can plant yourself here until your temperature has come down."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. And you can always have a cold shower."

I burst into tears again. "I already DID!!! After I exercised, I h...h... had a cold shower!! And the minute I got out, I was already swea...sweating!  I even stood in front of the fan in our room to dry the sweat before putting my dress on but it didn't help, so I put powder everywhere and now I'm ca...caked in wet baby powder... and I'm STILL sweaty!!!"

David bites his lip. "I'm sorry... I know it's not funny..."

"I know I'm ridiculous! I know that!!!"

David just puts his arm around me. "It's okay. This is a day for me anyway. You don't need to be there to go through Dad's stuff with me..."

I sob louder. "I'm so sorry!"

"No, it's okay. It really is. You take the afternoon and relax. Read. Watch some trash t.v. and cool down. I'll see you tonight."

30 minutes later I have managed to come back to my senses. I go upstairs to get dressed. Pulling my nightie off, I notice some dirt on my stomach. How could I have possibly gotten dirt on my...?

I look closer.

It's not dirt.

It's a moth.

Earlier, when I'd stood in front of the fan in a vain attempt to dry the post-shower sweat, a dead moth had been blown against my stomach. The sweat from my body allowed that dead moth to stick to me - a Southern Ontario tattoo, so to speak.

I let out a snort of laughter. And then I head downstairs where the AC is blasting and my e-reader is packed with downloaded library books. I'm aiming to immerse myself in delicious steampunk vampire/werewolf smut and get the good kind of moist.

Yes summer, you and your fucking humidex may have momentarily brought me to an emotional/physical low, but I'm hydrated now and I have enough media to keep me occupied until the humidity breaks. Just two more months and it will be autumn. And I will dance at your funeral summer. I will dance.

And that is why you put your toys away...

It felt as though we were missing a limb for about eight months,  but we managed to survive Rissa's first year at university.

However, with no one to "adult" for, we devolved into teenagers ourselves. We forgot to do laundry, haphazardly cleaned the house and rarely grocery shopped. Rissa would come home for a weekend and clear the fridge of expired items for us.

"What are you guys eating? How many frozen pizzas do you ingest in a week!?!"

We didn't have to worry about food for Rissa's lunches, so there was no need to head out every Sunday and grab juice boxes, mini yogurts, and sandwich fixings. David took a salami and crackers to work and I existed on Protein Bars at the office.

We both began to work late. David was in rehearsals after school for various drama projects, and with no one to welcome me home except the cats, I felt there was no real point in my rushing to leave the office. Not to say that having a ginger Tom, his high-strung sister and our crotchety, arthritic senior cat at the door didn't ease the pain, but walking past Rissa's empty room for the first 5.5 months of the school year kicked me into cardiac arrhythmia.

Settling into our sans enfant routine after Reading Week, we realized that vegetables existed and that we didn't have to carve out intimacy or Running-Around-Naked-Time. To be fair, I have always enjoyed my Running-Around-Naked-Time, but David seemed to revel in striding around majestically without having to throw on underwear.

We had sex whenever and wherever the urge struck us, and we weren't quiet about it. We had dinner at friends' places and stayed out late.

Rissa arrived home at the end of April. We easily went back to our regularly scheduled programming of sofa-snuggling, binge watching Netflix and family dinners.

We didn't realize the shift in what had been our non-parental status quo until a couple of weeks ago, when Rissa was out with friends. Feeling amorous during an afternoon nap, we were well on our way to the Big Finale when the downstairs door crashed open, and Rissa sang out, "I'm ho-me!!" Nothing like a good case of coitus interruptus to put  Return of the Child into its true cock-blocking perspective.

We didn't despair. With Rissa working nights from 10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. at a health-care facility, we knew that climactic sex was on the horizon.

Early Friday night, I enjoyed a lowball of spicebox whiskey. Before we headed up to bed I had the epiphanic recollection that with pot now legal in Canada, a friend had been kind enough to roll a joint for me. Having placed said joint with my vitamins on the bamboo lazy susan - above the stove where the cats couldn't mistake if for catnip - I grabbed said joint and smoked 1/4 of it...

This note was waiting for us in the main bathroom on Saturday morning:

The arrow was pointing to the toy.  Feel free to enter the
pool betting on what the toy was and its colour.

Turns out that after we had our mind-blowing, child-not-in-the-house sex, we HAD remembered to clean our accompanying sex toy in the bathroom, but we HAD NOT remembered to take it back to our room. Oh, and when I smoked up? Because I'd already imbibed my Spicebox Whiskey and was a little tottled, I enjoyed those few puffs in the windowless 1/2 bath downstairs. The main floor smelled like a frat house.

It would appear that I have yet to leave teenager mode.

Watch out for the permanent intergalactic concrete.

Did you know that to get new countertops you have to purchase entirely new base cabinets upon which you can place said countertops? It doesn't seem logical to me. I mean, when you've got cabinets...

...FUNCTIONING... underneath the countertops, surely I can remove the existing countertops, attach the new ones, et voilà! BRAND NEW KITCHEN!!! 

Now perhaps you are asking yourself why those charming 4 x 4 tile countertops need to be removed in the first place.  Let's go macro for a second...

That's not dirty grout. That is grout that has been cleaned, nay bleached, repeatedly. You could eat off those countertops - they just look like shit. The grout is so old and discoloured that it needs to be painted quarterly in advance of any public gathering that we host. And yeah, after I paint the grout, it doesn't look that bad apart from the cracked tiles. But the fact that you can't fucking wipe crumbs off the counters because they get stuck in the multiple layers of grout paint over top of the grout has made me mental ever since we bought the house.

Smooth countertops. That's all I want. I want to be able to actually wipe them - not have to use a Shop-Vac on them. I want countertops that are not only clean, but that look clean. And I have wanted this for the past 5 years. So this is the year. This is the year that we update our kitchen by changing those fucking countertops. 

This is our plan. Unbeknownst to us, this plan of action only works if your countertops aren't tile. 

Oh sure, you might think that you'll be able to salvage the existing cabinets and you... are adorable. Because when it comes down to removing those countertops, you realize that the fuckers who installed the tile countertops, screwed the backing board from the top down and the only way to get to those screws, is to remove the tiles, which is pretty fucking much impossible because they've been adhered using what must be permanent intergalactic concrete. 

But you try. You sure do try to pry those rat bastards away from their backing board. You chisel, you hammer, you pry bar, you thank God you are wearing safety goggles when tiny shards of tile ping off the goggles instead of piercing your corneas.

Can you get a full tile off? NO, you cannot. Can you get to any screws? One. You can get to a single fucking screw. Can you unscrew it? NO. It is filled in with permanent intergalactic concrete. 

This is when you realize that the only way you'll be able to remove those countertops is if you buy special diamond-encrusted blades for three types of saws (jig, circular and sabre) to cut through the tile, its permanent intergalactic concrete adhered backing board, the screws attaching the board to the top of the cabinet and the top of the cabinet. Somewhere in the midst of this adventure, you also come to the realization that it is ridiculous to think that 'salvage' has ever been an option, when the 'cabinets' are held together like this:

This is my kitchen cabinet to the left of my stove.
This is what we found when we took out the drawers
and pried off the molding.

What even IS this? Why are there 1x6s
on end between the two 'cabinets'? Are these shims?

There are no tops to these cabinets. There are no bottoms to these cabinets. They have been built in place using spare wood to make 'sides' with enough nails to make crucifiers jealous.

In our excavation I found a weapon I can use
when I fight in Game of Thrones.

So you use your diamond encrusted blades and cut through those tile countertops... like hot knives through very, very, very hard, screaming butter. Without the countertops the cabinets below pretty much give up and collapse. In a few short hours, 7 base cabinets are decimated. You move them all into the backyard, where they shall sit under the pergola until spring arrives. 

And then you sit down, with a large scotch and your laptop, and you order new cabinets from IKEA. 

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:

CRAZY LADY WITH HER ASS ON DISPLAY!!

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

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!"

Tomato-Tomahto.

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!!

DAY 1

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!!"

"THIS INFORMATION WOULD HAVE BEEN USEFUL EARLIER!!"

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.

"Now?"

"HIT IT!!"

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

"Now?"

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

"Okay..."

"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."

"Riss?"

"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.

When Cats ATTACK!

THE CHARACTERS
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

***

INT. KITCHEN

STEVE

Hey guys! Guys! there's a cat in 

our back yard. Hey GUYS!!

LOLA

 Hmmmm?
(returns to licking her stomach bald)

MINUIT

 "M...YEAH."

STEVE

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
WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!?

STEVE

 Hunh?

LOLA (hissing) 

WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!?
HOW DID YOU GET IN MY HOUSE?!?

STEVE

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

LOLA
(growling and hissing at Steve)
GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!! 

HOME INVASION!!!  THERE'S A HOME 

INVASION HAPPENING RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!!!

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

MINUIT

(now growling and hissing at Lola)

WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!?

STEVE

Hey guys?  Guys?

MINUIT & LOLA

HOME INVADER!!!!

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

INT. HUMAN'S BEDROOM

MINUIT 

WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!?

LOLA

I'm your sister!

MINUIT

I'VE NEVER SEEN YOU IN MY 

FUCKING LIFE!!!

LOLA
 (hiding under the bed)

Minuit, I'm your sister! 

MINUIT

GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HOUSE!! 

GET OUT!!!

HEATHER & DAVID

 (startled out of deep sleep)
What the fuck?

MINUIT

HOME INVADER!!!

LOLA

YOU'RE THE FUCKING HOME INVADER!!! 

STEVE

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

MINUIT & LOLA

HOME INVADER!!!!

HEATHER

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.

DAVID
What just happened?

INT. CAT THERAPIST'S OFFICE

STEVE

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.

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

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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!

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