Microbes for Movember???

So this appeared in my news feed recently...

Movember moustaches may hold hazards

Seriously?  This is a news story?  What is the CBC doing?  And show of hands, how many men out there don't wash?  And by that I mean EVER.  How many don't wash their faces EVER?  How many don't take the time to wash after having raw fish and/or spaghetti and/or steak tartar? How many wait days and days and days with food and or bodily fluids resting upon your facial hair before you wash? Anyone?  'Cause I'm pretty sure that's when you're going to have hazardous microbes in your 'stache.

So, if you ARE one of those dudes who NEVER washes your face - for God's sake START WASHING - you are not a teenaged goat!  But otherwise, could the CBC stop trying to instill panic in the public at large not to mention the dudes who are just trying to raise awareness for men's health issues??

I think my fingers are having a stroke...

Or... I'm being possessed by the spirits of homophones past.  Instead of the word 'do' I type 'due.' Instead of 'red' I type 'read.'   I actually typed 'aisle' instead of 'I'll' this morning.

So?  Any thoughts?  Any closet neurologists out there?  'Cause right now?  I think I might be in a cross between Memento, Primer & Inception, my mind's feeling THAT fucked.  It's not like they're just typos.  Is this where all those brain injuries I've had through my life are coming back to haunt me?  I really should have had that brain MRI a loooooong time ago.

Does anyone else do this sort of stuff?  And before you suggest it - I don't use auto-spelling. I don't do text speak.  EVER.  That's not what's happening here.   I spell out my words - I never even type "laugh out loud" let alone the ... the... acronym for it.  (Just can't do it - would rather drive a frickin' nail through my eye.) I usually write "hee hee hee" to indicate I'm giggling or "HAH!" to indicate a guffaw of laughter.  And just to really screw me over this morning, it took me a full 30 seconds to come up with the word 'acronym' just then.  BANJO!  Just checking.  I don't use "8" for the 'ate' sound.  So WHAT.  THE.  POOH. 

Last night, I was trying to explain the misplacing my homophones thing to David.  I then spelled the wilderness mammal BEAR as B A R E.  And that was NOT my intention.

"You just spelled B A R E."

"No I didn't!"

"You totally did!"

"Oh God, that's it.  I'm having a stroke right now.  Or I've had a stroke and I've lost all my homophones.  Is my mouth drooping?"

"No, your mouth isn't drooping.  Why would you only lose homophones?"

"It's not just homophones - I lost BANJO the other day, and... and... I lost - SWEET MOTHER OF ALL THESAURUSES...  What else did I lose?"

"I don't know sweetie."

"You see?  OH GOD.  You could totally Gaslight me!!!  If you wanted, you could totally  Gaslight me.  I think I'm losing my mind anyway - so how would I even know?"  I back away from him in the bed, my eyes wild and wide.

"Good thing I'm not independently wealthy.  All you could get would be some crazily bad lounge music and a plethora of holiday decorations with a side of vintage dresses.  Maybe it's the dresses you're after!!!"

He shoots me a look of utter disbelief.

"Although frankly your back is much wider than mine and you'd have to have them altered.  No, not possible.  The amount of body hair that you'd have to shave/wax would deter that.  You don't even like it when I pluck your shoulder hair."

"Shhhh.... It's okay..."  He tucks me into his side and kisses me on the forehead.

"It's NOT okay.  I'm having weird-ass aphasia!"

"Sweetie if you didn't remember the word 'aphasia' then I'd be worried.  I think you're good."

"Due ewe reely mien it?"

If I were ridiculously wealthy...

The phrase "SPARE NO EXPENSE!!!"  would readily fall from my lips.  My holiday shopping would be joyfully a la carte.  I would tip with bills, not toonies.

I don't have that kind of disposal income... right now.  But very soon, very soon (insert scheming world-domination maniacal laughter here) it shall come to pass...

So here's what's going to happen until then.  Every time I see something that I know my loved-ones would go apeshit for, but I can't afford - I'm going to file it.  And for Christmas, I'm going to let everyone know about all the things I will get them when I am ridiculously wealthy.

I'm starting file folders for everyone I know.  That way, when I see that $700 etched print by Liz Menard  that would be perfect for David, I'll add it to his file.  Same with the ridiculous cat bean-bag warmer Cuddle Kitty that would make Rissa giggle...   And when I see an exorbitantly priced coffee table book that I know Meg would salivate for - it's going in her file.   Then I'll just give them the lists of their future gifts.

This epiphany hit me yesterday while I was helping my friend Lisa at the Moose Show.  Lisa, my crazy friend, my incredibly talented artistic friend, the friend who makes me snort ginger ale through my nose.  (That makes it sound like she has me tied to a chair and is waterboarding me with ginger ale.  She totally doesn't do that.  She does, however, make me laugh so hard that I snort and just so you know, snorting ginger ale is painful.  "It burns!  It burns!")

I was watching Lisa yesterday do a wire sculpture of a gold fish, from a freaking photograph.  She had the photograph and was artistically extrapolating.  My brain just doesn't work that way.  What I want to be able to do for her?  I want to be able to commission pieces and pay her WHAT THEY ARE WORTH!!!   If she spends 150 hours making something - she should be earning WAY more than just a couple of bucks an hour for her artistic labour.   I want to rent a public space in downtown Toronto to display her astoundingly awesome 7 foot long Korean Dragon wire sculpture so that the A freakin' G O stands up and takes notice of her brilliance.  Check out her works here: www.lbrunetta.ca

And now I need to research sand sculpting companies who might offer workshops.  Then I can tell David and Rissa that as soon as we're rich, we are going someplace like Hawaii or California and we're going to learn how to build even bigger and more bad-ass sand sculptures than the ones we do now.

'Cause you know what?  Dreams come true.  It's happened to me over and over again.  And I am determined to continue my dreaming in TECHNICOLOR and no frickin' bank statement is going to stop me!

Carly Sioux 2012

ps.  I'm included in a Blogger Soundoff this month at Circle of Moms along with other fantastic women!!

Losing my Nouns

I know that I know this...  Give me a sec...  Starts with a B maybe???

So lately, at least a 1/2 dozen times a day, I lose my nouns.  Yesterday I couldn't remember the word BANJO.  I could see the thing in my mind, knew it was roundish on one end, that you play it like a guitar, picks are really needed to make it sound good - what it was actually called?  Not a fucking clue.  So then this moment of panic sets in.  In the vaccuum that is left of my mind - I'm like a freaking USB drive with nothing on it.  And then later - all of a sudden I'll let out a mighty YAWP of realization:

BANJO!!!!

Relief slides over my being and I can breathe again, because I've been holding that breath ever since I couldn't remember the word.  It's called aphasia.  I know that word, but apparently banjo is just too difficult.  Or economy, or Gwen Stefani or the frickin' colour chartreuse - how can a person forget the word CHARTREUSE??   I mean just LOOK at it!  I'd remember having a stroke right?  I'm pretty sure that I haven't had a stroke, but given what else I've been forgetting, who knows?  I sometimes look in the mirror just to be sure that one side of my mouth isn't drooping.  Nope, still good. 

So this could just be middle age, or peri-menopause - or even thyroid - which I vowed just yesterday that I wasn't going to mention, but from what I've been reading 'brain fog' can totally be one of the symptoms.  Or, it could be from a brain tumor, infection or dementia.  Awesome.  So what I've learned is to never Google 'aphasia' when you're freaking out.  Basically, never Google ANYTHING when you're freaking out.

Let's put some spin on this:  If it's dementia - it could happen relatively quickly and I could be one of those happy demented people who smiles and wants to have sex all the time.  Maybe if it's a brain tumor it could press onto a part of my brain that suppresses hunger?  Or suddenly I might be able to play the piano?  Infection...???  I'm sure there's a positive way to look at that too, I just can't remember the word.

I am NOT an 83 year old woman...

I hear these words coming out of my mouth:  "Oh it's just the microvascular angina, hypothyroidism and the reynaud's syndrome...."  I think: Shut up!  Shut up!  Shut up!! You are not an 83 year old woman, just say you're 'fine'!  When someone asks you how you are, JUST SAY FINE!!!    Nobody wants to hear it.  Nobody wants your torrent of symptoms and self-diagnoses lobbed at them like a grenade full of energy-sucking leeches.  SHUT THE HELL UP!!! 

Problem is, people keep saying "How are you?  Are you okay?  You're looking a little green."  'Cause right now?  I look like utter crap.  Lay me next to a cadaver and we'd have the same skin tone.  Hence my honest reassurance to folks by poo-pooing all my many symptoms.  "Nothing to worry about... I've got my nitro spray... yadda yadda, sick speak, sick speak."  You can see when their eyes glaze over at the 'too much information."  It's pretty much the same time that the word microvascular leaves my lips... annnnnnnnnd.... they're... done.  Because people don't want you to be honest.  They want you to lie, like everyone else does, and just be FINE. 
 
So this is me, taking a different tack.  I will slather on the makeup - add some blush to take away the pallor, smile and say "I'm well, how are you?"   Cause I'm NOT 83  and won't be for another 39 years.  And even when I am 83, I don't want to be that person who defines themselves by their maladies.   My Granny lived to be 103 years old and I never once heard her complain.  When she was 100 she was knitting knee blankets for the 'old folks.'  She was mostly blind and mostly deaf and dropped a few stitches in those knee blankets, and they are the most BEAUTIFUL knee blankets in the world!    And when I get cold for absolutely no reason in our 20 c house because of my weird-ass health crap, I can wear one of those blankets around my shoulders, put on a hat and a scarf, shut the hell up and channel my Granny.

The most beautiful slipped stitch I've EVER seen!

There's a frickin' blue sky out there today and I'm going to catch some of those rays.  Cause I know for damn sure that fresh air helps EVERYTHING and that all I have to do is put one foot in front of the other and I am determined to do just that.

Candy Cane Coated Porn

Flyers... oh, sweet, non-denominational deity, the holiday flyers that have begun arriving at our house.  GIANT EXPERTS' SALE!  HOLIDAY BLOWOUTS!  BREED YOUR OWN REINDEER!

I want, nay verily, I NEED, a Self-Shaping Pre-Lit 8' Fir Tree for a mere $399.00!  No wait!  There is a 7' Pre-Lit Flocked Blue Spruce which has FAKE SNOW on it for only $199!!!  I can balance it on 6 large hardcover books, to make up that foot difference in height!  Plus I'll have saved a whole $200!!!  No brainer really.  Must buy, must consume, must own...    

We wish you a Capitalist Christmas!
We wish you a Capitalist Christmas!   
We wish you a Capitalist Christmas.... 

I LOVE Christmas. J'adore Noël!   Jeg elsker Jul!  LOVE, LOVE, LOVE it!  The carols, the ornaments the window displays...  I salivate just thinking about it all.  Literally.  There must be some sort of gastronomical response when I see sparkly Christmas things.  I'm like Pavlov's Dog, but with twinkle lights.  So when the Home Hardware flyer comes into the house with HOLIDAY merchandise, it's pretty much porn to me.  Candy Cane Coated Porn.  (insert drooling, slathering noises here) And I need it all!!!

Except that I already have an entire ROOM in the basement filled with holiday decor.  It used to be the Coal Room, when houses used coal.  Not huge, but about 200 cubic feet of space to stack holiday things.  I have many boxes - all labelled.  My favourite:  Whimsical Ornaments - filled to the brim with Patience Brewster Krinkles ornaments that cost a frickin' arm and a leg at full price.  

But most of them I got after Christmas for 1/2 price - on account of the fact that paying $40 for a single ornament is  demented.  Although I did once spend $200 on ten 1/2 price ornaments.  But even David himself couldn't be mad at me when he saw how ecstatic I was as I showed him each dog in pajamas, each crocodile with fancy shoes, each polar bear in a tutu.  

Every year when I bring these whimsical ornaments out to put on our dining room tree*, I dance around like a frickin' sugar plum fairy.  The glitter that remains on my hands after placing the ornaments, I spread all over my body.  "Mummy, you have glitter on your knees!"  "Yes I do!!  It's CHRISTMAS!!"   And then I douse her in glitter as I listen to Elvis's Christmas album -  the best and the worst of Christmas music all rolled into one cd, but that's what my Mom always listens to - so it's the first album on our playlist every year.  But really, after Elvis gets played, I'm a traditionalist - Christmas circa 1930-1950.  Campy, sappy and deliciously steeped in nostalgia.  Christmas Lounge = Musical Perfection. 

For those other Christmas Fiends out there - this is for you...  Fred Waring and his Pennsylvanians doing a 1954 tv special - at around the 10:00 mark there is a tribute to the Nutcracker suite which is almost my favourite Christmas thing ever.   (Uploaded by XmasFLIX.com Vintage Christmas Films on Jan 1, 2012)
Enjoy!

 *Three.  We have three.   Christmas trees.  THREE.  Dining Room Whimsical, Living Room Traditional and the Front Porch Slender. If I could afford it, I'd have one in EVERY room of the house - around which I would dance, covered only in glitter.

Autumn Chore Weekend

This weekend is the weekend things are supposed to get done.  Caulking (snerk - yes, I have the mind of a 12 year-old boy) of windows and such.  Maybe even a hedge trimming (snerk).  Round 1 of leaf raking was Thursday.  My inner thighs and quads are still complaining about that.  I guess I don't do a lot of squatting in my day-to-day activities.  Maybe I should have stretched first?  Oh GOD.  That's what it's come to... stretching before yard work.  Hello body - welcome to your 40s.

Errands that don't get done during the week while I'm carless are left until the weekend.  I've got my hands full, so here is a post about my crazy cats and the resulting stompery from late October...

Thou Peevish Sheep!

Meeeeh...

Yesterday morning...

David had been looking forward to sleeping in.  15 more minutes of it.  He wasn't carpooling because of an after-school literacy meeting.  He set the alarm in anticipatory joy -  there may have been some contented chortling and 'nom, nom, nom' noises as he snuggled into the bed.  Then, the cats fucked it all up.

Rissa got up before we did, but didn't feed the cats.  This had the cats looking for people in the house who would feed them.  Launching themselves onto the bed, they began their own version of an intricate Bollywood dance number.  David, doesn't enjoy cat dance at the best of times, less so when he thinks he should be sleeping in.  There may have been some hurtling of the cats off the bed, perhaps propelled by under-the-blankets feet, followed by some growling and stomping on David's part to get them out of the room.  Then a door might have been slammed.  Grumbling ensued and not the under-the-breath kind.  After two minutes of this, he left the bed and STOMPED down the hall.

What you need to understand is that we are emotional vampires in our house - we suck up the energy of others around us.  We then magnify that energy and spit it out onto unsuspecting civilians.

David was in a mood, ergo I was too.  And I already wasn't thrilled to be woken up by violent kicking followed by doors slamming.  What with Hurricane Sandy being en route, the barometric pressure was wreaking havoc with my head.  I was hoping to stagger to the bathroom, dope myself up and sleep the morning away.  And now?  Now I was up.  And worse, my stomach thought it was time to be up so I needed to eat.  So I STOMPED down the stairs.

And there was poor Rissa, minding her own business with two stompy parents grumbling and growling and having yet to even said good morning to each other on account of the fact that David was convinced that the cats should be thrown into a bag and then into a box and that box should be thrown into Lake Ontario; (it would never happen PETA - so re-fucking-lax, and un-twist your panties!)  and I was mad because instead of him asking me to do something about it he just got all stompy and slammy.

By the time I told Rissa that she couldn't wear her brand new ballet flats to school in the rain, she was ready to burst into tears.  I managed to turn her around by reminding her that her rain boots have polka-dots on them and that's ALWAYS a good thing to have on your feet. Then she got into the spirit herself.   She found a pair of knee high rainbow socks to wear underneath the polka-dotted rain boots,  and put on her stylish navy rain jacket - with belt.  Soon after, via email, David and I apologized for our peevish sheep attitudes and, at the end of the day, we all helped make dinner together.  Long-standing angry grudges averted.