You did WHAT to your hooha?!?

		WARNING: ADULT CONTENT Cutie Pie Wax Bar - Vancouver's Waxing Destination  vajazzle Pronunciation: /vəˈdʒaz(ə)l/ –vajazzle, v.: adorn the pubic area (of a woman) with crystals, glitter, or other decoration.  Okay, have I been living under a rock?  How did I not know about this?  My friend Narda read it in a pulp fiction book and told me to Google it.  So I did.  And it's real.  It started in the UK.  Great.  We now have Bridget Jones AND vajazzling.  Seriously? What the what??  Okay first off - the whole Brazilian thing on its own?  I, like other married-for-more-than-5-years women, have done it as a surprise for the spouse.  I'm here to tell you... Ewwwwwwwww.  Your hooha winds up looking like an 11 year old girl's.  There is supposed to be hair down there.  I'm not talking like needing a weed wacker hair, but at least so you look like you've exited adolescence.   Plus, I don't know about other gals, but when I briefly went bare down there?  There was not nearly enough friction, if you know what I'm saying.  Texture was all wrong and a stiff breeze could get me all het up.  The distraction factor was at 11.   In 2010, girls began 'pimping their ride' as it were. Adding Swarovski crystals to their lady bits.  Sweet Merciful Eastern Block Aesthetician!  Wouldn't that CHAFE?  Wouldn't it give a penis road rash?    You know how the idea of having sex on a beach seems like a charming thought at the time... but when you actually have sex on the beach you end up with sand in your hooha?  Just imagine trying to dig Swarovski crystals out of there! For anyone engaging in downtown dining - razor burn would be a certainty;  errant crystals stuck underneath one's uvula, more than a probability.   Pluses?  I can see two.  If you are prone to shaving/waxing bumps, those little crystals are great at masking those areas with a curtain of bling.  But unlike Oz's curtain, gals want you to pay attention to it.   AND say you had two girls - both vajazzled - in the midst of intimacy, every pelvis to pelvis bump or grind could wind up being a potential energy source - imagine the sparks - if we could just harness that power!!  What's the phrase?  Two birds one stone?  Except this is two bushes with MANY stones.   If we charged to view that - financial crises would be averted!!  Here's an article from Daily Mail discussing Emergency room visits since the trend hit groins in 2010.  I will leave you with this elaborate holiday vajazzle courtesy of nkd () the waxing specialists with salons in Glasgow and Nottingham - now that is some holiday sparkle!  The Christmas Topiary

Stop me before I eat again...

It's like we never learn.  With food, that is.  With alcohol, I am smart enough to know when to stop.  I haven't been DRUNK-drunk in at least 10 years.  (Tipsy - hell yeah!  Pleasantly buzzed - most definitely!  I'm not a freaking saint!)  I have been hungover twice in my life - no wait - three times - I forgot that time I got into a box of white wine before the Hawaiian Hula dance in Grade 9 - for anyone under the age of 18 - DON'T do that!  It was NOT pretty.  Wiping vomit from your mouth with your plastic grass skirt can never be pulled off as 'cool.'

Most people learn, thank GOD,  from those sorts of hangovers.  One near-death experience when you're 24, with 12 shots of tequila can can put you off booze for a LONG time.  It's a miracle that I didn't die from alcohol poisoning that night - my Scandinavian heritage saved my life there.  By no means am I championing being able to drink your own body weight in liquor - I was stupid - I killed many brain cells, that night in particular.  I am proud of not going too far - NOW - unlike some other career partiers out there.  The dudes who are 45, and sound like Beavis or Butthead:

"Man, I was so fucking tanked last night!!  I think I made it with a goat!"

So here is where I revel in my maturity at having not gotten drunk last night.  And Nana-nana boo-boo to all you poor fuckers who haven't evolved from freaking high school!  Grow the fuck up!  Don't be a fucking moron!  Your body can't take it any more and your spouse is thinking of leaving you.

Me?  I do have a killer holiday food hangover because I am apparently still stupid enough to do that.   What is the matter with me? I bet people in 3rd World countries don't pull this kind of shit.

This is what I ate yesterday:

• two fried eggs (fried in delicious bacon grease) on rice toast

• glass of apple cider

• 7 almonds with a glass of soy milk (Still full from the greasy breakfast, mind fully functioning)

• Eggnog with a tall shot of rum with a butter tart (It was, after all, New Year's Eve day - I could stand a little indulging...)

• Tostadas (spicy ground meat with re-fried beans, guacamole, peppers, cheese, caramelized onions and salsa) with a bad glass of red wine.  (No dessert - I was being sensible)
• Rusty Nail with 1/2 a dark chocolate orange while we watched It's a Wonderful Life  (Synapses not firing as best they should)
  
  Then it all goes to hell as we hunkered down to watch our traditional New Year's  movie, Dodgeball...
• A tray of salty rice crackers with home made chip dip (Greek yogurt with honey (we had no sour cream) + vegetable seasoning mix - the dip was NOT good, and yes, I ate it all)
• A bowl of Party mix - concentrating on all the ringy things that might have been made with corn, plus the cheesies, corn chips and Doritos - I avoided the pretzels, because they are bad for me
• Sour rings of fruity-sugary sweetness - to which I originally said, "No, I couldn't possibly, I don't like them..." before ingesting handfuls - I could actually feel my brain start to slow down with each one
• Buttered popcorn - dragging my fingertips along the butter & salt-soaked bottom of the bowl so that I could lick them surreptitiously while no one was looking
• Approx 6 glasses of sparkling Italian soda/ fruit juice mix - on account of the fact that I was thirsty from all the salt I had eaten

I'm not saying that I was in a sugar coma after that, but it was hard to stay awake those last 18 minutes while we endured crap commentary as we waited for the ball to drop in Times Square.   David and I then stumbled upstairs.  I lay in bed, my stomach roiling, before I staggered to the bathroom and popped the rest of the antacids - which I have been doing pretty much every night since Christmas Eve.

"Hi, my name is Heather.  I am a holiday food addict and I do not know my limits."

This morning - I think I will have a single piece of rice with a glass of water.  Happy New Year folks!!

Singing loud for all to hear...

Strict instructions had been given.  We would not start Christmas until 7:00 a.m.  Meaningful parent eyes glared to impart the importance of the rising time.  David and I were toasty warm in our bed.  At 7:03,  a Christmas Cheer rendition of Deck the Halls was bellowed from the living room.  It was not Rissa.  Rissa was still asleep.  It was my Mom.

"HURRY UP!  YOU ARE MISSING CHRISTMAS!!!"

On the drive down for Christmas, Dad reported she bounced up and down and giggled for the last 30 minutes of the drive. Because why?  Because when it comes to family and the holidays, my Mom is a 4 year old.  She gets THAT excited.  She hugs and chortles and kisses and snuggles.  She holds you as though she never wants to let go.  She is infectiously joyous.  Her illness is the best kind of bug to come down with over the holidays.

As we co-cooperatively prep our Danish feast on Christmas Eve, in the midst of chortle and singing along with Elvis's Christmas album, Mom notices that her slip is showing.

"Uh-oh," she says.  "It's snowing down south."

"Pardon?"

"That's what we always said in high school if your slip showed."

What's great about Mom is that she is kind-hearted, loud and just the right amount of goofy.  She is a person who uses phrases from Simcoe County in the 1960s, not with irony, but as a way to keep traditions alive.  A small town girl, born and bred - she has travelled the world, viewing it with open-minded and accepting eyes, and she chose to return to wallow in small town once more.  She says things like "Look on the bright side,"  and "Every cloud has a silver lining," and MEANS them.  She chooses to embrace the happy.

When David wrapped  Rissa's ridiculous squishy, illuminated bear on Christmas Eve, my Mom almost peed her pants she giggled so madly.  

"Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!  It's so silly!  SO silly!!!! I need one!  I NEED one!!"

"Do NOT wake Rissa up!!"

(stifled giggles as she whacks it against the arm of the sofa...)  "It's just so silly!   hee-hee-hee-hee-hee!!!" she now whispers, holding a finger to her lips - showing just how quiet she is being.

While we played Monopoly before bed, she knocked over a wine glass ... "It's okay!   No drops went on the carpet because they are ALL... in my... TUMMY!"  (pat, pat, pat - indicating safe placement of wine)

I love my parents.  Not only do I choose to spend time with them - I revel in that time.   I revel in all my Dad's bad puns and my Mom's fist-pumping after she's won a game of Perquacky.  I'm 44 years old - snuggling with my Mom on the couch remains a perk.  She still kisses me on the forehead the way I kiss Rissa.  I see more and more of myself in her cackle and crazy.

We had them for all of 47 hours over the holidays.  Then it was time to go, we were lucky that they weren't waiting at the door on Boxing Day when we got up that morning.  If my Dad doesn't have tasks, he might implode.  We wave from the door as they honk the car horn.  My Mom blows wild kisses from her car window.

"Boy it's a good thing you like my Mom," I say to David.

"I agree."

"'Cause you know that I am going to turn into her."

"I'm down with that."

Longing for the Longshot

So... Les Miserables... the movie...

Before I get into my rant... It IS a good, film.  It's just not as good as it should have been.  (But if you haven't seen the stage play, and you love a good tragedy, you'll love it.)  The acting all around was stellar - I cannot fault the cast on that account.  There were standouts for me.  Anne Hathaway's performance as Fantine made me weep.  Eddie Redmayne's voice and screen presence was fantastic as Marius, and the cameo by Colm Wilkinson?  Delicious!   I gotta say that Amanda Seyfried's Cosette had a beautiful controlled soprano that was not at all grating and Samantha Banks' portrayal of Eponine was exactly what it needed to be.  The trio between Cosette, Marius and Eponine was lovely.

That said...

Please Sir, may I request fewer close-ups?  Too many faces!  There were far too many desperate, crying, puss-filled faces.  I'm praying that there are 6-degrees-of-separation between Tom Hooper and me so that I can get him to re-edit the film with WAY more medium and long shots in it? Please? I'm sure that the set decoration and design for the film was splendid - if only the audience could ever see it.

Rissa pointed out as we left, all depressed and ready to slit our own throats from the pathos, "Well Mummy, it is called The Miserables."  And it was - oh God was it!!  Tragic and dark, near plodding in sections, and just bone-crunchingly SAD.

I've seen the stage version three times.  Not once did I come out of it depressed.  There's something about good live theatre that reaches across the divide and unites an audience.  It is uplifting, driving you to your feet in a truly organic standing ovation.  The film had very little of that.  And why?  Because the vocals, while good (some great - see first paragraph), they were too intimate and lacked the grandeur that the music requires to move the audience.  Yes, Hugh Jackman can sing.  He gave a good vocal performance for the most part, but Bring Him Home was not his best song. He just did not have the vocal control and sweetness to his voice to make that song into what should be one of the most affecting moments in the show.    Eddie Redmayne gave that performance in Empty Chairs at Empty Tables.   Russell Crowe can sing (anyone who says that he tanked vocally is full of crap - if you want to see someone tank vocally watch Pierce Brosnan in Mamma Mia), but he just doesn't quite have the musical theatre chops to carry Javert's numbers.

In a film version that's 2 1/2 hours long, steeped in tragedy and angst, you really need the comic relief.  REALLY A LOT.  That's why those comic scenes are written into the original musical.  The Thenardier bits just weren't nearly funny nor grand enough to allow the audience that moment to laugh, breathe and prepare for the rest of the pathos.  This again comes back to the TOO MANY CLOSE-UPS.  Onstage the comic scenes rollick, but the film lacked the scope of the stage-picture and the scene suffered as a result.  By and large the trios, quartets, quintets and chorus numbers just didn't cut it because they were overly edited.   You need to SEE Eponine as she watches Marius sing with Cosette - you need the juxtaposition of her WITH them - not a close-up of her in angst.  There was only the smallest of edits that allowed that to happen on film.  On stage, even as people stand at different blocked points representing different locales, they still inhabit the same space for the audience and they sing WITH each other.   Those same scenes on film minimizes the stage picture and take away the magic of the music.

Most accurate and satisfying transfer of a chorus number from stage to film?  The final reprise of Do You Hear the People Sing.   It finally managed to capture the feeling of a true chorus number, and though it had close-ups, it was mostly long and medium shots.

I would watch certain parts of the film over and over again.  Those moments are brilliant.  Other parts?  Not so much.  Before seeing the film, I assured a friend that I would watch it with her again, now I'm not so sure - with its grime and its pacing and its weeping it was all too.... Miserable.

Waking to Barney Stinson

About a month ago, David got this fancy-schmancy light that gradually becomes brighter and brighter to simulate a sunrise in our bedroom. I'm not making this shit up.  We live in Canada - it is now winter - coming out of hibernation sucks at the best of times.  This light takes about half an hour to gently accustom its owners to the morning before having the most soothing of Asian plink-plonking pseudo bells as an alarm.  I will freely admit that it is a more civilized way to greet the world.  You can snuggle in the blankets and reflect as you snooze (David ALWAYS hits the snooze button at least once), basking in that gentle nudge into wakefulness.

At least that's the plan until Rissa's alarm goes off about 5 minutes later, at full volume. She recently made a new CD with all her favourite ITunes songs. This morning it was Barney Stinson singing Nothing Suits Me Like a Suit at full volume.

And though I revel in my daughter's delicious musical weirdness, I know that I will have that mind-worm of a song in my head all frickin' day now.  Bright side: it could have been more jarring, could have been American Idiot.

Rissa's Wake Up Mix

American Idiot

Nothing Suits Me Like a Suit

Rehab

Taico drum number from Cirque du Soleil's Dralion

I'm Yours

Summer of '69 

Superstar - from the Australian cast recording of JC Superstar

The Flesh Failures from HAIR

and...

Walkin' on Sunshine 

Where are the REAL Christmas Cards?

Okay, seriously?!?  How hard can it be to find a heart-felt Christmas card for your Mom that is not overly schmaltzy, poorly rhymed or full of guilt-driven sentiment?  SERIOUSLY?!?

I went to two stores looking for the right card for my Mom.  Found perfect cards for David, Rissa, even my Dad, but for my Mom?  Nothing, nada, zip!  There were a couple of cards that would have done alright, but they were like $9.95 and $11.00!!!  ELEVEN FREAKING DOLLARS?!?  For a card?  Since I had my first rant last May on this subject, Mother's Day without the Crap,  prices have sky-rocketed.

First off, why are most of the cards addressed to: A Wonderful Mother, The Best Mother, A Special Mother...  Who on this planet, not raised by nannies, calls their Mom, MOTHER?!?  I don't even call my Mom, 'Mom,' I call her 'Mare' - after the French, Mère, but horsier, and because I like bad puns.   Or 'Mor' - the Danish word for Mom.

There were so many cards that started with this sort of text:

"Mother, during this season, you will never know how much you truly mean..."  
Yes she will.  And you know when?  When she finishes reading the card.  Because you are telling her right now with this stupid card how much she means to you.

"Mother you've always been there for me at Christmas..." 
Lie.  No mother has ALWAYS been there for her kid.  Except maybe Mildred Pierce.  There are times when kids are shits and have made dumb-ass decisions and they need to be told "You're on your own on this one sweetie... I am not bailing you out of jail tonight." 

"Mother, I know that I don't say 'I love you' a lot, but because it's Christmas..." 
Why not?  Why aren't you telling your mother that you love her a lot?  Are you a bitch and you're just trying to make up for your bad behaviour and get into her will with a crappy card?  OR... is she the bitch, in which case, why are you even giving her a card?  Stop this toxic Catch-22 relationship and spend time with your friends who are nicer people. 

So for Mare this year, she's getting a handmade card with a hand-written sentiment which might be as simple as writing out "I love you,"  or "I'm so glad that we get along."  I don't want to give her a crap card that other people wrote that sort of fits the circumstances.  I want her to know that I'm proud that she stands up for the under-dog, happy that we still get into giggle fits, and when she does her Arsenio Hall fist pump and sings "I am the Champion" after she beats me at Perquacky, she is a goddess.  Where's the card that says that?

Christmas 1969, Summerside, PEI

Bottom of a Birdcage Mouth

So why is it that when you're sick, your mouth feels like the bottom of a birdcage?  What is that?  It's like the virus crawls up onto your tongue when you sleep, lies there overnight all cozy and pasty white under you uvula, clutching your tonsils and adenoids as fleshy stuffed toys for comfort.  It spreads out across your tongue and glories in its stench.  My cat padded up to me in bed this morning.  I said "Hello," and she looked offended.  And this is a cat who cleans her own ass - badly.

Bright side - Although I am muzzy headed, I have this week to get better before I have actual things that I have to leave the house for.  Annnnnnd... that sentence made next to no sense because apparently my brain, in addition to my other organs has been affected by whatever that virus ridden toddler slipped me.

It's my own fault.  I mean, toddler fingers are yummy and sweet and you usually get a laugh when you suck on them.  But I knew.  I KNEW as soon as those fingers went into my mouth that I should have rinsed with scotch right away.  But now it's too late, because everything that kid touched (floors, walls, his nose, other people's noses/mouths) that day is now making its way through my system, one exhausted, achy muscle group at a time.

OY.

I have family members who were down and out for the count over Christmas - actually unable to get off the sofa - quarantined, able to interact only with other infected members of the family.  I wanted to go round and wrap them all in Christmas garlands and twinkle lights so that their barfy, fever of 104, nearly comatose holiday was a bit more festive - except I didn't want to touch them or breathe in their air.  I'm kind-hearted and all, but not after I've already suffered from my own week of the flu.