You make my heart murmur...

This picture will make more sense at the end of the post

So at dinner last week we were talking about irregular heartbeats.  You know... for fun...

"You used to have a heart murmur," I tell Rissa.  "When you were a baby."

"What's a heart murmur?"

"It's like an extra heart beat on top of your regular heartbeat... ish."

"COOL!  But I don't have it anymore?"

"I don't think so, or at least it  hasn't been mentioned since we had to take you to the special doctor when you were a baby."

She pouts.   Then a thought passes over her face.  "You know what would be the absolute BEST?!?"

David and I look at her expectantly.

"It would be awesome if I went to the doctor and he listened to my heart and it went like this:

Bomp-ba-da-da-da-domp, ba-da-da-da-da-domp, ba-da-da-DOMP-DOMP...  
(she uses her hands to drum the table)  

And then... on top of that have this sound:

BOM-BOM-BA-DA-DOM-DOM-BA-DA-DOM-DOM-BA-DA-DOM!!!" 
(She is now singing above the percussive part with gusto)

David and I share a look.

"Is that Pirates of the Caribbean?"

"IT IS!!!!  Wouldn't that be AWESOME?!?"

See?  First picture makes sense now, doesn't it?

COLD AVENGER strikes again!

So remember the Darth Vader mask that David got me - to help with my winter angina?

We have gone for several walks where I put the sucker on - much to David's amusement and the perplexity of onlookers.

"They are all staring at me!!"

"That's because they want your autograph."

"Because why?"

"Because they think you are Bane from the Batman movies."

"Har-dee-freaking-har!"

I am a dufus in this mask.  I mean, more so than usual, even.  Except now I can't ever go into a bank without the security guards wrestling me to the floor.

But worse than ALL of that?  I now have all this dry scaly skin around my mouth from all the recycled sweaty air that I keep circulating.  I have to lube my face when I wear the mask!!!   I have to put vaseline all over my mouthal region when I wear this!  Fine when I'm wearing it and don't plan on having to take it off to talk to anyone... but if I run into someone I know, or I'm running errands, I have to take it off and I  look like I have taken a glazed donut and rubbed it all over my lower face.  Basically, I look like a tall toddler with a vicious head cold.

I'm thinking I can live with the chest pain.

Sex Show vs Home Show

David recently treated me to a romantic weekend away in the big city.  He planned it all. We stayed in a hotel.  We had fancy dinners.  He even packed for me.  He organized (ahem) activities.  And by activities I mean... SEX... and lots of it, without your child's ears in close proximity.  In fact, having sex in a hotel, basically encourages you to be as loud as possible while in the throes of passion.  If you don't have the management knocking at your door at 3:00 a.m. after noise complaints, you're not taking full advantage of your 'activity' time.

The next morning we went to a diner and enjoyed the best of greasy breakfasts.  David gave me a choice of afternoon non-sexual activities before our  fancy schmancy dinner out.  The Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex Show OR The Home Show.  Tough choice, right?  I had never been to either which is bizarre given that SEX and HOUSES are two of my most favourite things.  What to do, what to do? 

Sex Show - lots of interesting toys and seminars vs  Home Show - lots of interesting tools and seminars...  So... pretty much even.

Sex Show - interesting people, possibly in leather, maybe carrying whips vs  Home Show - interesting people, possibly in overalls, maybe carrying leather tool belts...  Sex Show pulled out in the lead there.

Thing was?  We'd recently been to a well-stocked  sex shop where the sales people were incredibly helpful - we'd actually just 'stocked up' as it were.  And frankly?  There's only so much room in my bedside table for further activity accoutrements.  And the Home Show?  Price tags on items available there can launch you into the thousands of dollars realm without breaking a sweat.  It was a conundrum.  I was vacillating.

"Sex Show... Home Show....  Home Show... Sex Show."

David was scanning the list of weekend TO-DOs in the city.  "Hmmmm.... the Royal Winter Fair is on too..."

"It is?!?  Really?!?  With live animals?  And butter sculptures!?!"

"...Yes...."  His glance in my direction - laden with disbelief.

"There!  I want to go there!"

Yep.  That's what we did.  I saw the butter sculptures and I got to feed the llamas...

I was a little disappointed that this sculpture was not the size of a house

Llamas are ALWAYS worth seeing.  ALWAYS.

I pet sheep and felt alpaca wool...  I watched rabbit jumping and calf showings...  I also saw lots of leather and riding crops for the horsey set - making me think that perhaps the Sex Show and the Royal Winter Fair have way more in common than one might think and if they combined those shows, you could really do the two birds one stone thing.

p.s.
On my way to the Royal Winter Fair I got to feed squirrels in the park!!  One of the best activities EVER. 

After I gave the squirrel a nut he took it
up to the tree and ate it upside down like this

"I'm BATSQUIRREL!"

Honestly, the $3.95 worth of nuts that I fed to the squirrels could have probably kept me happy all day.  David had to drag me away to get me to the Royal Winter Fair.  We totally could have saved all that admission money on the Royal Winter Fair and spent the day outside in the fresh air...  Watching the coolest squirrel ever.

Little Granny Grey Bush

Yep... 'for the hair down there'

 WARNING: This post contains too much information

Today, I found it.  A grey hair.  In the bush.  Does the phrase "all downhill from here" strike any chords?  I mean, sure, I've had grey hair on my head for 5 years or so, but my haphazard dye job every 6 weeks usually takes care of those.  I even have a few of those pesky grey peri-menopause neck hairs, the ones that can drive you to distraction when you're trying to pry them out of your carotid artery...

But down there...?  DOWN THERE?!?  I don't think a gal can bounce back from that.  I am now officially old.  It's so disheartening.  I'd pluck it, but I tried that with the ones on my head and that just lead to lots and lots and lots of wee little pokey-outey hairs sprouting at the part in my scalp and in my salt-n-pepa temples.  Bush hair is already fiercely rough and crinkly without adding pokey-outey to the mix.  Nope, the little buggers are here to stay.

Maybe, just maybe if I went grey down there in a classy way...  You know, say if my bush were comparable to what I imagine the Dames Helen Mirren and Judy Dench might sport ... all posh and delicately coiffed, lusted after by those who appreciate women of a certain age.

I just didn't reckon that I'd be a woman of a certain age at 44...

NOT A PROPER CALENDAR!!

Calendars. My requirements:  it must be large, clever, colourful, stylish...  The free one from the local real estate office (while offering a plethora of picturesque homes) just isn't going to cut it hanging on my kitchen wall.  Chagall, Vintage Vogue, Edward Gorey... now THOSE are calendars.  

I found one on sale at Chapters after New Years that would serve my purpose - interesting B&W shots of Paris from the turn of the century to the 70s. Done.  And it wasn't $20.

Then, I got it home.

Turns out this calendar starts its week on Monday.  Okay, what the fuck?  NO.  Unacceptable.  When you look at a regular calendar, you know which box is which.  I can tell you that Thursday is THIS box, just by looking at it.  But on a calendar where they have decided that the week begins on Monday - I'm screwed.

I'm sorry we missed your wedding, you see we thought Saturday was Sunday.

Dentist on Wednesday?  Nope, sorry you must mean Tuesday.

No, I didn't start my period on MONDAY!!!  I started it on SUNDAY - but if I put it where Sunday is now, I'll think I started on SATURDAY!!! I need to circle the right freaking START day you calendar-fucking fuckers!!!  (Apologies.  It's day 2.)

Is this a generational thing? A hipster thing?  Should I be wearing enormous black-rimmed glasses with skinny jeans to decipher this?

There is a case to be made that the work week starts on Monday and then you get to the weekend and the partying begins and all is well in the world. It's a great THEORY.  My brain just can't get its synapses around that concept when I LOOK at a freaking calendar!!  I need to do be able to extrapolate immediately, I can't count back one - I've got enough shit to shovel on a weekly basis without second guessing if I'm in the right place at the right time. 

The calendar search begins once more...

Magical Meerkat

This is a MAGICAL picture. It is a MAGICAL MEERKAT. I have dubbed it thus. You do NOT have to comment, like or share with any number of people to enjoy good luck or suffer bad luck. Why?? Because it is JUST a freaking picture of a meerkat! Have people lost their freaking minds?!?

And while we're at it, how about this?  The next time you see a guilt-ridden chain of anything (picture, quotation, "let's see how many people really pay attention" posts)...   How about you edit the wording to eliminate any sort of indentured reciprocity?  Then, by all means, share to your heart's content.  If people want to do the same, fan-freaking-tastic!  And if they don't - it doesn't fucking matter! 

Cliff-hangers and 12 year olds...

"NO!!! NO!!! Where's the remote?!?  Where is the next episode?  What is going to happen?!?  NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"  (collapse, collapse, collapse...) "Oh WAILEY, WAILEY, WAILEY!"

We were watching the first (and sadly, only) season of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.  Around episode 19 or so they got all cliff-hangery.  I'm pretty sure that's when Rissa started to throw her apoplectic fit.

"We have to watch the next three episodes RIGHT NOW!!!"

"It's bedtime!"

"But what's going to HAPPEN?!?"

"You'll have to wait and see."

"WAIT AND SEE?!?"

"Yes.  Like in olden times, you know... before evolution.  The way we use to watch tv before PVRs and Netflix and DVD Box sets."

"We're DINOSAURS!!"

"Yes.  And I call velociraptor."