Unswallowable... (and NO, I don't mean THAT)

There was a discussion around the dinner table about how many teenagers in the Family Studies class at David's school have ended up pregnant since the course began.  A lot.  Like more than a handful.  These girls are in a class that GIVES them condoms and information on how NOT to get pregnant!  I might have ranted.

"Are they stupid?  Is this a Family Studies Class for stupid people?  If they are sexually active, why are they not on the pill and using condoms!?!"

"Maybe they can't swallow the pill," says Rissa.

"Everyone can swallow the pill," says I.  "It's THIS big!" (indicating tiny pill size with my outstretched fingers)

"I can't swallow pills," says Rissa.

"Yet.  You can't swallow pills YET.  Hand me that jar of gummy vitamins and a knife - we're starting now.  By bedtime you'll be swallowing pills."

"Mummy..."  (with accompanying eye roll)

"Seriously.  We need to get on this.  Do you KNOW how much more expensive Children's Tylenol is?  If I put all the extra dollars we'll save by switching to actual pills into your RESP, you'll be able to attend Harvard."

"Mummy we were talking about sex."

"No we were talking about dumb girls who get pregnant."

"No, I was just saying that maybe they can't be on the pill because they can't swallow pills."

"So these girls aren't dumb - they just can't swallow pills yet?"

"Yes."

"If they are too young to be swallowing pills, then they are obviously too young to be having sex."

"But when you CAN swallow pills, you're old enough to have sex?"

"NO!!!  OH MY GOD, NO!!!"

"You just said..."

"Forget what I just said.  Say this with me now: 'Teenaged girls who get pregnant are dumb... teenaged girls who get pregnant are dumb..'   I'm serious.  It should be your mantra."

"Mummy."  (eye roll)  "Even if I could swallow pills, I'd probably forget to take them anyway."

"David we need to research the shot."

Funny, I don't remember taking banned substances...

A Jewel on Queen West

So I found these socks...  these mind-blowing, amazing, hyperventilation-inducing-from-so-much-glee socks...  on Queen West at a store that must, I think, cater to the drag queen set.  (Original - 515 Queen Street West in Toronto.)  This store was so awesome, I got a little dizzy.  Jon had to remind me to breathe properly as I stared at a wall of leg wear.

This store was kind of like... Heaven.  First, you walk in and there are fabulous shoes as far as the eye can see.  Floral oxfords and polka-dotted Mary Janes and Steam Punk red leather boots.  Counters with sparkly hair accessories and bracelets...  Fancy-schmancy dresses (+ a whole 2nd floor above with even MORE fancy-schmancy dresses)...   And then?  Then an entire WALL with the most fabulous socks and tights I have EVER seen.  I spied, designed in France!!!, Dub & Drino socks.  I held them to my chest like a brand new patchwork kitten.  When the cashier tried to make me hand them over to scan the price, I growled.  She eventually convinced me to move my hand closer to the scanner.

Dub & Drino tights and socks, from FRANCE

I escorted these festive foot accessories home.  Rissa got very excited when I shared their magnificence with her.  I took the socks from their cardboard banding - nearly salivating as I readied my feet for their glory...

And the fuckers didn't fit!!  When did I acquire Female Soviet Athlete calves?!?   Were my Flintstones laced with anabolic steroids in the 70s?  I could just barely get the socks on, but then my circulation was cut off from my knees down.  I got a little woobly.  I was close to weeping.  The socks, now reside in Rissa's sock drawer.

I looked on the wrapper and discovered these socks were made for sizes 5/8.5  feet.  See?  That was the problem there.  I needed either sized 9/11 socks, or the ones labelled "For those with freakishly ginormous calves."  I'm going back next time I'm in town and I'm reading the labels and I'm stocking up.  If Rissa hadn't so coveted them herself, I would have turned them into fingerless gloves for the winter.  I may still buy another pair, cut the toes off, make a thumb-hole and do just that.  'Cause you know what? My forearms WILL fit into the 5/8.5 sized socks and then the world shall marvel at my fabulous forearms and say "Oh my Heather.  Where, oh where, did you discover such marvelous mitts?"  And then?  Then I shall sing them the Ballad of the Fabulous Fingerless Gloves.

Hurray! I get to run on the beach and ride white horses!

HURRAY!!!!

Recently, Rissa arrived home from school, all moany and growly and generally not her usual bouncy self.

"Are you tired honey?" 

"NO!  My PERIOD started."  Grrrrrrrrrr...

(So... I have this thing.  Women shouldn't use their periods as a convenient excuse for just being moody bitches.  Yes, most definitely it can be a pain in the ass, both metaphorically and quite literally (say if your sit bones come into play - I mean Sweet Mother of Creation - how can you even HURT there - they are bones!?!)  But you know what?  You don't have to decimate the rest of the world with your hormonal fallout.  I had no cramping until I was in my 20s. It only really got bad for me AFTER having babies.  Unintentional moodiness happens, sure, but if I find myself doing it, that's when I know to take a breath, regroup and pour myself a scotch tea.  For me, the first 36 hours suck like a Dane getting the marrow out of a turkey neck; I'm pretty much medicated/drunk the whole time clutching my heating pad and watching bad t.v., but you're not going to find me yelling at random dudes on the street, "You fucking fuckers have no fucking clue what the fuck I'm going through here!!"  It is what it is.)

Rissa's new to the game, I therefore take a patience-filled breath before I ask, "Are you cramping?"  Maybe she's in true discomfort.  I ready my bosom for a commiserative hug.

"No... but the universe is mean!!  We shouldn't HAVE to bleed."

Well I can't really fault that sentiment.  "How about this?  How about you become a scientist and you can figure out a way for women not to actually have to bleed, but they can still ovulate and have babies?"

"No, that seems like a lot of work.  Especially if I'm having my period."

Chart Your Cycle - by Chella Quint - awesome zine!!

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...