Creation of a Psychopath - just add dead squirrel

There were two girls, seven, maybe eight years old, on the sidewalk a couple of blocks ahead of us.  They had a stick.  They were moving something onto the road with the stick.  Having walked down the road earlier that day, I knew that the thing they were moving into the road was a dead squirrel.  See, I remembered, because I'd thought to myself upon viewing it earlier, I wish I had a bag.  I could pick the poor bugger up and take it home and bury it.  But I hadn't had a bag, so I'd left it there, dead on the side of the road.

But these little girls, done up in barrettes and braids, clad in colourful dresses, were moving this dead squirrel further onto the road.  David and I shared a look.  I ain't gonna lie.  A shudder literally went down my spine.  Why would two little girls push a dead squirrel further onto the road?  Most little girls wouldn't go near a dead animal even with a stick.  I found myself thinking, If that was two little boys, they'd be doing it to watch the squirrel get flattened by oncoming traffic.  I caught myself short.  As if a lack of empathy is a predominantly male trait.  Like only boys burn ants when they get a hold of a magnifying glass.  As if the male of the species has the market cornered on the steps to psychopathy.

The Grady Twins from Kubrick's The Shining

So we watched from a distance, as these two giggling girls pushed the squirrel carcass out and then hid behind their privacy fence.  As we passed, we could hear them tittering.  We really should have stopped.  We really should have asked what they were doing.  We really should have called them on it.  Or at least drawn the attention of any proximal adults. 

"Hey!  You!  Yeah, YOU, with the stick in your hand and pink barrettes in your hair!  What are you doing to that squirrel?"

"What squirrel?"

"The dead one, the one that we just watched you push onto the road."

Shrug

This is when I should have crouched down and got eye to eye with those girls and said,  "Being cruel to animals, even dead ones, isn't cool kids.  It means that you lack empathy.  And when you lack empathy, your bladder weakens and soon, very soon, you'll not only wet the bed, but you'll pee your pants while you're awake and everyone at school will point and laugh at you and say, 'Those are the girls who did bad things to animals.'  You will be labeled as 'troubled' and spend all your time in the Principal's office and never make more than minimum wage.  Nobody will ever date you and when you are old and ill, your wheelchair will be left on the shoulder of the 401 with a sign on it that says 'HIT ME.' "

That would have only been too much if I'd actually said it out loud.  Instead, I kept my mouth shut and will have to live with the fact that Sally and Susie Psycho will continue to roam the streets.

Our daughter has gone blind!

We didn't realize for the longest time.  She was masking it so well.  She was coping.  But it became apparent this morning that my daughter has... she has... dishwasher blindness.  (sob)  Comparable to night blindness, dishwasher blindness tends to hit at a much younger age.

Early signs of dishwasher blindness seem innocuous.  Dinner ware might be left in unexpected places: the living room end tables, the backyard.  The sufferer will become adept at depositing dirty dishes in the sink. You may find the dishwasher open but not loaded; conversely, a dishwasher full of clean dishes will not be unloaded.

When a full complement of breakfast dishes are left neatly stacked on the countertop above the dishwasher, it is too late.  There is little hope for the sufferer - true dishwasher blindness will be diagnosed at this point.  Strident physical therapy can help the process, but it will be a long road to recovery.  Months, even years of conditioning may be required to help the sufferer strengthen the muscles it takes to open the dishwasher and the coordination to load dishes and cutlery into their respective places within the appliance.

You might think that you are alone, that your child or spouse is unique.  Talking about the affliction, sharing one's own experience is the only way the general populace can be educated.  Dishwasher blindness can happen to anyone at any point in their life.  Recognize the signs before its too late.

How to stop the onslaught of dementia

Wait!  It'll come to me!

Some people do Sudoku.  For others it's crosswords.  Still others, brain teasers.  All to keep their minds sharp - build their reserves against dementia.  My Dad, whose own father succumbed to Alzheimer's, has a vested interest in keeping his brain in gear.  He has a simple plan.  It all centres around The Witches of Eastwick.

If ever he's doubting his mental state, my Dad uses this movie.  It's his litmus test.  He figures that if he can name the three female stars of the movie, that he's still good to go, that the dementia hasn't set in yet. Which means, if he's having a bad brain day where words aren't coming and certain things remain on the tip of his cranium, he'll name the stars: Cher, Michelle Pfeiffer and Susan Sarandon.  I guess for him, Jack Nicholson wasn't all that important to the story.  Or maybe Jack's too easy to remember - I mean, after all, he is JACK. Of the three actresses, Susan Sarandon seems to trip him up, but he always remembers, which is a good sign.

There are days when I too, worry if I will suffer from Alzheimer's, as my grandfather did.  He wasn't diagnosed until his 70s, so the fear of early onset isn't as terrifying for me.  'Course I'm in my mid 40s - my Dad will soon be 70, he jokes about keeping the wheels turning upstairs, but I know there's a part of him that's not joking so much as keeping an eye out.

When bouts of aphasia (speechlessness - sure, I can remember that word) hit me, I panic.  I use words a lot, I LOVE words - the more obscure the better.  When they don't come to me, I can feel a tide of helplessness in my gut.  I used to be able to remember everything - stupid trivial things - now when I'm searching for the word 'teapot,' most of me thinks it's just naturally being distracted from an over-scheduled life, but there is that tiny, niggling part that whispers, "What if?" 

Forgetting your keys is a normal brain fart.  Forgetting what keys DO?  Then you maybe should worry.  Me?  I put my keys in the same place in my purse every time.  I'm not giving the keys a headstart.

Where were your peeps on this one Miley?

Yes, you're the #1 trending thing today, and you're probably going to be getting all sorts of requests for late-night TV, so it'll blind you for a bit to how extensive all this really was.    And you'll even say that you won't lurk online and read stuff about yourself sweetie, but you will.   And a lot of it'll be nasty and hurtful and you will be devastated.

I think that there needs to be a support group.  And not just for Miley, but for ALL the child stars out there who want to bridge that gap between childhood and adult stardom but pull an Icarus and fly way too freaking close to the sun.   There are precious few who make the leap without crashing and burning.  For every Christina and Dakota who seem to have their heads on straight, there are many more Lindsays and Amandas who, I'm only guessing, are surrounded by 'yes' people and no one who actually keeps them grounded in reality.  Where are the mentors?  Where's Drew Barrymore - guiding you into the light?  I think that Meryl Streep, Jodie Foster, Tilda Swinton and Glenn Close should each get six to ten girls teetering on the edge between successful teen star and starlet given to public displays of drunken crazy and make sure they don't tank.

Miley, now might be the time to reach out to those people who tell you the truth and have your back. Your real friends and family - not the ones who smile and nod and tell you you're cool and that every idea you have is brilliant. You're only 20 years old.  You've got a whole lot more living and learning to do.  I'd love for you to still be around so I can watch you do it.

Why did I have to beat the dead horse?

WARNING: This is about MENSTRUATION and shit - well not actually shit, really just other female-centric issues that go hand in uterus with menstruation.  There will be blood. I might also talk about vaginas.

from quickmeme.com

Why couldn't I have just let it fade away quietly?  After months and months of erratic menstruation, a la Jackson Pollock, I booked time with an OBGYN to suss out the situation, you know, maybe help with the massive blood loss and 'knock you out for the first 36 hours' pain.  Of course while waiting to get in to see this specialist, there was a 12 week period where I didn't have my period.     Nothing.  Nada.  Zilch.  That's when I should have let it be.  I should have cancelled the appointment.  I should have let Mother Nature take the reins.

But I didn't, and now I've pissed her off.  Mother Nature is getting her own back.  "Think you can outwit ME?  Chemically try to rule ME?  See how you like THIS!"  The OBGYN put me on pills.  Not THE PILL, but pills that I was supposed to take for the first 15 days of the month, to regulate things, take the edge off the crazy-ass pain and weird-ass menstruation symptoms.

The last three months (though I might not be bleeding quite as much), have given me new byproducts of the feminine mystique heretofore unexperienced in all my 45 years.   I used to cramp for the first 36 hours.  Now the cramping lasts 72 hours.  I developed back pain which had me convinced that, despite David having been fixed, I might actually be pregnant.  And clots?  Let's not go there. 

See?  You mess with Mother Nature and she'll fuck you over.  What was I thinking?  This last month?  I've now been having my period for the last 10 days - twice as long as a regular period, with none of the perks.  Although really what ARE the perks that come of having your period?  Unless you have a pregnancy scare - then the opening of those menstrual flood gates is something you kiss the freaking ground for.

"THANK GOD!!   OH THANK SWEET JESUS! 
I will never be so stupid again!!"

And yet, here I was, defying my body's natural inclination to stop the bleeding.  I knew I shouldn't have.  I knew, deep down, that I should have gone with my gut.  My Mom had her last period when she was 48 - what if my lady shop was closing down for business even earlier?  I mean, I'm so freaking sensitive to every other physical thing that I go through in life.  What if, by messing with my body chemistry, my period decides to stick around until I'm 60, just to spite me?  What if, by fucking with my body chemistry, I don't ever want sex again?  What if I suffer from dry Vagina the rest of my life because I decided to fuck over Mother Nature?

Wait.  Wait.  I need to calm down.   Breathe Heather.  Just breathe.  This will not be a problem.  That's totally what they invented Vagisil Intimate Lubricant for.  Sahara Vagina averted.

Is this a healthy hookup?

I have to ask.  When someone you love suddenly becomes completely enamoured with an... uh... we'll call it an appliance... to the exclusion of their other toys... Should you do something about it?  Or should you just let them have their moment and hope that they'll eventually move on and not hurt themselves in the mean time?

Minuit has hooked up with our Universal Remote.  We tried to take it away from her, but she... uh... she couldn't be dissuaded.  She actually growled and bared her teeth.  I'm hoping that it's just a phase.   Could be worse I guess.  She could be huffing catnip.

 

It's wrong to threaten the Canada Revenue Agency. Right?

So you know how, when you have to go through Customs, even if you aren't smuggling anything you get all freaked out and start to wonder, "Hey!  Maybe I DO have a condom full of cocaine in my lower intestinal tract"?   Every single time we get a letter from the Canada Revenue Agency I lose my freaking mind.

David gets a letter.  I think that I actually read it before I start freaking out.  On first glance it seems like we haven't paid the crazy-ass thousands of dollars in taxes David owed last year.   And seeing as I have a distinct memory of making an online payment of crazy-ass thousands of dollars, I panic a titch.  We don't have that extra cash in our savings any more.  I know that because I'd paid bills the other day and saw how little money we had in our accounts.  My chest starts to hurt.

"What's going on?" David asks as he sees me hyperventilating as I go through his tax statements.

"I can't find it!  I CAN'T FIND IT!!!"

"Can't find what?"

"The... the... the RECEIPT!!  The... proof!!  The," I claw for the word in my brain.  "CONFIRMATION!!!  I CAN'T FIND THE CONFIRMATION!  WE'RE GOING TO GO TO JAIL!!!

"What are you talking...?"

"HAH!"  I brandish my online  confirmation.  "We DID!  We DID pay it!  See here?"  I wave the confirmation in David's face.  "See that?  We paid them ALL this money!  I'm going to call them and give them a piece of...."  I stop talking when I look at the piece of paper from the CRA again.

"What?"  What is it?"

"I think this is for this coming year.  It says 2013.  This is an Instalment Reminder.  Is Instalment actually spelled this way?  Do Americans spell it with two 'l's??

"Focus."

"We're supposed to pay instalments because our taxes were so high last year.  Oh God!  It says that we need to pay $6,325.00 on September 15th!!  We don't have $6,325.00!  We just gave all our credit money to the roofers!  Where are we going to find...?"  I roll my shoulders back, trying to relieve the pressure in my chest.  This is not angina, this is NOT angina.

I  frantically read over the sheet again. Your options for paying your tax by instalments are:

1.  two payments of fucking ridiculous amounts of money that we have calculated for you.
2.  3/4 of 2012, blah-de-fucking-blah, makes no fucking sense plus CPP and EI on this date and then 1/4 on this date.
3.  Even more incomprehensible tax jargon that means we might have to sell our only daughter into slavery to meet the September 15th deadline. 

Three options, all of which are a lot of money and had a first payment of September 15th.  I try to catch my breath.  I look at the document again, I must be missing something.  I start again - looking from the very top of the document.

There it is at the top-top part at the top of the document - the one in big-ass bold letters:

This instalment reminder was issued to you because you MAY BE required to pay income tax by instalments in 2013.

Do you have to pay tax by instalments in 2013? 
If your net tax owing for 2013 will be $3,000 or less ($1,800 or less if you live in Quebec), you DO NOT have to pay tax by instalments in 2013, and you can disregard this reminder.

"You can disregard this reminder !!!  WE CAN DISREGARD THIS REMINDER!!!"  I slump to the floor.  "Those tax bastards!!  Those Canada Revenue Agency tax bastards!  They couldn't put this information in a box and bold it ALL?  Why wasn't the DO NOT in bold?!?  Don't they know that I spent my entire day in front of the freaking computer and my eyes don't work when I get home and finally look at personal stuff?  Don't they KNOW that??   They seem to KNOW everything else!  They made me freak out!!  Who SENDS a letter like this?"

"So we don't have to pay anything?"

"We don't have to pay ANYTHING!!  ANYTHING!!!  You know why?"  My eyes stab at David accusingly.  "You know WHY???  Because you will have not been paid for ANY self-employed work last year and all your teaching pay will have been taxed super high and the CRA will then have to give US money!"  I panted after my rant.  "Oh crap!  They're going to AUDIT us, aren't they?  They are going to fucking audit us because you had to pay taxes in the last two years because of the self-employed work... No wait!!  WAIT!!  Maybe they won't, because your employment income won't really be that much different... it'll...  it'll...  be okay... it might... just be... okay..."

"Are you done now?"

"I think so."

"We're going out for dinner tonight.  I'm going to buy you alcohol."