I'm too old for this S*&t!

 

I get Detective Murtaugh now.  I couldn't before, but now that I'm 45, I completely understand him.  Plus, I think he must have been some kind of super human.  How could he possibly do all he did with Martin Riggs, a man a good 15 years his junior, and not DIE from it?   How did he not actually DIE?   I can't even pull an all-nighter - without teetering on death.  I used to have an amazing bounce back rate... when I was 22.  Cripes, last night I stayed up until 11:30 p.m. and when I dragged my sorry ass out of bed at 7:25 this morning, I thought I might die.  Stuck in the middle of a sleep cycle, my brain needed a major reboot.

Now, I'm looking for my quick fix.  The bag of real coffee in the cupboard is calling to me.  Its siren voice had me stumbling towards it, before I remembered that caffeine is terrible for peri-menopausal women and I don't want to fall into its deliciously invigorating trap.  'Cept it'd be so much easier than coming out of this on my own.

I'm rehearsing for a play.  I've had to beg the other production members to reschedule end times of rehearsals - that is how pathetic I am.   "I can barely function after 9:00 p.m. Please, I am begging you, can we start at 7:00 p.m. and just go to 10:00?!?  PLEASE?"  And even now, if you were to take pictures of me during the last 45 minutes of rehearsal, you would find me in various states of yawn.

I used to laugh at my Mom when she would try to read a book in her Lazy-Boy.  It seemed like all she had to do was lift the book and crack its spine  before she was zonko.

"Do you want me to just wave it over your head Mom?  Might accomplish the same thing."

"You watch it!  This'll come back to bite you!"

Last night?  As I was struggling to study my lines?  The seconds between blinks grew longer and longer until I dropped the play on my face. ON MY FREAKING FACE!!!  Yet another thing I can't do in bed like I used to!

IT'S OCTOBER 1ST!!!!

Yellls Rissa as she flops down beside me in bed this morning.  She is VERY excited.

I stifle a yawn, wiping the sleep from my eyes.

"October 1st, huh?"

"YES!!!"

"And October is a good month?"

"It's the BEST month!!!  First off, there's TURKEY DAY (Canadian Thanksgiving is coming up in approx 12 days).  Then, there's the day AFTER Turkey Day where you get to make TURKEY SANDWICHES!!  Then the new book in the Divergent series - ALLEGIANT - comes out!!  Then there is the DANCE STUDIO HALLOWEEN PARTY and then... (she can barely contain herself) ...

IT'S HALLOWEEN!!!!

She leaps out of bed, skipping and singing, continuing her morning.

I turn to David.  "October is VERY exciting!"

"Apparently."

I think I might have to report my cat to Interpol...

Lola is a cat burglar. I mean literally. Our smallest black cat... burgles. She has a penchant for jewelry.  She must be part magpie. Which is a cute little quirk generally, except that a while back she stole one of my most adored pieces of jewelery - a pendant from my friend Shannon. I'm pretty sure Lola's stashed it in her secret cat cache of stolen goods. I'm hoping I'll be able to find it before she puts it on the black market.

And because she, like the other cats in the house, can't actually talk, she won't tell me where this secret cache is.  I've been looking under beds and dressers, carpets.  I've pleaded with her, tears have been shed, but to no avail.

Thing is?  This particular piece of jewelery is one of the last presents that my friend Shan gave to me before she died. I've been using it as a talisman - a memento amicus as it were. I would feel the roundness of the blown glass against my throat and it would calm me, I'd feel better, feel closer to her, the pain would disperse just that little bit. And you need that when you've lost a friend so young in life.  She was only 41. I desperately needed that object I could palm in my hand and think She touched this too.  She chose this with love.

I keep thinking, Maybe it'll be here, in the bottom of this bag. I'll step on something under a rug and my heart will leap, Is this it?? And it never is. And it's now been months and when I reach for it in my jewelery box there are mornings I'm near tears with its loss.

So I'm going to find another one; or have it made... whatever the case, I will have a pendant of the same shape, size and colour and I will imbue it with all my best memories of her. It is, after all, just an object. Shannon was not that piece of turquoise and lavender glass. But in my mind somehow, this object had become that tie to her. My attempts to describe her would probably sound corny and clichéd.  But those clichés become what they are because there is that truth in them, that truth to them.

Shannon was a fierce friend. Shannon's smile could power the Eastern Seaboard in a blackout. Shannon had this ridiculous vaudeville-esque finger magic trick, that wasn't her trick at all, but rather her version of her father's trick, that always made me laugh. Shannon would sing to you because the lyrics of that particular song were perfect for the moment and would bring you solace. I haven't beatified her in death. I didn't have to. She was pretty damned perfect on her own. Which is why instead of bemoaning my lost tie to her, I'm making another one that I can hold and take comfort in. And if that disappears into the ether, I'll create another. Its tangible weight in my hand will give me strength. Just as she did.

Love you Shan.

ps. How bad days become brilliant...

I just ate my own weight in waffles.

Behold the waffle iron!

The best laid plans and all that...  It's the pumpkin's fault.  I had 3/4 of a can of leftover pumpkin in the fridge that I had to use up before it turned into a science experiment.  You know the kind of experiments I'm talking about...   Where a day in the not-so-distance future you think, Hey, I know!  I have leftover pumpkin that I can use for this recipe of cake/muffins/waffles and then you open the container and you have to swallow that little bit of mouth vomit when you're met by green and white pillows of mouldy-mould.

Making waffles is an adventure at the best of times, but for me, first thing in the morning, it takes every single last little bit of my focus.  Turns out, I'm not so good at math first thing in the morning.  And seeing as I decided that I would double the batch of waffle batter to use up more of the pumpkin, I found myself having to do a lot of fractional math... first thing in the morning.

Doubling  1 3/4 cups of milk shouldn't cause a person this much distress.

Okay... 1 and 3/4 doubled is...  nnnnnnnope, AIN'T gonna happen.  

I'll try it this way:  1 doubled is 2.    YAY!  We have 2!   

3/4 doubled is 1.5.  We have 1.5.  

2 + 1.5 = 3.5 cups.  3.5 cups?  That sounds like a lot of milk.   Better double check.

1+1=2  

3/4 +3/4 = 1 1/2

2 + 3.5= 5.5?!?  What the???  Where did the 3.5 come from?  (Flour coated fingers rub my furrowed brow.)  AHHHHH!  First total.  We're good.  3.5

***

4 teaspoons of baking powder

Which means it's really 8 teaspoons.  That's too many teaspoons - there's no possible way I can keep track of 8 teaspoons. Time for conversions.

4 teaspoons is 1 tablespoon + 1 teaspoon.

Doubled = 2 tablespoons + 2 teaspoons!!

A recipe that should take about 5 minutes to whip together, takes me, first thing in the morning, when doing fractional math, at least 15 minutes.  (Note to self - write the double batch amount in the margin next time.)  But once the batter was mixed, we were good to go.  It seemed a little extra thick (must be all those ground pecans in the pumpkin pecan waffles), but waffle number one went on the waffle iron.  When the "I'm DONE" beep sounded, I pried the waffle from the iron's grip.  I'm pretty sure that this single waffle weighed 12 lbs.  David ate that one.

"Wow.  This is a WAFFLE!!!"  He growled masculinely for effect.  "WAFFFLE!!!  No one mess with me today, I'm full of WAFFLE!!!"

I added a little more milk.  Maybe it should have been 5.5 cups of liquid.  I still had to smooth out the batter on the iron with an extra spoon, pat it down, convince it to be smaller.  After Rissa said she didn't need a second waffle, I knew that these waffles might be the equivalent to Arctic Bannock.  I tried to the thin the batter out some more and continued to cook.  Eventually, I had a stack of waffles beside the iron, precariously perched ... the Leaning Tower of Waffles as it were.

Moments before physics kicked in.

I turned my back to put something in the fridge and I heard a somewhat moist, heated thud.  Half the waffles had disappeared. What the?  DAMN IT!    I knew I should have moved them!  I looked beside the stove.  There in our extra plastic bag stash - easily a dozen suicidal waffles.

Their own weight was too much for them.  My haphazard placement of the stack could not have been countered - I'd begun my own elaborate Waffle Jenga game and had lost.  Thankfully they fell into the extra plastic bag stash - (the top bags, I quickly calculated, had been placed just the day before - thank God) , not on the floor and could be salvaged.  We now have 126 waffles in our freezer in aluminum foil covered batches of 3 so the next time I get the bright idea to make waffles first thing in the morning we have 42 opportunities to eat them.    Lesson Learned:  Make waffles the night before.

Just shoot me now... still...

Instead of writing an entirely new post about the perils of peri-menopause and its attending hot flashes from hell, I'm reposting this, on account of the fact that I'm pretty sure I almost died last night and can't write anything new today...

Is it hot in here?

I awoke in the midst of another horrific hot flash.  Stumbling and growling all the way down the stairs - David and Rissa's eyes got really big as I stomped my way into the kitchen. I was fanning my face with my hands and flapping my arms to get air into my armpits.

"I'm not even going to ask," I said.

"If it's hot in here?" David replied.

"Yes, I'm not asking, because..."

"It's not hot," Rissa cheerfully piped up.  "It's just you."

"Awesome!  That is just freaking AWESOME!!!"  I open the freezer and grab a velcro ice pack and strap it around my neck.

"Interesting look," said David, ignoring the laser beams coming out of my eyes.  He then leaned in to whisper at my ear, "Are you going for an auto-erotic asphyxiation type look?"  I growled at him.

"I am only  44 years old," I griped, as I attempted to start my coffee.  "44 YEARS OLD!!!  My Mom had hot flashes until she was 60!!!  You could have to live with THIS (I point violently to myself, drawing a wide, erratic circle around my head) for another SIXTEEN years!!!"  I grab the soy milk and my hazelnut flavouring.  The mug is warm.  "THIS MUG IS TOO WARM TO HOLD!!!"

Rissa then giggled, which let me know that David must have done something behind my back.   
"WHAT???  What did he do?  Did he just make a 'she's crazy' gesture?!?"

"Nope, not at all.  Un-unh.  Nope."  Both of them looked all sweet and innocent.  David had the decency to look chagrined before admitting "I just raised my eyebrows like this."  (He demonstrated.)   It's the 'Oh boy, fasten your seatbelts' look.  Even though I really, really wanted to... I did not bludgeon him.

"How about I make you an iced capp?  Would that help?"  He moved swiftly out of my arm's reach.

"Maybe," I pouted.  Then I realized what he was offering.  "Yes please.  (sigh)  David, you just don't understand.  I can't do this to you guys for another 16 years.  You'll lose your minds.  You can't be walking on eggshells all that time.  That's not fair to you!  I am considering hormone replacement.  THIS (again another  finger circling my skull for emphasis), is making me consider HRT!!!  It's not supposed cause as much cancer now, but I can't be on hormone replacement for SIXTEEN years!  That's just asking for bad shit to happen to my body!!!  I have enough bad shit happening to my body already!!"

It was at that point that Rissa led me to the kitchen table, sat me down and patted me on my arm in a gesture of placation.  David then put the iced capp into my hand.  It was cool and delicious and took my mind off the volcano in my torso.

What if I commit major crimes before I actually make it to Menopause?  This is only PERI-Meonopause - and already I'm pretty much out of my mind.  Can I make it through another SIXTEEN years?  And more importantly, will I be able to use it as an excuse in court?  Like, for when I murder someone when they look at me funny or drive slowly in front of me or chew with their mouths open?!?   The only upside to jail is that the metal bars will proabably be cool when I bang my head on them.

I want to... but I can't!

I don't know if it's ALL nature vs nurture or vice versa.  But I DO know that perfectionism is genetic.  Rissa got her perfectionist streak directly from her father's side of the family...  from her paternal grandmother to her father to her.  From the ages of two to about seven, Rissa would melt down when she couldn't complete a task.  She was unwilling to fail at anything.  If she couldn't get it on the first try, that child imploded. She wasn't much of a tantrum thrower, but man that kid could simply refuse to communicate.  She would hide behind chairs, tables, simply close her eyes to shut you out.  The stubborn crossing of the arms stance was a staple reaction for my kid. 

I remember her, age four, at AirZone.  AirZone was one of those party places with jumpy castles, big slides and obstacle courses.  Rissa was determined to go down the 20 foot slide.  DETERMINED.  It was a big frickin' slide.   She got all excited and climbed to the top of that monster slide.  Then she looked down the slide and understandably panicked.  It was a LONG way down.  She sat at the top of that slide for a good 15 minutes, letting child after child after child in front of her.

"Rissa sweetie, you don't have to go down honey.  Just climb down the ladder.  It's okay hon."

"NOOOOOOO!"

"Sweetie, it's okay.  Just climb down the ladder..."

"No Mummy!  NOOOOOOOO!"

I couldn't take it any more.  My heart was about to burst.  There was my little girl sitting up at the top of that slide quietly sobbing, mumbling to herself like some some sort of JK schizophrenic.  I climbed up and went down with her - even though it was against the rules.  The minute we reached the bottom, she climbed up again to the top, still determined that she would go down on her own.

"Sweetie, you don't have to do this.  This is a big kids' slide..."

"Mummy I want to!"

"Then just go ahead and do it!"

"I want to!"

"You can do it!"  I put on my best RAH! RAH! voice.

"I want to... "

"You can..."

"I want to... BUT I CAN'T!!!!!"

There might as well have been a pit of rabid, slathering Hounds of Hell, covered in barbed wire at the bottom of that slide, instead of a safe, bouncy landing - she was petrified.  Desperate to go down, but terrified of the drop.  Other parents in the joint looking at me like I'm torturing my kid.  Don't look at me!  I don't need her to go down the slide!  This is ALL her.  I am just a terrified bystander.

45 minutes we waited it out.  Her yelling occasionally from the top, me doing my best to keep my voice calm and give her support. The backs of my legs were bruised from where I had wedged them so firmly under my chair seat to stop me from leaping up to rescue her.  See, I'd said that I wouldn't come get her again.  I'd drawn the line in the sand.  Was it the wrong line in the sand?  Probably.  I should have probably climbed up again, hefted her under one arm and left the building, but for whatever reason, this rite of passage seemed to mean more to her than being the focus of attention for all the patrons of AirZone, so I was all in.

And sure enough after that 45 minutes and countless "I WANT TO... BUT I CAN'TS!!!", she went down.  ONCE.

"I'm so proud of you sweetie!  Good for you!!"  How was I supposed to  play this now?  Do I encourage a second trip down?  Do I just zip my lip?  Zipping the lip is never really my thing.  "Do you want to....?"  I left the end of the sentence hanging there, my tone ambiguous.

"No, Mummy.  I'm good.  I know I can do it now."  Then she ran off to be a four year old again.

Did you feel the earthquake?

8:02 a.m. Eastern Time.  I was dozing in bed, desperate to grab any extra resting time.  The smallest of shudders had me opening my eyes.  The bed was moving.  It stopped.  I must have been dreaming it.  (I was somewhat stoned on a cocktail of ibuprofen and acetaminophen - DAY 1 of my period.  I'd arisen at 6:30 and doped myself up as best as I could - building a chemical fortress against the cramping.)  The bed moved again, more violently, for a longer period of time.  What the...?  I sat up - ready to grab onto the bedside table lamp in case it crashed to the ground.  Was this the BIG ONE?

Then I saw her.  Minuit.  Our biggest and most irritable of cats.  She was on the bed.  Scratching behind her left ear.  Raccoon-like in size, when Minuit uses her full energy to scratch behind her ears, it can apparently be mistaken for an earthquake. Our fat cat has some incredibly powerful haunches.  She could double as the motor for one of those cheap motel vibrating beds.

I slumped back down onto my back.  I could maybe steal another 30 minutes of pseudo-sleep before having to get up and get ready for work.  If I did nothing more than brush my teeth and put deodorant on, I could maybe have 40 minutes. 

Knowing that I was awake, Minuit made her way up the bed... Doing her best Edward G. Robinson*  "Meah.... Meah...,"  she placed her front paws on my stomach and began to palpate, which this morning, with the strength of her considerable weight behind her?  Was the best ovarian massage that I've ever felt.  There are definite perks to having a fat cat.

*Minuit sounds exactly like Mel Blanc
doing an impersonation of Edward G. Robinson.
  At 2:17 into the clip you get the full effect.
Instead of "Yeah, Yeah" insert "Meah, Meah."