Mor Mor goes on an adventure...

Where does your 68 year old mother like to shop?  My Mom's a pretty typical grandmotherly/motherly type.  She bakes cookies, knits sweaters, sends cheques for Rissa's RESP.  Rissa has a cute pet name for her.  She calls her Mor Mor,which means 'mother's mother,' in Danish.  My Mom has a grey pixie cut and shops at Sears.

"Ooooh," says my Mom.  "I went on a shopping excursion!!!"  (Since she has beeen retired, Mom has allowed herself to shop. After decades of frugality and with the house finally paid off, her paltry Canada Pension Plan has given her new-found spending freedom.  She goes to shoe outlets and housewares stores.  She putters on the main streets of summer getaway towns, she'll take a gander at an art gallery and stop and get a plain black coffee at a cafe.)

"Really?" I ask expectantly.  "To where?"

"To Wicked Wanda's."

Wicked Wanda's is a sex shop in Ottawa. She'd been thinking about going  for a while.  Probably for an entire moth.  She'd recently learned of its existence and had decided that it was a 'mustn't be missed' shopping destination.  My Mom is my hero.

"Annnnnnnd....?" I queried.

"It was veeeery interesting.  Everything is very shiny now."

"I'm sure it is."  The last time my Mom had gone to a sex shop was probably three decades ago.  She and my Dad had gone together and he'd turned on a vibrator that rested on one of the glass shelves and couldn't get it turned off.

"Anything, uh... catch your attention?"

"Well there were lots of very colourful things, to be sure," she said.  "And the staff was very helpful.  There was a lovely young girl who was very informative."

"Did you come out with anything?"

"I did! Have you ever heard of Kegel Balls?"

My eyebrows raise.  "I have."

"Well, in the 70s they would have been Ben Wa Balls, but now they are Kegel Balls."  She gives her tradmark guffaw of laughter.  "I now have Kegel Balls!"

"Annnnnd....?"

"They certainly make you feel interesting down there."

"That they do."

p.s. After my failed trampoline excursion, a friend gave me the exact same brand of  Kegel Balls for my birthday.  "Look  what Narda got me Mom !"  "Oooooh!  They're just like mine!!!"

Would the real Dance Moms please stand up?

I know... I know... I just ranted about this.  However.... What I saw over the past weekend warranted an update.

So... picture something similar to this,  but with 6-10 year old girls wearing special-ordered versions of this inflatable costume and dancing to....

BIG GIRLS DON'T CRY

I'll give you a moment and let that sink in folks...

There were probably 12-15 little girls in this dance number.  Which means that their dance teacher, AND all of their parents signed off on these costumes AND the theme of the routine.  Almost 24 hours later, and I'm still gobsmacked.  In bad taste on so many levels. Thank God the judges gave it the lowest mark of the morning - if they hadn't, I would have had to stand up and incite a riot.

In Dance of the Sugar Plum Sluts, I voiced my concern about 15 year old girls wearing fishnet seamed stockings as part of their costume.  Imagine if you will, 10 year old girls wearing fishnet seamed stockings... shaking their asses for the audience...  to the applause of their parents, 'cause that's what happened yesterday morning.

I recently was in a show where I wore seamed fishnet stockings.  TO BE SEXY ONSTAGE.  I had several men tell me that they were giving me a standing ovation, while still sitting.  Men and women alike become aroused by the appearance of seamed stockings.  You know why?  Because seamed stockings basically draw the eye right up to a gal's ass - which, when you want someone to be salivating at the sight of your ass and imagining what it would be like to become intimate with it, is great, but when the wearer of the seamed stocking doesn't even have pubic hair yet - should cause horror.

I'm not saying that all these dancers should be going the Shirley Temple route - not that their parents would know Shirley Temple if they fell over her, but a little less Tits  & Ass would be awesome.  I was thrilled when one of the judges gave a special award to a number and specifically mentioned 'age-appropriate' choreography.    More than a handful of routines over the weekend had choreography that was not age-appropriate.  There was a group of  competitive 16 year olds dancing to Fever who were so freaking hot they had me wanting to have sex with them.  All these kids are under 18.  Can we please agree that no audience member should want to have sex with any of them?

I don't think I've really lived until now.

Says Rissa.

This morning, Rissa experiences our friend Leslie's homemade jam for the first time.  She has two pieces of toast - each sporting Leslie's gourmet jam.  Strawberry balsamic on one, peach bourbon vanilla bean on the other.

She sits for a moment in front of her plate of toast.  "I am about to have a jam moment Mummy."

"Excellent.  You won't be disappointed."

She takes a bite, and then another, and another...

"This... this..."  Rissa's eyes are wide with pleasure.  "I have never experienced anything like this in my life.  This is the best jam ever.  This jam gave me an epiphany - you know what it was?  To eat more jam.  It was a jampiphany!!  You know when the end of the world will be?  When we run out of these jams.  I am now a jam connoisseur!  Eating these jams has opened a whole new world of opportunities!  Jamportunities!!!  What am I going to do when the jam runs out?!?"

She hyperventilates for a moment.

"What if you make the jam Rissa?"

"...Maybe... But I think maybe I would prefer to receive the jam, rather than make it myself."

"What if you became one of those judges at the county fair and only judged the jam?"

She gasps with excitement.  "That would be THE BEST JOB EVER!!"

It's the little things.

Happiest cats on earth...

Toms and Kittens, Strays and Collared, the Curious and the Curiouser... Step right up!!!  We welcome you to the Best, the Brightest the most BREATHTAKING of playgrounds!  A veritable

CAT CARNIVAL!  

Mainzer Cat Circus circa 1950s

   

Never in your cat lives have you experienced such Magic, such Mayhem, such MAGNIFICENCE!!! Stare for hours at the mouse-sized holes in the floors!  Hide in the floor joists!  Taunt your furry sibling through the unhemmed wall of curtains in the bedroom!  Balance precariously on the standing drywall.  We have it all and it can be yours!!  Demand food whenever you want - there are no bedroom doors to dampen your yowls.  All this, PLUS an unfinished basement that's as close to being outside as you can get!

Channelling Fred Astaire - Steve and Lola sing ...

Heaven
I'm in heaven
And my heart beats
So that I can hardly speak
And I seem to find
The happiness I seek
When we're out together
Playing hide and seek...
at 3:00 a.m...
In the bedrooom closet curtains
That you just hung
So that you didn't have to see all the crap,
But now you have to put up over
Top of the curtain rod because
The rustling is so loud when we play
That you threaten to decapitate us..

Adding bedroom doors has now become a priority.

 

Minuit, not quite back to her old self, still  prefers to enjoy the Hannibal Lector basement for the most part.  Pleased to say though, that last night she came up on her own steam to interact with humanity.  It's only taken three weeks.

Hadn't counted on the wet season.

It didn't really come as a surprise that it's dirty.   The basement, I mean.  Seeing as its floor is comprised of dirt and gravel.  And seeing as the foundation leaks a titch, it should also have come as no suprise that the dirt part of the basement has a tendency towards muddy after a good spring rain storm.

If there were only humans living in our home, it wouldn't be an issue.  You know why?  Because all three humans residing here are not going to cavort around in the dirty, gravelly, wet basement.  Our feline housemates, on the other hand, live for that shit.

Paw prints. Frickin' cat paw prints, all over everything!  Seems as if Steve and Lola have discovered the creek that runs through the stone foundation when it rains heavily.  (Not Minuit, because she's still mostly just lying on the heated blanket that David put down 'cause he was worried that she might die while lying on the cold tarp we have down there because she still refuses to come upstairs.)  Where the creek hits the dirt sides and floor, Steve and Lola had their own Grauman's Chinese Theatre moment and imprinted their way into immortality.  Then, with those same wet paws, they danced their way up the basement stairs, all over the new sofa bed, across the living room floor, through the foyer - circling back through the living room, then again through the foyer to eventually end up in the kitchen where they planted themselves on the off-white (now beigey-brown, kinda looked they've wiped their asses on them) stools in the kitchen.  I'm so glad that I had washed the slipcovers of the stools two days prior.

It's like they deliberately explore the dirtiest, dustiest, cob-webbiest corners of our  cellar and then share their journey with us, usually on the cleanest, close-to-white thing they can find.  We basically have dirty dogs - without the unconditional affection and obedience.  So we either a) have to find a way to miraculously coat our entire basement in concrete or a near facsimile thereof to eliminate the dirt, or b) we have to move the kitty litter upstairs, so that they won't get dirty in the first place.  Option a) will probably run us into the tens of thousands of dollars.  Option b) it is!!   We just have to find a place where we can carve out some room for three litter boxes.  Although if Minuit does kick the bucket, we would be down to two...

I'm going to lose my under-the-stairs closet - I just know it.  I'd been so jazzed about having a place for the vacuum and recycling to live...  and the shopping bags and shoe racks and extra folding chairs... and cleaning supplies.  I just wish that cat shit didn't smell so much like, well, cat shit.  If it smelled like lavendar and ylang-ylang it could just go in the 1/2 bath, but with 3 cats doing their business daily?  I don't particular relish the idea of sharing that particular olfactory experience in a somewhat public space.  I could say that I'd keep the litter pristine so the stink would be manageable - but I'd totally be lying.  Cleaning the litter is not at the top of my daily chores list.  I hate that job and I hate how the cloud of kitty litter dust coats my very soul after I've done it.

Wait!!  WAIT!  We build a false floor for under the stairs!  The cats go in underneath the false floor and on top of that could still be used for storing other stuff!!!  We'll rig up an elaborate trolley system with remote control to get the litter boxes out of the closet for cleaning ease...  With a motion-sensor light so that they don't have to crap in the dark... and automagic odor neutralizers!  David's a genius at problem solving those kinds of things. Maybe he can somehow Tardis the under-the-stair cupboard and find us that extra space!  'Cause I'm telling you right now that if the muddy footprints aren't dealt with - my tenuous hold on sanity may well leave me. I can't guarantee the cats' safety if that happens.

Does this look infected to you?

It's spring.  Honest-to-God, grass-greening-up spring.  Warmer air, buds on the trees and... cats.  The cats are outside once more.  Lazing on sidewalks in sunbeams, trotting up to you when you "puss-puss-pussssss...", rolling around on their backs, begging for a tummy rub.

There I am, walking back from the bank - I'd already had my cat fix twice on the way there.  Stooping to pet a tabby and some sort of Maine Coon mix.  I am a pretty happy kitten myself as I walk home.  Whisting off-tune, I spy the same Maine Coon cat on the other side of the street.  Maybe I can get a double dose of kitty love. 

"Hey sweetie..."  He saunters over to me and "prrrrrrrrowls" his enjoyment as I scritch him behind his ears.  Poor beast is matted beyond belief.  He has a couple of shaved spots where his owner has attempted to rid him of the worst of them.  He rolls on his back and I rub his tummy (just the way Steve likes it). 

When a cat bites you?  Really bites you?  They really give no warning.  One minute I'm rubbing his tummy the next I have two massive teeth marks in the heel of my hand.  Maybe he didn't break the skin...  It was probably just... Nope, there's actually torn skin... and blood.  I'm bleeding.

Oh crap!  Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap!  David is going to kill me if I have to get rabies shots again.  Shit.  Oh shit.  The cat doesn't have a tag.  He's wandering the neighbourhood - I have no idea where he lives.  The cat is winding around my legs and 'prrrrrowling' at me.  I absent-mindedly reach down to scratch him... maybe if I don't rub his tummy... will I NEVER learn?   I take a breath.  I look at him.  He's not rabid.  He doesn't look rabid.  Plus, somebody shaved him, he must belong to someone and if he belongs to someone, they probably got him his shots.  Right?

I'm formulating my excuses as I walk home.  I sneak in the house - maybe David's not downstairs.  I go over to the sink and rinse out the punctures.  Still bleeding a bit. 

"Ummmm, Rissa?"

"Yes?"

"Could you go upstairs?"  I lower my voice.  "Up in the white cabinet in one of the cubbies is some hydrogen peroxide..."

"WHAT DID YOU DO!?!"

"Shhhhhhh.... nothing.  Nothing's wrong.  I just need some..."

"Daddy!  Mummy's injured herself again!"

David comes into the room.  "What did you do?"

"Nothing!"  I hide my hand behind me. 

He raised his eyebrows and gives me the look.

I roll my eyes and present my hand.  "I'm sure he wasn't rabid.  He was shaved in spots - that means he has someone who shaves him!"

David takes a breath to berate me and then closes his mouth.  He knows there's no point.  He knows that I will never give up touching stray cats.  It will never happen.

"Rinse with the peroxide."

"Yes David."

"If you start foaming at the mouth, I'm putting you down myself."

House of the Raising Shims

Certain things become apparent only AFTER you have moved into your new home.  It comes down to this: Love is blind.  When you fall in love with your new place, its character, its quaintness, its nooks and crannies - you have blinders on.  With these 'in love' blinders, you can see no faults.  It is only upon taking possession of the house that we realize the living room walls are covered in painted, lifting wallpaper - noticeable now, because the walls are empty.  No to worry!  Quick faux fesco finish and those walls become a 'feature'!

Every single floor in the new house is uneven. I swear to you that, other than the threshhold to the master ensuite, I didn't notice any floor issues the 4 times we were in the house before we took possession.  None.  And yet... and yet after we own the house, it quickly becomes apparent that we need to buy shims in bulk.   "Quick, hand me a shim!" 

David and I begin to argue about the relative nature of 'level.'

"Do you want it level to the walls?  To the ceiling?  To the floor?"

"What I want is to look at a piece of furniture against a wall and not think I'm in a Dali painting!!"

We planned a nice long 2 week overlap between the closing of the new place and the sale of our old place for our very small renovations.  We would take March Break and turn it into a family project.  WE HAD  LOTS OF TIME.  (Sorry, I need to stifle hysterical laughter for a moment.)

We didn't have that much to do in the new house before we moved in.  We were being conservative in our renovations.  We were tackling them ourselves.  (With some very generous help from friends and family, and tradespeople to do the tricky bits.)  We were taking a 1 bedroom with ensuite and 2nd floor loft family room and turning it into a 2 bedroom with a common bathroom... 

... and we thought we'd shift where the master closet is to utilize all the space under the eaves... and we might have decided to move a cellar egress door to create a traditional door to the basement so that the cats would be able to navigate down the non-conforming-to-code stairs...  and we were putting up an entire wall of upper cabinets in the kitchen...  and we were laying floor... and intended to eliminate the separate 2nd floor laundry to open up a wall so that the common bathroom could have more space...  and we needed to bump out a closet on the main floor to house an upright freezer, washer/dryer and treadmill...  and we were going to create a wall of repurposed antique windows, which we would then frost/etch/cover with stained glass so that Rissa would have some privacy...  and we were going to add custom cut angeled doors to the sloped ceilinged bedrooms, because there weren't any.  No problem.

Strangely enough, in that 2 week overlap before we moved in, not one of those jobs was actually completed in full.  Go figure.

The bathroom is 'mostly' done.  The fixtures are in!  And we can shower - so WHOO-HOO for that!  We need to finish the drywall, tape and mud and put on the beadboard wainscotting and chair rail and then paint - but at least we can shower!  In keeping with no floors in this house being level, the floor of the old laundry room and the floor where the new shower/tub combo resides, has about 4 inches of level disparity.  Step between those different floor levels and you're in for a wild ride.  It's not quite the beginning of the Leviathan, but if you've had a nightcap (or 6 - you know, to cope with living in a home during renovations), it's close.   I'm just going to pretend that we're living on a houseboat.  That's why nothing's level.  We've even added a waterproof light fixture over the shower so that we can really immerse ourselves in our 'marine' bathroom.

The new closet in the bedroom has clothing rods, but nothing to hide them from view.  The flooring in the living room and foyer is done, but not the 1/2 bath.  The upper kitchen cupboards are up, but still need a coat of paint... and handles.  The closet on the main floor needs to be taped, mudded - and something to cover it.  The wall of windows, the privacy doors and the door to the basement?  I'm thinking that will happen in the summer.

And yet, with every box that we unpack - the floor space increases.  Smaller jobs are getting done.  We mostly got the office area settled on Monday night, and last night David made a microwave shelf to get the appliance off the counter.  We hung the curtain rod in front of the main floor closet - I have no fucking idea where the curtain rings are,  but they'll turn up as soon as I buy new ones.

I'm looking out our kitchen window, towards the back yard and there's some sort of gnarly tree (which I hope will be a flowering apple) and a little group of bushes with our bench and some haphazard flower pots beside it.  This morning, there are two blue jays poking around in the mostly-revealed spring grass.  I couldn't see this view from our other kitchen window - it was always too high to get a good look at the backyard.  I had to get on my tippy-toes to enjoy the green.  And now, here I am, typing with a view.  It's going to be okay.