To spin, or not to spin...

My body is such an over-achiever.  It's racing full-on towards decrepitude decades before the norm. The good news?  I'm like those Sentinels from X-Men: Days of Future Past - I am able to adapt with every challenge.  My Achilles Tendons ache when I wear 4 inch heels?  Not a problem!  3 inch heels it is!  My neck goes out when I apply a rough plaster finish continuously for  3 hours?  Not a problem!  Rest every 1/2 hour and change hands occasionally - something every teenaged boy learns very early on.

Apparently, my trick shoulder - my Super Spanitus - has been craving a little bit more attention.  I guess that I haven't given it its due lately.  What with general forgetfulness, also associated with age, I don't remember doing anything to it.  It's not like I've completely disregarded my physiotherapist's advice and gone back to 50 push ups before I retire to the boudoir.  I'm not even doing 1 push up.  I haven't trapped my arm underneath me in bed and then torn the tendons by attempting to slide it up across the mattress without first rolling over to my back in a long time.  I've adapted.

And yet - the shoulder has been twingeing - when I reach for something, when I use the back scrubber in the shower.  I recently got a nice, new lift-and-separate bra, and it hurts to do it up.  Thanks to this bra, my girls finally have some vintage-inspired perk, and I can't put it on.

The last couple of nights, David's had to help me disrobe.   Poor bugger, I presented my back to him and he became confounded at not having to reach around me to do his 1-SNAP-NAKED move.  I'd thrown off his groove.  Me, relying on him in this way is throwing off my groove.  I was going to have to bite the bullet and invest in front-closure brassieres.  I was bummed.

Last night, at a long-awaited girls' night, I asked everyone's opinion about front-closure bras.  On account of the fact that I was going to have to switch to them because of my early decline into decrepitude.  The words had barely left my mouth, when a chorus of  "Why don't you just spin it?"s echoed through the room.  Little cartoon word bubbles, filled with the phrase appeared over each of my friends' heads - in differing fonts, depending upon the person.

It never even occurred to me.

Since the age of 11, I've been a reach-back gal.  After nearly 3 and a half decades of doing something one way,  to find out there was an alternative?  Revelatory.

It's akin to learning to knit.  Mom tried to teach me to knit the "Continental" way, and my brain nearly melted.  You know why?  Because knitting, in every North American visual medium, has that thing where you have to wrap the yarn around with one hand.  Even when you mime knitting, you knit one or whatever and then you have to wrap the yarn around the needles.  You don't just slip it under surreptitiously.  You make a show of it.  Which, frankly, is why I've always done my bra up in the back.

"Hey look at me!  Look at my dexterity!  Look how I can make my arms disappear while clothing myself! TA-DAH!!!"

But now... now, I didn't have to buy any bras!  Not a one.  I just have to put those wee hooks in their wee little eyes in front of me and then spin the sucker...

In our group of 6 women last night.  3 of us were reach-back ers and 3 were spinners.  I found out that two of the spinners tried the reach-back this morning, probably at the same moment that I was attempting my first spin.  Old dogs.  New Tricks.

After dinner entertainment

"Uh... Heather?  Can you come here for a second?"  David's voice sounds hushed, a little odd.

"O...kay..."

"We have some visitors at the back door."

Who?  Who would be walking all the way to the back door?  Everybody comes to the side door - the one to which the other door, the first side door with the sign points. 

Rissa and I make our way to the kitchen.

"Who's here?" we ask.

David steps back to reveal two bassett hounds framed in the kitchen door.  "BASSETS!!"  Rissa and I make our way outside.

This is WAY better than the neighbours bearing a gift basket with wine which is who I'd thought would be visiting.  Technically these dogs are neighbours - the back yard kitty-corner to the south-east of us has 6 bassets between two sides of a duplex.  I guess there's a hole in the adjoining fence somwhere.


(If I wasn't too excited to even think about grabbing a camera, and I'd taken photos, they would have been something like this.)

Someone else's basset hounds

Affectionate to the point of obscene, these beasts bare their bellies - showing off their un-neutered nethers - and more than a little excited to see us...   ("Dude!"  Rissa says.  "You're showing me way too much information!")  After a good tummy rub, they gallumph to the front of the house, before making their way into our eastern neighbours' yard.

Then, as we turn to head back inside, Rissa yells "Incoming!"  Two more basset hounds appear at the bottom of our yard... then two more...  then two more...  the bottom of our yard has turned into a basset hound clown car - they just keep emerging.  The math doesn't add up.  Then I realize what must be happening... they've found another hole in our neighbours' yard that takes them home, and the 6 bassets are now running laps between all the yards.

I'm not saying it was my best evening ever, but it was pretty damned close.

shot by Luke Askelson
http://www.lukeaskelson.com

My cat's a cougar

Minuit hated the kittens as soon as they entered our home.  Despised them.  She exhibited such violent loathing that we frequently had to physically remove her from their backs and spray her with water. At the age of 4, Minuit was well-on her way to being crotchety (not to be confused with crochet-y - although that would make us tonnes of cash in YouTube videos if we had her making wee blankets for the elderly cats in her neighbourhood.)

Since we moved to the new house, Minuit has had a change of heart towards Steve,  and who can blame her?  Steve is an attractive orange tom cat with lots of personality, who will stretch his long body across a quilt, showing off his sexy tom physique.  Lola, Minuit will still bully, gamboling after  her younger sibling as only a 1/2 paralyzed cat can, chawing on Lola's neck when she catches her.  To be fair, Lola is a bit of a drama queen and might over-react a titch when an open mouth turns toward her, but when I hear her yowling and turn to look, Minuit is usually pinning her down and growling at her by that point.

Minuit now sleeps with Steve.  Cuddles up to him, grooms him.  The other day I stepped in a wet, slimy, orange hair ball.  I assumed that it was from Steve's gullet, but in second consideration I'm pretty sure that the bile-covered hair came, in fact, from Minuit, who now seems to spend all her spare time glued to Steve's side.  For two beasts incapable of having kittens, they seem to be pretty damned intimate, often sleeping on top of one another.  I opened my closet curtain to get dressed this morning, and the look Minuit gave me was pure venom.  I apologized and left.  I think I may have twat-blocked her.

Are they made from diamond dust?

You ever shop for bed skirts?  I was killing time at a Bed, Bath & Beyond a bit back, thinking "Hey!  We need some new bed skirts - I'll just have a looksee in their linens dept."

They started at $45 and went up from there.  Correct me if I'm wrong, but it's the bed perimeter x 15 inches of good fabric sewn onto a piece of crap fabric that actually sits on the box spring, right? Is the part that you can actually see made from spun gold or diamond dust?  It's just sheet fabric right?  It doesn't even have to be high-count sheet fabric - it's not going to go anywhere close to your body, and at floor level who is going to say, "Hey, that's 180 count fabric if ever I saw it"??

This is when not having energy pisses me off.  If I had loads of energy I would just buy some cheap-ass sheets and make my own bed skirts.  It's not rocket surgery.

My present ennui is stopping me from saving money. I'm all about saving money and now here I am, on the verge of buying freaking bed skirts.  And even if I did buy the bed skirts, just the thought of having to take the mattress and bedding off the box spring to then carefully smooth out the bed skirt seems too daunting a task.

So is this ennui that comes of moving to a new home and having accomplished the first round of renovations, or am I veering into depression territory?  Is my peri-menopause truly kicking into high gear and fucking with my sanity now?  'Cause either of those would be inconvenient.

What's really concerning me is that I don't want to go to movies.  And going to movies for me is probably my most favourite activity in the world - 3 weeks out of the month.  For the 4th week, I'm hormonal and all I want is sex, but those other 3 weeks, if I could see three movies a day in a movie theatre - I'd be in Heaven.  So when David suggests that we go see a movie, and I can't muster up the energy to leave the house, that's a pretty big freaking red flag for me.  Problem is, the signs of depression?  Apathy, exhaustion, mental fog?  Are remarkably like signs of Peri-menopause... depression, crashing fatigue, mental fog.  Which are also remarkably like signs of Hypothyroidism...  fatigue, depression, mental fog. 

I feel like I'm playing hormonal roulette...
 
Place your bets!  Place your bets!

Drowning once more in a pool of depression scares the shit out of me.  So I refuse to do that.  Not going to happen.  This, I have decided, is all peri-menopause crap.  My hormones have simply kicked into a higher gear of fucking with me - which, now that I'm aware and I know all the symptoms - I can counteract.  Today, when I get home from work, I'm ironing for the first time since Christmas. 

Baby steps, folks.  Tomorrow I'll unpack the last two boxes in my bedroom.

This is what a spatula is made for...

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"  I shake my fists to the heavens in rage. 

"Mummy?"

"There is NO peanut butter!!"  It's one of those morninigs.  You know, one of  those mornings when all you want is a certain thing for breakfast?  All I wanted was peanut butter on my toast.  And only one piece with peanut butter - I needed a tablespoon and a half of it - the other piece of toast was going to have seedless raspberry jam.  Was that too much to ask for?  Wait!  Wait! Rissa doesn't eat peanut butter.  David would have been the last to eat it, which means he would have 'finished' it, which means it would... still be sitting in the sink...

"HAH!"

"Hah?" asks Rissa.

"YES!  HAH!!  All I have to do is drain the water, grab a spatula and voila!  Peanut Butter Toast!  THIS.  This is what a spatula is made for... this exact task!"

"Un-huh..."

"See??  See how much peanut butter is left?"

Rissa avoids eye contact, because that's what you're supposed to do with crazy people.

The spatula is the most perfect of kitchen utensils.  I pour out all the soaking water, then hold the spatula aloft like Excaliber.  A deep breath and I begin to scrape the sides of the jar.  Press down the sides, swirl around the bottom, press and swirl... "AHA!!!  Take THAT Mr. Doesn't-know-when-a-jar's-empty!!"

"Happy now?"

"Yes.   Yes, I am."

You know what else a spatula is good for?  Smoothing peanut butter on your toast.

Out of the mouth of Rissa...

"Agnes the camel has three humps..."

"Agnes the camel?"

"Yes."

"O....kay..."

"Agnes the camel has three humps...  Wallace the camel has two humps..."

"You don't remember the actual song, do you?"

"No."

"It's Alice the camel, although I have to say that I prefer Agnes now..."

"Well, obviously."

"It's Alice the camel has 10, 9 8, etc.  etc. humps.  Until you get down to no humps and you find out that she's actually a horse... of courrrrrrrrrrse..."

"Ahhhhhh...  Wait then....  Agnes the camel has three humps...  because she is a three-humped camel and that's how she rolls... Wallace the camel has two humps - completely unrelated to Agnes - he is of the two-humped variety...   Margaret the camel has one hump... and is slightly jealous of Agnes and Wallace. Baby Joey the camel has no humps because he is adopted and is a horse, well, actually a zebra - so he doesn't have humps, instead he has stri-i-i-i-i-i-ipes."

She's here all week folks ...  enjoy the veal...

Soft Porn at the Spa

 WARNING:  Adult matters discussed in this post

Let it be proclaimed from the mountain tops:  I have the best spouse and daughter in the world.  For Mothers' Day this year they gifted me a spa afternoon (with light lunch).  Four treatments in 4 hours: a facial, massage, pedicure and manicure - all in the delightful surroundings of a local spa.  Even though only one of the treatments was a 'masssage,' I got 4 massages in the time I was there.  During a facial, your face, shoulders, neck and hands are massaged.  During a massage your back, legs, neck, shoulders and arms are massaged.  During a pedicure your feet, and calves are massaged and during a manicure your forearms and hands are massaged.  I walked out of the spa like an overcooked lasagna noodle.

"What are you looking for in today's treatments?" my esthetician Casey asks.

"Relaxation.  Complete and utter relaxation."

My regular massage therapist, Erin, works on my body to heal it.  She gets in there with her elbow, releasing the knots in my shoulder and back - I love Erin - I love her therapeutic massage - I love that she fixes me, but unless I tell her to go easy on me, those massages are generally not relaxing.  I was signing up for a day of sighing and relaxed drool seeping out of my mouth.   I checked that box.

During the facial, I almost fall asleep twice. 

"Okay, when you're ready, come on out and we'll get you set up for your soak and massage," Casey says in her softest voice.

Alrighty... time to get up.  I sit up very slowly, feet testing the floor.  I grab the bathrobe and snuggle in and toddle out the door.

Casey meets me with a red wine glass full of lemon water and directs me to the next room.  Candles are everywhere.  Massage table in the centre.  To the back of the room, a jacuzzi tub.  Casey leads me over to the steaming tub.

"Okay Heather, I'm going to leave you here to soak for about 20 minutes.  The controls are on the side here.  You just relax, lay back and enjoy.  I'll be back in 20 minutes."  She backs out of the room in complete silence.

Soaking in a tub is one of my most favourite things - forget raindrops on roses - nearly scalding water with a good book in my hand, and I'm in heaven.  Soaking in a tub in a room full of candles?  Decadence. I hang my fluffy robe on the chrome hook on the wall, swig back half my glass of lemon water and sink into the perfectly heated tub.  This.  This is fantastic.  I reach over to the controls for the jacuzzi and hit the "ON" button.

It's like there is a 250 HP power motor somewhere in the room. The propulsion of the jets nearly lifts me from the tub.  Where is the low setting on this sucker?  As I'm desperately searching to adjust the settings, one particular jet gives me a jolt in my nether regions. 

"Whoa!"  I jump. I let out a surprised snort of laughter.  Do I have to pay extra for that?  And then you know how sometimes you have those thoughts that you oughtn't have?  Not-for-public-consumption thoughts?  There I was, in a jacuzzi tub with jets that apparently wanted to please me, and I had them for 20 minutes.  I sat with my hand on the controls, debating for a full minute and a half.

NO.  It would be WRONG.  Wouldn't it?  But I am supposed to be here to relax and that would relax me...  I glance over at the door.  I look at the clock on the wall.  What time had I come in?  Was it 2:00 p.m.?  I hadn't looked when I sat in the tub.  How much time had I wasted?  Then I got to thinking about the logistics.  Where were the jets?  The good ones, I mean.  Not directly under me.  So I'd have to kind of  have to position myself on one hip to get the kind of massage I was now contemplating.  Well, it wouldn't hurt to just try...

"WHOA!"  Too much!  The 250 HP was too much.  My finger punches the low setting over and over.  Where was the 'just right'?  Where was that setting?  Shouldn't there be a setting with a star beside it or something?  To let you know that if you're going to attempt something wholly inappropriate in a near public location that THIS is the setting to use?  I start giggling.  This was some sort of twisted version of Beat the Clock.  I couldn't relax under these circumstances!  Now I was totally thinking about it too much.  Here I'd already wasted a good 7.5 minutes just trying to figure out the right setting.  I snort again.  By the time I figure it out to get the full benefits - she'll be knocking on the door to let me know it's time to get out of the tub.  I turn off the jets completely.

"Get thee gone temptress.  Away with your bubbly wiles."

Still, it did keep a smile on my face for the rest of the day...