When in doubt, add moustache!

"It hurts when I smile," says Rissa, as we're chatting before bed.

She'd mentioned it earlier in the evening.

"The zit?" I ask commiseratively.

"The zit," she confirms - pointing to the right of her nose.  She then does a Vanna White flourish.  She tilts her head to the side and flashes me her best 'fish lips.'

Yep, there it is.  Poor kid.  Day before she starts high school.  For me, it would have been life over.  The wailing and gnashing of teeth would have been EPIC.  I had been very concerned about what other people thought.

"You could always camouflage it," I suggest.

"Balaclava?" she puts forth.

I take a breath to tell her that no one will notice, that everyone else has zits, that the state of 'beside her nose' in consequential in the 'First Day of High School' scheme of things.

"... or a MOUSTACHE.  If it gets bad, I'll just draw a full-on moustache in sharpie.  That'll distract from the zit plus it will give me an air of mystique!"

"Like a little John Waters moustache?"

"NO!" she scoffs.  She then mimes the most elaborate, surpassing Jaime Hyneman, moustache - but hers, of course, would be more well-groomed and waxed to within an inch of its life.

"Definitely the way to go," I agree.

"I'll be a hit with the entire student body..."

"And the teachers..."

"But for the teachers I'll add in this certain je ne sais quoi..."  she raised her eyebrows and looks at me intensely.

"Awesome.   You could throw in your double wink too."

Rissa dislikes the traditional wink, except when Cat Deeley does it.  She therefore created the DOUBLE WINK, which is like a blink, but slightly longer and with much more personality behind it. 

"Oh yeah..."  She demonstrates.  "Okay.  I think I'll be good to go."

Yes, she will.

Music in my vulva...

"OH MY GOD THIS IS SO GOOD!!!  Turn it up!  TURN IT UP!!!"

Muse's Supremacy is playing in the car.  David cranks it.

"Best dirty guitar ever!!!  You know where I feel this?  IN MY VULVA!!!"

"MUMMY!"

"But I do.  Every time those dark notes from that guitar kick in - right there in my..."

"MUMMY!"

"Sorry, but that's where I feel it.  I bet you that Daddy totally feels it in his..."

"You are NOT normal!"

"Actually, I feel the good stuff in my fingertips," David says.  "Like light shooting out of my body."

"See?  Everyone feels music in their bodies! You're a dancer.  You probably feel it all over the place!"

"Well, I don't feel it THERE!"

And then it hits me... This is why those douchey guys drive around town with their UNCE-UNCE-UNCE bass blaring through their car speakers.  They think they're going to attract vulvas.  They think that girls are just going to dive into their open windows, or at the very least - wave them down and beg for a ride. What they don't realize is that UNCE-UNCE-UNCE sound will turn someone off as much as it will turn someone on. Plus, to a gal just walking down the street?  That UNCE-UNCE-UNCE sound, combined with the inevitable hole in the muffler and/or squealing of tires just makes me think that the dude is overcompensating for a really tiny penis.

With Supremacy, it's not just that rough guitar that gets me - when Matthew Bellamy goes into falsetto (freaking falsetto!) just before the chorus?  Say around 2:11?  YOWZA.

Combine that bit with the musical intro for Michael Buble's Cry Me A River? Game over.  Bubbles doesn't even need to sing.  I'm already done.  Alan Chang's arrangement of the strings and bass for the opening 29 seconds has liquefied my lady bits.  By the time that lone guitar strums at the 30 second mark? I need a cigarette.

On second thought... I'd be more than okay if Rissa feels the music in her neck... or not at all.

Peep show on the 401...

Utterly exhausted, I climb into the back seat, voluntarily giving up 'shotgun' to Rissa.

"Really?  I really get to sit in the front?!?"

"Sleepy.  So very, very sleepy."  My mid-afternoon doze is kicking in, in a major way.  Peri-menopause and thyroid disease make for insistent bedfellows.

One pillow is under my head, plus I've added a travel pillow around my neck to counteract any sudden jostling.  Knees folded to my chest as my 5'6" body attempts to utilize every inch of space in the back seat.  Windows are open as we hit the highway, airing out the car before the AC can effectively begin to cool anything.

The open windows are producing quite the breeze.  It fills the car, ruffling clothing.  I can feel it against my...  nether regions?  I glance down.  My skirt, when I am bent into this particular pretzel-shape, doesn't allow for a lot of rear coverage. I'm basically bending over... sideways.  My ass, clad in my cotton cheekinis, is pretty much on show for any car that might pass us.

"Ummmm...  it seems that I am offering a peep show back here."

"Mummy!!"

"Sorry, I can't help it.  I should have worn pants, I guess.  And perhaps visited the esthetician..."  I try to shift to my back, but the geometry of it in our hatchback, combined with the wearing the lap part of the seatbelt makes it difficult.  Eventually, I manage to put my feet against the window, but that just offers a greater view of my under-the-skirt goodies.  In this position, any car to our right could give me a driveby gynecological exam.

"Pillow.  I think I need an extra pillow, you know, for camouflage."

"No worries love," says David.  "We're on two-lane roads for the first hour.  When we hit the 401, I'll just make sure that we stay in the right hand land.  NO problem!"

That's my husband... always looking out for my ass.

Not the sexy kind of goosebumps...

"Well, HELLO there..." says David.

"Hiya.  Don't get excited.  This isn't for you," I say, standing naked in our bedroom.

Even though the weather in Southern Ontario this summer is not steaming hot, it's still humid.  The kind of humid that starts you sweating not 30 seconds after you've had a cool shower to get rid of all your sweat.   Add to that a half-assed attempt at drying your hair before you go to work, and you have the perfect storm for full-body sweats - every single pore wet (even your freaking shins) - right before you need to clothe that sweaty body in workplace attire.

A 'quick fix' solution leaps into my head.  It nearly convinces me to roll on the carpet to dry myself off; the cat hair from my elderly shedding feline which covers the carpet's surface (even right after I have just vacuumed it), and would also leave me resembling Sasquatch, makes me pause.  I refuse to waste a newly washed towel to soak up the sweat...  so I now find myself buck naked, ass-end presented to the standing fan which I have set to a near-gale force level - NUMBER 3 - on the control panel.  The fan blows so hard that my entire body has developed goosebumps.  This is, of course, when David walks in.

"I'm quick drying so that I can get dressed."

He looks crestfallen.

"Find me a supply of shammies and we'll talk."

Fetish Night in Middle Earth

"Is there such a thing as 'Cosplay?' " I ask.

David raises an eyebrow.  We're still lying in bed, the alarm has just gone off.  He yawns.   "Uhhhhh.... yeah.  Costume Play.  Like people who dress up from Star Trek or Anime or Marvel characters."

"I was having this dream last night and it was all about a 'Cosplay' club.  It was this huge mansion in downtown Toronto.  Except it wasn't people dressing up as super heroes it was people dressing up as fantasy creatures... fairies, elves, pixies..."  I pause when it hits me...  "Oh wait... it might have been a kinky kind of club... some of the costumes were topless."

Both of David's eyebrows are now raised.

"So I was at the club, and I got separated from my friends and I came upon this giant hamster run.  So I was playing with the hamster..."

"Wait, was this a guy in a hamster costume... or....?"

"No, this was an actual hamster, they weren't those sort of costumes.  But wouldn't it be kinda cool to have a giant hamster run for people?"

"Be kind of hot if you had to wear the hamster costume though..."

"So they warned me not to play with the hamster..."

"But you played with it anyway..."

"Well, yeah...  And as I was snuggling with the hamster, it poohed all over me.  But it was sick and it kind of had diarr...."

"Thank you.  Got it."

"But the weirdest part..."

"We haven't gotten to the weird part yet?"

"No, the weirdest part was that I was even at this club."

"What do you mean?"

"The club opened at 2:00 a.m."

David doesn't even have to let that sink in.  "Oh yeah, that'd never happen.  You could never start your partying at 2:00 a.m."

"Well, not unless it was on a Saturday night and I had several naps during the day beforehand.  Plus, I don't have a good topless Galadriel costume on hand."

Bring It...

"Two piece or one piece?"

"Are you going to need to pee at any time during the day?" asks Rissa.

The thought of having to visit a public washroom while attempting to drag down a wet, clingy (to the point of achieving adhesion to my body), one-piece swimsuit, makes me shudder.

"Point taken.  Two piece it is.  I'll wear a cover up."

I wiggle my ass into the - surprisingly-tighter-this-year - crotch of the bottoms.  Once a year swimming offers new corporeal discoveries.  This spring/summer I discovered that my inner thighs had suddenly, expansively.... developed.

I do up the swim top, sqwoosh my breasts into the appropriate cups and then get them somewhat level; my bodacious bits pushed nearly up to my chin, near-to-choking off my air supply.  I turn my back to the mirror to sneak a peek at my rear view...

"Is that my back?!?"  HOLY CRAP!"  I slam it against the wall to hide  from my own gaze and the world at large.

My back now has the articulated appearance of a caterpillar, all rolls and bulges, from where the supporting back band has tightened - enhancing my extra back and armpit boobs.  On a caterpillar, these bulges can be sexy as hell, but in my twisted female eye?  I resemble a swamp troll.

Quelling the immediate urge to weep, I instead repeat my new mantra, "No problems, only solutions."  I grab my multi-coloured, Pucci-esque, cover up and drag it over my person.  "HAH!"  I place one hand on my hip with insouciance, and flash a smile in the mirror.  "Take that, back boobs!"

Welcome to Peri-menopause - your second adolescence.  Strange that we're not as excited about those developments later in life.    We are SO excited about getting those boobs when we hit puberty - we compare cup size, band size - try out different bras - feel all feminine and grown-up.  Why is it that when our 36 Ds morph into 38 DDDs, we aren't all doing a happy dance in the change room of the bra boutique, giving high-fives to the woman who just measured and then manhandled our breasts into the appropriately-sized bra?

"38 DDD!  YEAH!  WHOO-FREAKING-HOO!"  The confetti cannon will then explode with glitter and streamers.

"What do you plan to do with your new breasts, Heather?" the colour commentator will ask.

"Well Sandy, I'm taking them to DISNEYLAND!!!!"

"And your new inner thighs?"

"I'm going old-school Sandy.  I'm bringing back the 'bloomer.'  Let me show you here what I've done.  These used to be a pair of seersucker pajama pants... I've cut them off to mid thigh, you can choose to hem or not, because no one will see them.  I wear these under all my summer skirts and dresses, entirely eliminating inner thigh friction.  I've brought an extra pair for you to try, go ahead and put them on to see how they really work!"

"Wow, Heather, these are amazing!  I have ZERO thigh friction!"

"That's right Sandy.  And if you buy now, folks, you'll get two free pairs of bloomers along with your initial purchase!  Plus I'll throw in a shirt that actually fits you - no muumuus, no XL t-shirts, and NO club wear.

Peri-menopause is a shocker. Our bodies change - in spite of our best intentions.   I exercise every day.  I try to eat healthfully.  I'm doing squats and and lunges and planks and triceps lifts.  And you know what?  I still have extra boobs and newly voluptuous inner thighs.   Am I thrilled about them?  No.  But I'm 46 years old, folks.   Given how long the women live in my family, I probably have at least another 46 years left on this planet.  The thought of complaining about my physical appearance for all that time?  It's exhausting.

So I'm going to do the best that I can.  I'm going to continue to exercise and eat well and I'm going to wear clothes that actually fit me - not the 24 year old version of myself that media outlets tell me I should cling to.  And the next time my husband and daughter say "You look so beautiful!" I'm going to listen to them.  I'm going to accept their compliments graciously, without a grimace.  I'm going to fight back the judgy-judger inside my head, square my shoulders and say "Bring It!"

It's not a tee-tee...

It's a vagina.  Say it with me folks.  VA-GI-NA.  Vagina.  Half the people in the world have them.  You might have your very own.  Check now.   If it's an 'INNY" it's a vagina.  If it's an "OUTY" it's a penis.

That's not to say that, as an adult, I haven't used comic euphimisms to get a cheap laugh.  I frequently do.  My favourite is "hooha."  But as I was never raised with euphemisms, my daughter hasn't been either.  Rissa's known she's had a vagina since she could ask about body parts. 

We didn't baby talk with her.  We didn't ask if she needed to 'tinkle' or 'make poopies.'  Although the phrase, 'Who just tooted?" did have some traction in our house. 

When I was pregnant as a surrogate for another family, Rissa was 4.  We had some very pointed discussions about how babies were made at that time because it was important that she understand the general process of insemination (ie - that I did NOT have sex with the father of the baby), and why we weren't bringing another baby to our home.  In my 2nd trimester I had an ultra sound.  I explained that the ultrasound would tell whether I was having a boy or a girl.  Rissa had a friend 2 years her senior who said, "I know how they'll be able to tell!!  If it's a boy, it'll have short hair, and if it's a girl, it'll have long hair."  Rissa looked at this girl like she was nuts.  With a slight eye roll, Rissa said, "If it has a penis, it'll be a boy, and if it has a vagina, it'll be a girl."

Words have power. A great vocabulary goes hand in hand with great knowledge.  I had a friend whose kindergarten-aged child was reprimanded in school for exclaiming, "My penis is stuck in my zipper!"  "We don't use words like that," the teacher later said when she had the inevitable conversation with the boy's mother.  Why not?  They're body parts.  We don't have euphemisms for other body parts - other than because we aren't all doctors and don't know the proper Latin names.  Femur for most people is 'leg bone.'  Your rotator cuff doesn't get all 'niced up' for everyday conversation.   It isn't called a stretchy joiny bit for arm support.  But if that body part or bodily function has anything to with sexual activity or reproduction - the euphemisms pile up - puritanically clad in 'cleaner' language - lest we give kids knowledge.

Fact:  Women are supposed to bleed once a month from puberty through to their 50's.  It's called menstruation.  They bleed... from their vaginas.  They use pads, tampons or Diva Cups to catch the blood.  The phrase "on the rag" comes from a time when women had to use and then wash rags specifically fashioned to catch menstrual blood.  At this point in human evolution, menstruating should no longer come as a surprise to anyone.

Fact:  Babies are made when sperm from a penis, meet an egg from an ovary.  The fertilized egg then matures inside a uterus.  The baby then exits the female body via the vagina, or in some cases, through the stomach, via a c-section.  The stork does not bring babies.  Pregnant women do not swallow a watermelon seed.  Babies are not made when Mummies and Daddies love each other very much.

Fact:   The Rhythm Method, pulling out, or peeing right after will NOT protect against pregnancy.    You know what protects against pregnancy?  Not having sex.  But since we are all genetically programmed to want sex, the next best thing to protect against unplanned pregnancy is to use condoms, spermicidal foam, a cervical sponge, a diaphragm, an IUD, the patch, the shot or the pill.  Using the first three together, might ruin the mood, but a gal probably won't get pregnant.

Fact:  If a woman wants to be protected, she needs to protect herself.  Those of us with daughters need to make sure they are armed with knowledge, because other than carrying a condom and maybe some duct tape to attach it to his penis, the dude who wants to screw your daughter ain't all that armed - even if he plays "Just the tip."  Yes, it would be wonderful if everyone waited until they found a partner they loved, who respected them and they explored the mysteries of intimacy together.  In spite of my best intentions, I lost my virginity at 16 in the back seat of a Duster.   It's sheer dumb luck that I didn't end up pregnant or with an STD.  You get tingly, you get wet, things feel good -  if the person knows what they're doing, things feel freaking fantastic... You lose your mind a little bit.  You play Russian Roulette.  You  can recommend abstinence all you want, but remember what it was like when you became aware of sex... Remember that?  Remember how great that was?  How great it felt?  How much you wanted to do it?  This is the time to eschew embarrassment.  Have the talk about birth control with your daugthers EARLY.