Flat cats...

"Blergh."

"You okay love?" asks David solicitously.

"Heat.  Blergh. Sticky. Thighs... chafing..."

"But you're not even moving - your thighs can't be chafing if you're not moving."

"You'd think that would be the case, wouldn't you?  It's because I'm just thinking of moving.  My thighs, they know that I'm thinking of moving, and they've already begun to chafe."  I turn my head to the side and murmur despondently, "Je déteste l'été..."

I am one of very few Canadians who do not relish the dog-days of summer. I will choose winter over summer.  My seasonal picks run thus: spring and autumn in an equal tie for first place, then winter, then near-spring, the-day-before-autumn, near-winter and finally, after every other possible combination... summer. Give me a day of 23 degrees Celsius with zero humidity and I'm ecstatic. 30 with a Humidex of 39 and I'm threatening to murder inanimate objects.

"You fucking viscous oak dining chair!  Let go of the back of my thighs!  I will chop you into pieces and decimate you with the molten heat from beneath my breasts!!"

David purchases floor fans to move conserved cooler air from the window air conditioners around.  I hog the revolving tower fan in the living room as we watch episodes of IZombie.  It is a delightful show of skirt-raising as I  hunker down to air out my hot-enough-to-double-as-a-panini-press nether regions.

The poor cats.  I've never seen them so flat.  They ooze into the floor.  

Flat Minuit

Flat Steve

The cats are so uncomfortable that they aren't even asking for food.  And this is from beasts who routinely beg for their meals at least an hour in advance of feeding  time.  It appears that they, like me, become nauseated by the extreme heat.  Pro-side?  This heat-induced nausea has put us all on a meal apathy diet.  How do you feel about dinner?  Meh...

As a gal who freely admits to getting truly nasty during a heatwave, I'm also the first to say that  ingenuity is a heat-hater's best friend.  I have it down to a science.  The window air conditioner runs at full blast for the 15 minutes before bed, then the floor fan, at level 3, oscillates.  A cool shower, an ice pack wrapped around my neck and accompanying Gravol for the nausea, et voilà!  Not only can sleep be attained, it can be enjoyed.  And tomorrow night, if I can fight against the urge to slip into a heat-exhaustion, near-coma-post-work nap - I'll actually be able to sleep when I hit the sheets.  Bright side?  I managed to pen this post at 2:00 a.m.

The secret to reducing crows feet...

You wake up in the morning and do the zombie shuffle to the bathroom.  The light goes on; your ill-prepared eyes close - too much light, too soon.  Your pasty mouth makes a smasking sound as you open and close it, you wonder what crawled in to die overnight.  You stick out your tongue, making sure that it isn't coated with a layer of scoopable kitty litter.  Your eyes finally focus as you lean in towards the mirror and that's when you see them.  The creases on the side of your face - the ones by your eyes - the... crow's feet.  It's not just dermatographia from the pillow case either.

The crow's feet have epic prominence this morning and you look like you've gone 10 rounds.  You poke the skin around your left eye - the puffiest eye...  It wasn't this puffy last night when you went to bed.  Did you have an allergic reaction to something?  Did one of the cats cold-cock you in your sleep?  There's no better word for it, your face looks... SMOOSHED.   poke - poke - poke...  It's as if all the skin has been pushed into a Shar Pei version of its regular self...

And that's when it hits you. Your face has been smooshed. You slept your face into its present state.  The weight of your head, as you slept on your side, has distorted your aging facial skin.

Let's face it, when a woman looks at those crow's feet on her face, its the rare bird who says: "Hey look at the aged beauty and character upon my visage!"  Age and character just doesn't seem to fly for the feminine set - it's not accepted and revered the way it is on the male form.

You've passed 40, you've tried your fair share of eye creams.  You've probably spent some cool pocket change on different varieties before you read the Internet articles telling you that once the lines are there, you're pretty much fucked.  Unless you're wealthy and can go the surgical or Botox maintenance route - those crow's feet are here to stay.  By the age of 47, you don't even really mind the crow's feet - it's the puffy smooshed bird nest by association that makes you die a little inside.

Fear not!  You don't need the bullshit (probably not literally made from bullshit) hundred dollar face creams.  You don't need Botox.  In a woman's fight to lessen the appearance of crow's feet and their accompanying bird nest, there is a simple solution.  One that we can all implement - starting today.  Are you ready?

REDEFINE THE TERMINOLOGY.  

How about this?  How about we call them what they actually are?  SMILE LINES.  I have SMILE lines. I've spent 47 years smiling.  That's almost half a century of smiling.  I can't and shouldn't want to erase these lines.  They're the marks of a life full of fucking good moments...  Of moments that made me smile,  giggle, snort, titter and guffaw with laughter.

The poofy smooshed face?  I've got something for that.

SLEEP ON YOUR BACK.

Let gravity be your friend.  Buy yourself a kick-ass, neck-supporting, Obus form pillow and convince that thin middle-aged facial skin, which I hope is chock full of smile lines, to slide earward overnight.  You'll thank me in the morning.

The Ballad of Menstrual Woman...

"I'm going to have a quick shower!" I say, heading up the stairs.

"O....kay..." This from David in the kitchen, his tone oddly sarcastic.

"Pardon?" I say - ducking down to catch his eye.

"Nothing," he shrugs before smiling falsely.

The temperature in the room has dropped about 15 degrees.

"Is something going on?" I ask.

"No, no, not at all..." He stands there belligerently.

I take a step further up the stairs, but then step back down.  "Are you sure nothing's going on?"

He heaves a deep, frustrated sigh.  "It's just that you don't really have quick showers," he says aggressively. "And we have to eat in 15 minutes."

My spirit crushed, I sit down on the stairs.  "Pardon?  I can have a quick shower..."

With a slightly patronizing eye-roll  he says,  "Yes, sure... yeah you can."

"I CAN have a quick shower!!"

"Uh-huh."  He's standing there, chest puffed out - looking ready to do a Krump battle.

"I CAN.  I'm going upstairs right now and you'll just see how quick!"

"O...kay..." His hands up now in a Whoa... Whoa... who's the crazy lady? gesture.

"Guys," says Rissa.  "This is not important."

"It IS!" I say stomping up the stairs.

I shoulder my way into the bathroom - my clothes off in mili-seconds.  The water is thrown on, I don't even adjust the temperature.  "See if I can't have a quick shower..."  I rinse my scalp and then slather on the conditioner, grabbing the back scrubber and smearing it with Grapefruit body wash.  Scrub... scrub... scrub... arms done!  Armpits done!  Legs done!  Hoo-ha (gently) done!  Feet done!  Hair, rinsed.  Water off.  Out.  Towel on.  Moisturizer on.  Towel off. Leave-in conditioner in.  Drag my fingers through my hair.  Grab the mousse and apply palmfuls of product to my curls.  Scrunch.  Scrunch again.  I speed-walk to the bedroom.  I grab my bathrobe, tying it as I come downstairs.

David and Rissa are still making Kraft dinner.  I sit triumphantly on the sofa.  I muffle my "HAH!" as best I can.  I glance pointedly at David.  Showed him.  Now would be the time to sit in regal silence.

"TOLD YOU!"

"Yes you did.  I am sorry for doubting you."

He has apologized.  I should accept it gracefully.  "If you want to talk time wasted in the bathroom, how about the 45 minutes that you can spend?  Just  sitting, over top of your own pooh!"

At this moment, with the word "pooh' ringing through my ears, I realize that I might not be as rational as I'd felt just 6.5 minutes before. 

"It is possible," I say (quietly).  "That I am a titch hormonal.  I thought I was done being hormonal for the week, but I was incorrect.  The floodgates have opened once more and I am now attributing paranoid judgmental adjectives to everyone's speech patterns."  I do an internal check - my rage has dissipated.  "I think I'm safe again."

Good thing I don't work at NASA...

"Would you mind grabbing my phone from the Jeep?" asks my friend Meaghan, as she's filling out some paperwork at the permits desk.

"Sure, no problem," I say.  I head out to the parking lot towards her white Jeep SUV.  Try the doors.  Locked.  Run back inside.

"Keys.  I'll need the keys," I say.

"Oh, I thought I'd left it open...  Here you go..." She hands me the keys.

"Back in a sec," I say, running outside again. I click the unlock button.  Nothing.  The locks don't budge.  The lights don't flash, although there is a very muted beep-beep sound.  I click it again.  Zip. Nada. Nothing.  The passenger door doesn't even have a key entry on its side. I walk around to the driver's side.  The key doesn't fit.  What the?  I click the unlock button once more - again a muted beep-beep - but no lock movement.  Maybe the batteries are low?  I shake the key fob and re-click.  Nothing.   I try the door lock again.   She must have given me the wrong keys.  This has to be the the key for her other car...

As I start back into the office, I take another glance down at the key.  No, this IS the Jeep key.  It actually has the word JEEP on it.  Weird.  I look back over my shoulder.  That's when I notice the other Jeep.  Or rather I notice THE Jeep.  The vehicle that I've been trying to break into is in fact a Chrysler Aspen - a Chrysler Aspen that is almost twice the size of Meaghan's white Jeep and is light cream in colour, not white.    Even better?  I now have to walk past the two car drivers waiting in their vehicles, parked in between the monster Chrysler and Meaghan's actual Jeep.  I nonchalantly walk towards the Jeep and click the key fob - strangely enough,  the correct vehicle brightly flashes its lights wildly in welcome and loudly beep-beeps at me.  "WELL, HELLO STRANGER - FINALLY COMING MY WAY?"

I'm snorting with laughter as I go back inside.

"What?" asks Meaghan.

"Okay, so you know how I came back in for the keys?"

"Yeah...?

"Well, in my defense - the other SUV wasn't there when we parked."

She looks out the door.  "Are you kidding me?  That car is twice the size of mine, way more luxurious and not even white!"

"I think I might have temporary size, quality and colour blindness."

Rainy Day Parade

The rain is teeming down on this cool June day.  You could take a picture out our back window and place it next to the word 'torrential.'  In less than 2 hours I would be walking down the main street of a small Ontario town in early Canada Day Celebrations. 

"I so wish that I had a yellow slicker and a Nor'wester hat for this parade," I say.

"Like badminton?" asks David.

"What does badminton have to do with a Nor'Wester hat or parades?"

"Not like badminton... like PADDINGTON..."

My intellect has yet to kick in... The syllables make no sense to me.  I look completely confused.

"PADDINGTON?  THE BEAR...?"

"Oh, Paddington.  That makes so much more sense.  Wait, isn't he in a blue coat with a red hat?  Although come to think of it, if they were waterproof, I'd totally wear them.Oooooh... Do you think I could go on Amazon and source that outfit?"

"Like Butt Hunting?" asks Rissa.  She's late to the party.

"Butt hunting?"  David shakes his head.  "That sounds nothing like badminton or Paddington.  Are you guys both high right now?"

I just love my butterfly...

Leafing through Woman's World while waiting at the vet's office...   Ad after ad after ad for drugs/products that spend the last 1/16th of their page on the small print.

WARNING: may cause dizziness, nausea, itchiness, dry mouth, sneezing, anxiety, twitching, muscle aches, depression, seizures, anal leakage, loss of feeling in your left foot, temporary blindness, limping, complete blindness, dismemberment, tap-dancing, Judy Garland impersonations, ennui, giddiness, and death...

But then I come upon this ad:

On first glance, I was sure it must be for a new vibrator or sexual technique.  People of a certain generation will remember the L.A. Law episode from 1986 entitled The Venus Butterfly which alluded to a sexual technique that drove women wild.  Sex toys were actually created capitalizing on the buzz from this episode.  So, when  someone says:

...next to a picture of a butterfly-ish thing, I'm thinking that a lot of women (who also just happen to be the target demographic for this company), are going to be thinking the same thing I was. 
 
WHOO HOO!!!  SEX TOY!!!  and/or
WHOO-HOO!!! SEXUAL TECHNIQUE!!!

How disappointing to then read on, only to discover...

Two thoughts quickly ran through my mind:

1. 'Butterfly,' for me, was now going to be associated with accidental bowel leakage and
2. How many people suffer from this, that the company advertises products in Woman's World?

Maybe, just maybe, the ad execs who designed this are doing exactly what I think they're doing, which is attaching a positive 1980s memory to a discomforting condition in the hopes of selling more of their products to their target consumers.  I pee when I'm ill-prepared for a sneeze, cough or jump - Poise pads should be aimed at me.  And really, this ain't that much different.  In decades past, nothing 'icky' was advertised either in print or televised media.  In my Mom's generation, there were no maxi-pad or tampon ads.  Adult diapers hit the aisles only relatively recently.  Thank God that we can now talk about this sort of thing...  I'm still a little miffed that they stole the word 'butterfly' from me, but I'm willing to give that up if it can make dealing with ABL a little easier for those who experience it.

p.s.
In the writing of this post, I might have gotten distracted when I tried to locate Ann's reaction to Stuart utilization of the Venus Butterfly technique.  I found the L.A. Law Episode where Stuart first found out about it (Season 1, Episode 10 about 24:50 minutes in for the lead up), but not Ann's reaction.  I might possibly have spent a bit of time... uh...  hours searching.  If anyone knows exactly where it falls, please let me know.

It's pronounced VEG-GETTI...

"AS SEEN ON TV!!  IT'S THE VAGGETTI!!!"

David does a double take.  "Beg your pardon?"

"Oh, wait...  That's VEG-getti."

"And that's better because...?"

"You stick vegetables in and out comes 'pasta'."

"Vegetable pasta?"  David shudders.

"I was going to mock this mercilessly, but looking at it now, I would totally use it.  Plus then we'd have a Veggetti.  Think of the dinner conversations and tittering mis-pronounciations."

"Very true."

...later...

"What is that?" asks Rissa.

"It's a Veggetti..."

"It's a what now??"

"See?" I turn to David brandishing the packaging.  "Told you."  I turn back to Rissa. "It makes vegetable pasta.  Stick a zuccini in and out comes zucchini pasta!"  I demonstrate.  "Oooh, these blades are super sharp!"

"Yeah, don't be shoving your fingers in the VEGGETTI..." smirks David.

Rissa gives an epic eye roll.  "You two are 9 year old boys."