Monday, January 23, 2017

Two brassieres, both alike in elasticity...

I hold two white pull-on sports bras in my hands.  I hadn't thought I had two exactly the same.  I lay them side by side on the bed, trying to find the well-washed sizing labels.  AHA!  Maybe if I put one on top of the other!

Yes!  The one on top is definitely smaller.  I lift it up and can see a very faint "S" on the inside back. 

"This is totally Rissa's.  I have just averted disaster!"

"Glad to hear," says David.

"If I had tried to stuff the girls in there?  Pandemonium."  I give a self-congratulatory fist bump to the air.

I start inserting my person into the correct brassiere.

"Oh for the love of..."

"You okay over there?"

"I'm good."

One full arm is through the sports bra.  I am struggling with the other arm.  My elbow is caught.  Then it's not.  The bra is now tight around my collar bone - a man-made fabric boa constrictor. I wrestle with the brassiere's band.



"I just stabbed myself with my fingernail."

"How?"  (David has yet to look at me.)

"Because," I pant, "this brassiere is made to keep breasts down, so it's super..." SNAP!  "Oh COME ON!"

 "You need some help there?"

"No, I'm fine."  I continue my struggle.  I pause.  Struggle again.  Stop.  "Yes please."

"We could make money from this on pay-per-view."


He notices my bleeding finger.  "Jeeze.  You weren't kidding."

"I'm telling you.  This is a full-contact sport.  Just imagine if two women were doing this."

"I say again - we need our own pay-per-view channel."

Monday, January 16, 2017

Does anyone's carpet match their curtains?

For once I am not talking about my pubic hair, or even referring to yours.  ('Cause let's face it, the boat carrying that particular shade of carpet sailed decades ago when I discovered Flirt hair colour.)

It's all about lipstick.  Please follow my idiomatic extrapolation.  I've been testing lipstick shades on the back of my hand for many years. Okay, I'm lying.  I haven't really been using the back of my hand, which I only just discovered, according to the internet, is the recommended body part you're supposed to test lipstick on.  I've been using the inside of my wrist, because when I started trying on cosmetics (probably with the leftovers from Avon parties), the inside of the wrist was the rumoured place that one tried lipsticks.  I began lipstick trials when I was about 10, and haven't thought that I needed to change my methodology because why mess with a good thing - unless one realizes it's not a good thing - which is what happened last night.

My pattern has been this: I go to Shoppers Drug Mart for something other than lipstick.  Somehow on my way to find the random 'other than lipstick' item, I wind up browsing the cosmetic aisle.  Whilst in the cosmetic aisle, I find several shades of lipstick that I think might be 'the ones,' which I then test on the inside of my left wrist.  I haphazardly hold that wrist next to my face in the bad fluorescent lighting, and then, based on the best of the 'wrist test,' I take my prize-winning, exorbitantly-priced colours home.

I get home, properly apply said lipstick and immediately think the lighting is bad, my eyes are bad or maybe I was really high when I chose the colours in the first place, because the new lipsticks make me look like a clown hooker.  I easily have 10 different shades of the perfect 1950s red for this reason.

Now some of you might be saying to yourself, why don't you just use the testers?  On your actual lips?  If you are one of these people, Are you OUT of your fucking mind?  A cold sore will be the least of your worries.  Cold, flu and viral meningitis anyone?

If you want to apply the testers at Shoppers to your lips, you need to come prepared.  You have to have a bottle of alcohol handy, something you can wipe those suckers off with, and little lipstick palettes or swabs to get that colour onto your lips. Or you ask for help from the gal at the cosmetic counter, which you never generally do as a Canadian because you don't want to inconvenience anyone, and let's face it, choosing the 'right' lipstick with proper empirical testing is going to take you upwards of 16 hours.

Last night, dissatisfied and confused by the practical results of my two new "wrist-approved" lipsticks - I turned said wrist to my face.  As I gazed into our bathroom mirror, an epiphany struck, whacking me upside the head while singing out the word  DUUUUUU-FUS!!!  at the top of its epiphanic lungs.  My face is nowhere close to the same shade as my wrist nor the back of my hand.  Not even a little bit.  It use to be, before peri-menopause hit and my skin went all sallow and melasma-y, but no longer.

No wonder lipsticks never look the way I think they will - the comparative skin I've been using doesn't exist on my face! The closest thing to the skin on my face is the patchy, freckly bit on my decolletage that got badly sunburnt last April which has yet to return to the 'fish belly white' skin that exists on every other part of my body but my face.  My sun-damaged decolletage is the perfect lipstick testing spot!  And really, apart from the odd looks that I'll get when I start drawing on my boobs in Shoppers (plus the subsequent jumping up to get a good look at these colours in any of the face-level mirrors), I am confident that this technique will serve me well. 

*I wasn't sure of the correct phrasing for the idiom 'Does the carpet match the curtains?' There were conflicting reports online.   So  I called my parents.  When my Dad answered the phone I asked him, "Is it 'does the carpet match the curtains or carpet match the drapes?' " He replied that it depended upon what side of the Atlantic you were on.  He's British, so he went with curtains.  When I asked my Mom, she went with drapes.  I liked the alliteration of the double c's, hence the post's title.  What's great? Neither of them batted and eye when I asked.  They get me.

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Never use the magnifying mirror.

"Do you see this?" I ask.

"What?"  David is towelling his hair.

"This."  I turn the left side of my face to him.  "This."

He comes closer.  Looks.  Then looks again.  "I don't see anything."

"This."  I use my finger to show him what I'm talking about.  

"I don't see anything."

"I'm growing a beard."

"You are not growing a beard."

"I AM!"  I pull the fine hair from my jawline between my thumb and forefinger now.  "Right here."

"You're crazy."

"I can see it!  In the mirror HERE!"

"You mean in the mirror that magnifies things 5 times their regular size?  That mirror?"

"Here in this light here!" I twist my jaw up to the light and then pull his face closer.  "HERE!  See that?"

"Well, when you twist all around like that, and under the blinding light, and all up close, yeah."

"I TOLD you.  It's a beard."

"It's not a beard.  It's... down... like goose down."

I shoot him a look.

"Swan," he says quickly.  "Swan down.  You're very swanny."

"One morning I'm going to wake up with Mutton chops."

"But they'll be mostly invisible."

"But they'll still be there."

"Then you can be really confident in your application to the biker gang."

I absentmindedly tug at my downy mutton chops as I think about the possibilities.

"Just maybe don't use that as your go-to gesture when you're deep in thought," he says.  Then he ducks.

Wednesday, December 14, 2016

Thank God I married Roger Rabbit.

Warning: descriptive female issues in this post.


"What is it?"

"Day Eight apparently."

"Are we in the playoffs?"

My baleful eyes could burn through steel.

"I am BLEEDING out.  I was done.  The Diva Cup was empty."

David winces in naive male sympathy/horrified visualization.  "And now the cup runneth over?"

"No the cup does not runneth over because I wasn't wearing the frickin' cup because my body is a lying liar pants and can't make its peri-menopausal mind up!  IT WAS EMPTY THIS MORNING!!!"   I raise my fist to the 2nd floor bathroom where the Diva Cup is now residing.  "YOU WERE EMPTY!!!"

I ease off the couch and look down - at least there's no blood on the upholstery.  I carefully glide my way to the bathroom, crossing my fingers that I'll only have to wash my panties, not the jeans as well.  I don't know why washing jeans seems to add insult to injury, but it does.

I stand before the toilet, Keigeling every muscle in my pelvis.  I take a deep breath before undoing my belt.  As soon as I sit to examine the undergarment damage, I feel another deluge.

"COME ON!!!"

"Love?  You okay?"

"They're the size of TOONIES!"

"What are?"

"The blood clots that just left my body."  A blinding cramp hits me.  I don't know if the blood loss is actually making me dizzy or if it's having witnessed most of my uterine lining leave my body.

David pipes up from the living room.  "It could be worse."


"They could be blood clots the size of tunas."

Thank God I married Roger Rabbit.  Without laughter my sanity would have abandoned me years ago.

Thursday, December 8, 2016

The alarm cat





Oh, for the love of...

Meow... meow...meow...meeeeeeeeeeeowwwwwww.

I look over at the clock.  7:17.  What the?   CRAP!  I stagger out of bed, open the bedroom door and face Minuit - the most irritated cat in the galaxy.  She squints at me with her perpetually rheumy eyes.


We have one of those false dawn clocks.   It begins emitting a relaxed glowing light about 35 minutes before you actually have to wake up.  The glow eventually gets brighter and brighter and then the tweeting bird sounds go off.  (I'm not even kidding.)  This morning? No glowing light.  No tweeting birds.

"David."  I shake his shoulder.  "David. Love.  It's 7:17."

He sits bolt upright in bed, wild-eyed.  "What the?!?"

"You didn't set your alarm love."

"Hey I know, I didn't set my alarm."  He's blinking up at me - a dazed, bed-headed owlet.

"You have to thank Minuit, she was our alarm."

Minuit is standing in the doorway scowling at us.  David exits the bed.  "Thank you Min..."   Perpetually terrified by any motion in the household, Minuit tears across the upper landing before hiding under Rissa's bed. "...nuit."

Rissa is in the bathroom getting ready for school.

"Daddy didn't set his alarm," I say, yawning while wiping the sleep guck from my eyes.  I grab my toothbrush.  "Minuit's the hero - she woke us up."

"I wondered what she was complaining about," says Rissa.  She looks over at her bedroom doorway where Minuit is now skulking.  "Good job Alarm Cat."

David, clad in work wear, is doing the Frankenstein shamble to the bathroom.  Minuit immediately bolts back under Rissa's bed.

Standing in the bathroom doorway, David runs his hands through his hair.  His hair is slightly greasy and up in all directions. "Aw man!  I was supposed to have a shower this morning." 

I hand him the baby powder.  "You'll have to powder it up love."

"Right."  He dumps about 1/4 of a cup of lavender-scented baby powder into his hand and rubs them together before dragging his hands through his hair.  Rissa and I look at him and look at each other.  David appears to have tripped and fallen into a kilo of coke - powder on his collar, the front of his shirt, under his nose, on his forehead.  His hair is covered.

I head tilt, indicating the faux cocaine fallout zone. "Dude.  You're Bright Lights Big Citying it."

"Well I can't see in the mirror, you girls are taking up all the...  Sweet!  I look like Doc Brown."

He keeps rubbing the powder through his hair.  I grab a facecloth so that he wipe up the excess from his clothing and face.

"Nothing like Cocaine Thursday," David says, blending in the last of the power into his hair.

"It's perfect after Hump Day," Rissa agrees.

Monday, November 7, 2016

The reason for all those baby/kitten/puppy videos #2016Election

The stress of the 2016 Presidential election has my lower intestines in Stevedore Stopper knots.  I'm not even American.  The outcome of the election won't really affect me as someone north of the 42nd.  I mean, apart from all the anti-Hillary Republicans who are threatening to move to Canada should the Democrats win and the anti-Trump Democrats/Independents who are threatening to move to Canada should the Donald win.

If Trump wins and he builds a wall across the US/Mexican border - it won't affect me.  If Hillary wins and it turns out there are even MORE emails that she didn't safeguard appropriately -  it won't affect me.  If Trump wins and throws Hillary into jail - it won't affect me.  If Hillary wins and raises taxes on wealthy Americans - it won't affect me. If Trump wins and he repeals the Clean Air Act - it won't... wait a second...  If Hillary wins and there is a Second Revolutionary War - it won't... uh... I'm really close to that northern border.

It's the end of the world as we know it!! 
Deep cleansing breaths, deep cleansing breaths... 

Hey everyone look! Baby ostrich racing cars.

And these are ANIMALS jumping on TRAMPOLINES!

Kittens and puppies with babies!

Dogs meeting kittens for the first time.

It's a baby who laughs when you tear paper!

And then if you really start freaking out and you need to take control back - channel your inner Jesse Jane McParland.

Thursday, November 3, 2016

And that's why you shouldn't exercise.

Me - this morning.

It is before breakfast. It is before work. I am on the treadmill - watching Daredevil on Netflix.  Moving at 3.5 miles an hour on an incline of three.  'Cause if I don't do it before I go to work, it will not happen for the rest of day.  And if I don't move my ass, expending energy and calories, I will not sleep well - which, tomorrow morning, will result in a tired Heather sporting a fetching side of petulance.

Every morning I'm on that treadmill. At the 5:00 minute mark I start swinging my arms wildly forward for a minute.  At 6:00 minutes I do the arm equivalent of a deep lunge to the side - targeting (at least in my lay-person, inner trainer's mind) my back boobs.  I don't know if it's true, but I can kind of feel that area moving around when I try it, so I figure that something must be going on. I repeat these actions every 5 minutes until I hit 40:00.

YEAH!  Last one!  I whip those arms forward.  THIS.  IS.  GOOD.  I'm sweaty and I've burned up (I squint at the display in the half-light) 276 calories. Only 5 more minutes then I can cool down for 5 minutes.  YEAH! I AM AN EXERCISING GODDESS!!

I swing those arms a little higher.  As I'm swinging them back, my left arm somehow catches the wire from my ear buds, ripping my left ear bud from my ear.  Even before my arm has finished its swing, the right ear bud joins its partner in ferocious solidarity right before the tablet leaps off the treadmill ledge, landing on the belt.  I dodge the tablet, grabbing the arm rails for balance, but can't help but watch as the tablet is propelled off the treadmill into the piano behind me.  As I remain fixated on whether I've just killed the tablet, my feet leave the treadmill belt and I find myself parkouring to avoid crushing the tablet, while still clinging to the arm rails. 

On the upside, I got a real good stretch of my arms before letting go.