Things I Need To Be Idiot Proof….

30 11 2009

I dumped the contents of my purse all over the counter the other day, to clean out the random crap that accumulates in it. Amongst said crap was my favorite purse item in the whole world.

Listerine Pocket Mist, in orange flavour.

Oh yeeeeaaaahhhh. I love how that nasty shit zings on my tongue and makes my nostrils tingly. It’s my secret addiction. It’s my fresh-breath crack if you will.

My daughter watched me take a hit of it and asked if she could have some too. I warned her it was pretty strong stuff, apt to make her mouth burn a little. But hey, I love to watch my kids torture themselves every once in a while, so I passed it to her, warning her explicitly to NOT SPRAY IT IN YOUR EYES…. BECAUSE THAT STUFF WILL REALLY STING.

She aimed it for her mouth and nothing happened. She tried a few times, pushing the button to no avail.

I wondered aloud if it was all gone, so I took it and shook it and then, staring directly at the nozzle, sprayed it right in my eyes.

Yep. That stuff really does sting the eyes.

Aging and all of its surprises. (A humoristic point of view)

20 11 2009

I’m on the cusp of 39…. I have 4 more months to go before that last golden year of my thirties. You know, before I kick 40’s ass and show everyone how it’s done.

I’m truly not afraid of getting older. In fact, it’s a treat and a treasure to have the privilege of experiencing it. I do hope I get to hit at least 90…. And when I do, I’m letting my inner Crazy Old Lady out to play. Of which I mean saying hugely inappropriate things,  smacking hooligans with my cane and wearing the most outrageous clothes I can find. My kids will shudder but my grandkids will say Nana is such a HOOT!!!! Oh, and I think I will take up smoking again when I turn 90. Yep, a cussin’, wizened, wrinkly, wise-assed old bat with a smoke hanging out of my mouth. Yeah. That’s my goal.

But as I am still nestled in the 30’s, I am consistently horrified and amazed at the subtle things my body is doing while entering this stage of my life. I can no longer focus up close, therefore rendering the task of shaving my armpits a guessing game at best.  I have the beginnings of a wattle. (Really, I sort of gagged when I typed that.) My eyes have decided to become a bit crepey around the edges. And apparently my love of purses has been taken literally by my face, as I am starting to show bags under my eyes.

But the worst and most surprising of all isn’t the wrinkly bits on my face, nor the couple of “liver spots” I have on the backs of my hands. It isn’t even the grooves on either side of my nose that seem to deepen every time I look in the mirror.

No. It’s the wrinkles above my kneecaps.

I wonder why my kneecaps have wrinkles? Is there a knee cream I should buy? Oil of O’Knee? This is a cruel joke, I think. I do my best to stay in shape. I eat right (most of the time),  I practice yoga, I meditate, I run, I bike.

I totally get that my face will show my age. But I was completely blown out of the water when I realized that the rest of my body will too…. Yes, ladies. Wrinkles do not stop at the neckline. Like that stupid energizer bunny, they keep going and going and going….

The only thing that allows me some reassurance in this whole getting old business is one thing.

If I have to get old, then I’m taking all you bitchez with me. And we will be in this together.

Weird Things I Think About While Doing Yoga.

11 11 2009

So, last night, I managed to squeeze in a quick half hour practice. I have been home with a sick little girl the past 3 days, and haven’t been able to run or do much of anything really. Feeling stagnant and flabby, I took to  my mat and did a strong heated practice chock-full of 2 minute downward dogs and loads of sun salutations.

In the midst of blissing out in downward dog, my mind wandered. I had put my iPod on shuffle and an oldie but a goodie tune came on and took me back. Waaaay back. Twas Duran Duran’s Save a Prayer (Techno Re-Mix. Don’t judge me.)

Oh, how I loved Duran Duran when I was 14. About 60+ posters with their eyelined faces clogged my walls. (In retrospect, I do believe they were the first Emo band, but more about the blush and eyeshadow and less about the angst.)

I was a nerdy kid. Big glasses, braces, very few friends. So I devoted my energy to music. Mostly the aforementioned “band”, but with a dash of U2 (when they were actually good… ZING!), some Cure, a little bit of Madonna (ugh…) and a smattering of other pop sensations from the mid 80’s. I loooooved my music. My old gray ghetto blaster (snort) would blast out Duran Duran every day while I lounged on my bed pretending to study. Meanwhile, fantasies of me becoming Mrs. Nick Rhodes (gak!)whirled around my (obviously crazy) teenaged mind. How I mourned when he got married, yet I stayed true to my love, and had his wedding picture on my wall too.

As I morphed from that dorky 14/15 year old into a more darker 16/17 year old, my music tastes changed in a drastic way, and I discovered the power and rawness of heavy metal. Now, yes, Hair Bands played a huge part of my repertoire, but I also deeply enjoyed Metallica, AC/DC, and of course, my favorite of the late 80’s, Guns N’ Roses. To this day, I play them a lot on my iPod. It’s fun shit to run to, that’s for sure.

I recall that old “me” with tenderness and an affinity of tolerance, I suppose. She was a weird kid, but a sweet one too. Her sense of humour is still within me, her love of music too. But thankfully, those glasses are long gone…..


Me, and the extra-large glasses, 1985

Of course, I need to prove it about the Duran Duran posters…. The only pic I could find is one of my dearest life-long friends. I love yah L!!!!!


There you have it. Proof that yes, indeed, I was a dork of epic proportions.

Look What The Cat Dragged In…

7 11 2009

I was re-reading my old post about my kitty surprise and I realized that there is so much more I can tell you about our early days of misadventure with these two fur balls we brought into our lives.

We got Tika shortly after we shacked up started to live together back in the early 90’s. Ah, the waning days of hair-bands and high waisted jeans. Good times!! Good f*cking times…. Anyways, we felt our wee little kitty was lonesome during the day while we were out making money to spend on booze and cigarettes and more booze church tithes, and so we adopted another kitty, slated to be euthanised if she wasn’t adopted. She was a long haired black cat we named Silky (for the Gaelic term meaning seal… Yeah, I had just read Diana Gabaldon’s bodice ripper “Outlander”, and thought I was worldly with this term. Don’t judge me…..)

On any given evening, we’d get the cats all ripped out on cat-nip and watch them fight. The epic kitty-cat beat-downs, were, in my humble opinion, better than any Saturday night bar fights I someone would encounter during an evening out. They, in turn, would launch themselves off of our sleeping heads every morning at about 5 AM, racing each other down the hallway . We had an understanding, you see. Their addiction to the ‘nip was acceptable as long as we allowed them to terrorize us in our slumbering hours.

This is honestly a truthful account of all that our kitties did.

One time, after many countless LIVE mice being brought into our house by our faithful felines, when I tried so desperately to rid our shack of vermin infestation, I had had enough. Silky had oh so proudly deposited her newest gift to me in my dining area, so I quickly picked up the latest little critter by the tail to chuck it back out in the yard, when the wee motherfucker managed to bite the pad of my finger. I felt the teeth meet inside my skin. One tetanus shot later, I felt that I had seen it all.

Oh no. No, I did not.

Shortly after, Tika brought me a live lizard. Again, obviously not learning through my mistakes, I picked it up to chuck it away from my house, and the tail came off in my hand, the lizard dropped to the ground and ran to freedom. I stood in horror and a sick kind of amazement, watching the tail remnant wiggle about in the palm of my hand.

One more. Tika, the mighty huntress, raced into the house, avoiding my attempts at catching her with what I thought was a leaf in her mouth. There, in my kitchen, she released her catch. The bat then flew down the hallway into our bedroom. A BAT!!!!!!!!! A BAT!!!!!!! THEY CARRY RABIES!!!!!! AND ONE IS FLYING AROUND MY HOUSE RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Now, I am not a “girly” kind of girl. I have always been able to pick up all manner of creatures and have never worried or felt faint about it. But the bat. I simpered and batted (HA!) my eyes at Dan, who then managed to catch the wee critter and toss it out in the forest.

Anyways. In closing, cats can be disgusting.

Shiz My Husband Says….

5 11 2009

Word to the wise. My sense of humour is a bit on the foul and strange and awful side sometimes. So is my hubby’s. PLEASE keep that in mind when reading this post, as it honestly makes me LOL…..

The other night, as I was engaged in my nightly snuggle with my 15 year old cat Tika, I started to think of the future of her little life on this planet. She is crotchety and bitchy, she hisses at my dog every chance she gets, even though he has been around for almost seven years of her existence on this planet. She shits on my carpet every once in a while, barfs up goopy (and warm, I might add) hairballs, of which I have had the pleasure of slipping on during one of my in-the-middle-of-the-night-pee trips. But she is all mine, my sweet furry old lady. I love her dearly, even while cursing her very existence in my life, of which said cursing is usually expleted during the cleaning up of her barf and/or shit and me desperately holding back the Voms.

So, as I sat in my chair, my kitty blissing out on my lap with a constant scratch about the ears, her purrs rumbling in her throat and my heart, I softly said to Dan… “You know, if I ever had to make the decision to put Tika down, I think this is how I would want it done.”

To which he replied “That won’t work. The bullet might accidentally hit you.”

More Shiz My Kids Say… (and do….)

2 11 2009

The other night my daughter walked by our beloved dog, Tutter, while he lay snoozing in front of the fire.

“Tutter,” she said, “you are a Fart-Face and here’s the proof…”

and she leaned over and farted in his face.