17 Feb

Things I should have known prior to agreeing to continue ageing…

Had I known that being 40+ would be like this I may have opted to avoid it all together. My hope is that at some point some woman who is approaching 45 will read this and take a quick fucking detour.

My brain is unwavering in it’s  believe that we’re still about 29. This creates an assortment of amusing albeit, depressing realizations.

When I turned 40, I swear, I woke up one day, felt a little bump on my chin and scratched at it a bit. Thinking it was a pimple, which I so very rarely get, I did what any self-respecting woman would do…I dug at the little fucker until it erupted.What I found was more horrifying than I had ever expected.

You know those giant cakes? The one’s with the semi-naked male stripper inside. On queue they jump out of the cake and everyone yells “Surprise!” and then you all get drunk and party your asses off and start fighting over who’s going to take home his G-string and his fedora?

Yeah…this was not like that.

What it was like, was a huge, disgusting, revolting, goat hair. Yes. Yes it was.

That son-of-a-bitch had coiled up in the follicle for Holy Hannah who knows how long! It had to be at least an inch long. Thick, coarse and black as coal. I’m a Ginger…how does that even happen?

A little piece of me died that day.

No one told me it would happen. I was flabbergasted.

So now I conduct a daily “goat hair locate and eradicate” mission. The slightest little prickle and I run for the tweezers. Much to my Husbands amusement. I don’t imagine he’d find it so funny if I just let the damn things multiply and grow freely. Which they do…I now have several on my chin and one on my upper lip. Rotten, stupid goat hairs. If I let them go, I’d have an enviable beard and ‘stache. Maybe I’ll get a little “Foo Man Chu” of my own going…beard

If it hasn’t happened to you…wait for it. It will. Those nasty little goat hairs are just laying in wait and when they are satisfied that you are at an emotionally unstable point in your middle agedness…WHAM! There they are.

On to the next joy of ageing.

Numb toes.

Really? Numb toes…isn’t that, oh I dunno…something to be concerned about?

Apparently not. According to my Family Doctor this is normal. Expected. Nothing to be at all concerned about.

It’s not just one toe. It’s three on one foot and two on the other. He says I shouldn’t worry…”it’s not like they’re going to fall off”… they still do what toes are supposed to do, which is basically to stop you from falling on your face, and if you have monkey feet like my husband you can even retrieve dropped items off the floor with out having to bend over and pick them up with your hands.

He suggested I rub my feet. Now I have to tell you that I have a terrible “foot phobia”. Feet are revolting and gross. The idea of having my own dry, calloused, stinky feet in my nice clean hands is horrifying. Having my dry, calloused, stinky feet in someone else’s hands is even more revolting. Feet are creepy. Feet are the lowest part of the human’s anatomy and they are so for a reason. They were never meant to be babied and coddled because they are lesser appendages than hands. Rub my feet? Fuck no.

I was at the Nail Salon a few years back, having my gel nails removed. It’s a bit of a process. While my nails were soaking in pure acetone, the girl decided that she’d give me a “treat”. She reached down, took my filthy, stinking, foot out of my flip flop with her bare hands, and placed my foot into her lap.feet

I gagged. “Oh…no, no,no…you don’t want to…no really…”

“No, no it’s okay I do a design for you…you like it.”

“No…reallllly. I don’t like it…”

She laughed and continued to paint a lovely little design on my nasty old big toe. I protested a bit more when she was done and reached for my other foot. She ignored me and laughed some more, “You like it…it’s okay! One day you get pedicure…I do for you!….You like it!…you see…”

Then all the girls started yammering away in Vietnamese and laughing. They all kept saying “You like it…it’s okay!”

Anyway, numb toes. Perfectly normal. Expect it.

Then there are the silent conversations your conscious mind is not aware of. These are the conversations that occur between your brain, which still thinks it’s 29, and your body which, by 40, is convinced it’s nearing
death.

Your brain is like, “Wooohooo! Yess! I can totally lift that 60lb box up over my head and get it on the shelf! I am amazing!”

Your body is like, “I dare you bitch. I just dare you.”

So your brain, against the better judgement of your body, goes ahead and sends a command to, grab that box and heft it like you’re the goddamn Hulk.hulk

The body reluctantly complies. Gently lifts one corner of the box to get some fingers underneath…

“Holy Shit this is heavy…” it says.

“Nah…it’s not heavy at all, c’mon…don’t be such a fucking baby…lift it…” taunts your brain.

Your arms, legs and lower back are all chiming in now, ” Are you out of your fucking punkin? There is absolutely no…”

“LALALALALALALA I can’t hear you……”  teases your brain in a sing-song tone. “LALALALALALALALALA HAHAHAHAHAHA”

The next thing you know, you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, breathing so hard you feel like your eyes are going to pop out of their sockets, sweating like a Hooker in a one-armed circle jerk (saying courtesy of my Husband) looking up at a 60lb box on the shelf and wondering, “How in the fucking hell did that get up there?” and “Holy Shit I think I broke something…” and then you beg the cat to grow opposable thumbs and get you some Advil and a glass of water, to which he responds by purring like an idiot and biting your numb toes, that are attached to the legs that you can now barely feel, as they dangle off the bed.

These are just three of my top irritations with being over 40. It blows. It has a few perks…like hindsight and the ability to be acutely aware of your own mortality. Especially as you lay on the bed confused, broken and in pain, as a cat nibbles on your numb and disgusting toes, gently rubbing your chin looking for goat hairs. You have a lot of time for contemplation at this moment.

 

walker

 

17 Feb

The Spider Portal in my bathroom…

I didn’t get any pictures of the spiders that viciously, and without provocation, attacked me.20140628_113942

One was dangling at eye level from the ceiling above the tub, and was first sprayed with the only thing I could find…hairspray. I sprayed that red, blood sucking demon until he fell into the tub and then I washed him down the drain with scalding hot water. I did put the drain plug in, on the off-chance he survived and was of a mind to return and exact his revenge.

The second one, just now, as I sat down to piddle. Obviously related to the first one who died sticky and par-boiled. Motherfucking thing ran AT ME. It was on the ledge of the tub, and it ran right off the edge toward me falling on the floor right at my feet, and sending me, mid-stream, right off the toilet. Second time in as many years that a spider had caused me to pee on the damn floor.

So, with unders still around my knees…I threw the toothpaste at it. My aim is true. Stunned it long enough I could grab a shoe (my Husband’s shoe…) from the hallway and squash it into an unrecognizable goo. Normally I will scream for my Husband to come and save me. He wasn’t home…thankfully. I don’t know that he’d be an effective Spider Slayer while rolling around on the floor laughing at the fact I had just pee’d on the damn floor.

Yes, I had stopped peeing by this point.

I can’t live like this. I’m not being overly dramatic dammit. Going to the bathroom in my house in the spring and summer is a terrifying endeavor. They lurk. Fucking lurking, evil arachnids. They come from the “Spider Portal”. It’s actually a huge open vent in the ceiling that runs through to the roof top where giant fans suck the air up. Obviously not strong enough to suck the spiders up….noooooo. That would be awesome wouldn’t it? Suck them up to be chopped up by the enormous fan blades…

We’re out of Spider Killing Juice. All I had was some flea killer…my cats never go outside so I’m not sure why I even have it…anyway. I sprayed half the can up into the Spider Portal.

Have some of that you sneaky bastards!

My greatest fear is that they’ll get into my hair. I have big hair. They could conceivably hang out there for several hours…undetected. Makes me shiver. I’ve jumped out of a moving vehicle because a spider jumped on me. I’ve screamed and thrown things at them, sprayed them with perfume, cologne and hair spray, and I’ve pee’d on floors… the damn things just scare the living shit out of me.

This vent, is right over the tub. This was some architects idea of a joke I am sure. Really funny. Ha. Asshole.

I was having a  bubble bath one day. Nice and relaxing.  opened my eyes and saw a little black thing wiggling in the bubbles. Immediately I scooted my legs up to my chest and screamed for my Husband. He came in, grabbed a piece of tissue and extracted the spider. Flushed it down the toilet.

Now in my mind I know he did. I did not however see the corpse. I sat there after he left the bathroom, knees still drawn up to my chest, at the opposite end of the tub. What if…he missed the spider? What if it sank into the water. What if it had burrowed into the bubbles and was slowly making its way toward me…tunneling…tunneling through the bubbles to get me…

I had to get out of the tub. I couldn’t even reach down to let the water out…too many bubbles… I was so thoroughly creeped out.

The first time I piddled on the floor. I was seated and mid stream and when I reached for the toilet paper there was a huge spider…all black and evil looking, just inches from my hand. I swear it wasn’t there when I sat down… it just appeared. I jumped a good three feet right out of the bathroom trailing piddle as I did, right out into the hallway. goddamnit. It had run off with the commotion and I couldn’t see it anymore. I closed the door and waited for my Husband to come home several hours later and hunt for it.

I always do a quick scan of the bathroom before I get cozy in there. I always inspect the vent before I shower… I never see them…then…when I foolishly let my guard down…BOOM. Spider.

They hang from the ceiling, they perch on my shower curtain, they run along the side of the tub and hide behind my shampoo, they lurk around the toilet and camp out next to the toilet paper roll. They lay in wait on the top of the door jamb to drop down into my hair, they also like to claim ownership of my towel, but wait to do so until I’m standing there soaking wet and dripping staring at them. Daring me…

They like to appear from under the medicine cabinet while I am brushing my teeth, or applying my eyeliner…that’s awesome. I was nearly blinded.

I try to stay calm…and sometimes I don’t do too badly. Most times though I react rather poorly.

17 Feb

Have you ever noticed….

That when people get a little drunk, respect for personal space is of little concern?

The classic highball becomes a touchy-feely metre. The first drink is just to get them chatty. The second is to begin ridding themselves of inhibitions and “filters”. The third is the key drink to watch. The first sip of that third highball is the one that you really start measuring from. That first sip of their third you can see their eyes scanning the room over the rim of the glass. This is important because this is the point where meeting that gaze will lock you into the “personal bubble tango”.

As the gaze is met it’s followed with a big grin and here they come. There’s the introduction first, at a slightly slurred, and uncomfortable distance. They’ll clumsily shift their drink from one hand to the other and thrust out the now free hand in greetings. If you shake that hand they will usually take two steps in. If you don’t shake that hand they will instead reach out and touch your shoulder with a little pat-pat and take two steps in just the same. From that point on you spend the next half-hour taking steps backward, sideways and back again to keep some comfortable distance…

I witnessed and experienced this third drink phenomena for the first part of the night. Amusing.

As the night wore on it became the “tenth highball and third vodka shooter tango”. A little less amusing with some…but those are the grumpy drunks. Most just get silly and sleepy-eyed as they try to remain casual as they fight gravity. Red cheeks and noses and a good group of people all in all.

I did have a couple of beers and a rum and coke. Sipped throughout the night and barely got a buzz. The Hubby…well he had a couple more. Not drunk at all but a little more comfortable in the environment.

I spent most of the night without my Husband. I knew this was how it would be and really I didn’t have to go. He was in the wedding party so he sat at the head table, and had duties to perform that meant we didn’t spend a lot of time together. We’d exchange semi-blind glances from across the room…we have terrible eyesight at distances so we only had patterns and shapes to guide our distance flirtations.

I turned some head thank you very much. Really its amusing because I honestly could barely keep my eyes of my man when he was there. He looks damn fine in a suit. He didn’t think so but I did.

About this suit…good lord. What cruelty they are!

Stiff and claustrophobic. It’s not that they weren’t “okay” suits but really a hundred other guys had been forced to wear the same ones as they were rentals so they weren’t exactly “fine tailored”. Especially the pants…they consumed my Husbands lower half and did terrible things to the aesthetics of his buttocks. From the front he was stylin’ though. But it was a sad day for his rear end, and my enjoyment of it.

This evil suit was nearly the end for him. If he could have bowed out of the whole thing based solely on that suit and how stupid he felt wearing it, he would have.

The last hour we were there, was far more comfortable. The mood changed as most of the “proper folk” and seniors headed home, leaving the “normal folk” to enjoy. It was an interesting mix of subversive cultures and more formal, staunch cultures. And Irishman and a Scottish gal hitching up…it happens. Naturally the Scottish pride was the mainstay of the wedding theme, where the Irish took a more “Canadian” approach to it and were quietly Irish but boisterously drunk. I can say that because I am both Irish and Scottish…with a little British and some kind of Nordic something-or-other, just to give me some height and a terrible fear of the sun and heat.

To be honest it was wasn’t a bad evening considering it was a wedding. Neither my husband or I really believe in that particular institution. We’ve made vows to each other under whatever all-mighty is out there that is bigger than us, and we abide by it out of love and respect for one another. A piece of paper, golden rings and a new tax bracket aren’t going to solidify our commitment to each other, or strengthen our bond in any way.

Anyway…it was a good night I think over-all. Plus I got to sit across from what had to be the cutest baby in the world. No shit. She was the perfect, chubby, well-mannered and easy-going baby I have met. Over the course of six hours she cried once. Wasn’t fussy, demanding or stinky. She happily absorbed every ounce of attention and it was actually quite amazing how grown men turn into puddles of mooshy goo when they are exposed to a baby in a situation where there may be single attractive females watching…

The trip to Toronto up next…