Little Shop of Horrors

Tags

bathing suit, fashion, humiliation, humour

As if facing the hated shopping trip for undergarments wasn’t enough to tax the stalwart, in less than a week, I also forged into bathing suit territory with iron determination to come out with my dignity intact.

You may be thinking…didn’t you just buy a bikini last year? Yes, I did! And it’s perfect for swimming in my Mom’s pool. My parents have said they’ll love me no matter what, and I have already scarred my kids for life. I mean, they were doomed from the moment they were conceived. But this year we’re going to a beach where I can only assume will be covered with half-starved babes with perfect hair in brightly coloured, postage stamp-sized lycra. And where there are beach babes, there will be men of all ages lusting after them. Hopefully not also wearing brightly coloured, postage stamp-sized lycra. [shudder]

“I feel attractive in a bathing suit”, thought no woman ever. “Let’s go bathing suit shopping” said no woman ever. Not unless she is suffering the serious side effects of starvation. [If this happens, feed her immediately!] No woman enjoys the experience of stripping nearly naked in a tiny cubicle with unkind lighting and multiple mirrors. Something happens once we cross the dressing room threshold and close the door. Our femininity transform into something troll-like and our confidence puddles around our ankles. A dainty gazelle becomes a floundering hippo. No amount of chocolate can truly soothe the bruising our self-esteem takes when the (unrealistic) image we have in our mind of how this beautiful item will look on us, is crushed like a spider with a shoe. It’s a swift slap that stuns and stings. Long after we’ve left the dressing room.

Monday morning, I ventured into the store minutes after it opened. Fewer witnesses to see me sweating through my dress. The 12 year old, size 0 store clerk was cheerful and not pushy, which I appreciated. I browsed…and left the store. Baby steps.

Bathing suit stores are Little Shops of Horrors.

An hour later.

After some deep breathing exercises, I returned to the store, much to the surprise of the store clerk, and bravely explained my concerns. I need support! Moral and for the girls! Since it’s the beginning of July, most of their stock is gone [winter stock is on its way], but the store clerk earned her pay pulling a few suits that were close to my size, and whisked me to the back. They were all black [except one that made me look like an obese worm].  I guess black is slimming?

I tried her first pick, a tiny black number that required 3 tiny hangars. My inner babe had high hopes. This suit was cut as an “X” and looked amazing. On the hangar. Instead, it was amazingly difficult to figure out. Once the hangars were removed, I was confused. How am I supposed to wear on a slingshot? Which strap went where, and why isn’t that covering there. Suddenly an albino hippo was oozing out around the waist. Other things were oozing out too. It got so ridiculous, I actually laughed out loud. I think I scared the little clerk hovering beyond the blue curtain. I know I scared my sexy inner babe! She may never be seen again!

There was also this:

After nearly half an hour of sweating, grunting, moaning and elastic snapping, I did find a simple black suit that will do. That was the good news.

The bad news? I cheated with Henry again. And I enjoyed it.

Happy Weekend!

 

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School’s Out

Tags

humour, school, summer

Yesterday, at exactly 11:35 a.m., a unified shout erupted from every school in the district. At least one teacher collapsed in a sobbing, heaving pile of joy. School’s Out For The Summer.

No more pencils
No more books
No more teacher’s dirty looks! – Alice Cooper

Today, elated teachers are roaming empty halls that smell like gym socks, dazed and confused. And who could blame them? They’ve earned their rest. Parents are roaming around a home that houses those smelly gym socks, wondering how to fill 9 (count them again)…9 weeks of summer. Little Guy is starting his first full day of summer going to work with me. Good times!

I love the end of school. No more lunches to pack (or mouldy lunches to unpack). No more running back to the school because “I forgot my [insert item] in my locker or [insert item] at home. No more trying to decipher project instructions, expectations and deadlines based on the mutterings of my child, who is also clearly dazed and confused…

…like the lunch box project. Design a lunch box with 3 compartments: one for hot, one for cold, one for liquids. It must be able to hold a minimum of 500ml and maximum volume of 12,500 ml, and have an interesting shape. Research the materials used for a bunch of science-related jargon. No Styrofoam. Must transport as one unit.

Little did we realize that a few weeks after completing this, there was another portion of the project. Build a prototype to scale and test it. Most of the materials he used were great resources for what he was doing, but were not things you can simply pick up at Home Depot? He had to redesign it, and fast! Do you have any idea how hard it is to find excessively large pieces of blank cardboard and how many man-hours it takes to build, paint, insulate and line three 3D pentagons?

It wasn’t rocket science…but it kinda felt like it!

…or like the self-portrait mosaic. Talk about a bomb going off in the living! It was less than half complete and due in the morning. And he needed to cut tiny bits from glossy magazines. I had to dig through piles of crap to find one. It was a fitness magazine I bought when he was 2 and I still believed I would wear my red jeans again. I never read it. The red jeans are only a bittersweet memory. By the time he was done, my living room looked like this…

…and no one had the desire to touch it before bed!

Then there was the time he accidentally deleted 3 weeks worth of research and didn’t realize he was at fault…4 days before the massive project was due….

http://www.gifer.com

Or the hours researching earthquakes in Japan and New Zealand. Or the hours practicing music from Annie.

Little Guy rounded out the year by disappearing on the second last day. After nearly an hour and a half of frantically driving between the school and home, leaving messages on the machine, praying fervently, talking to teachers and finally calling the police, he saunters in. He inexplicably went home with some kid to record their dance homework.

What kind of teacher assigns homework on the second last day of school?

While I hate to see the years flying by, yesterday I was cheering from the car. School’s out for the summer! Good riddance, Grade 7. Let the good times roll!

Happy weekend!

 

It’s the Weekend

Tags

humour, midlife crisis

I can almost feel myself losing weight. Oh, not the kind that is bunching up around my hips and around my bra straps. Or my chin. Or arms. Or…well, you get the picture! I’m talking about the mental weight of worrying about stupid things, like,

• Where am I going to live when I get old? After all the Halloween costumes and school projects I’ve helped cobble together for 2 boys (who didn’t attend school concurrently), I can probably cobble together something with cardboard, duct tape and plastic grocery bags. Big Guy has a balcony – if I sleep standing up, I’ll be fine.
• When am I going to have time to finish this project, renovate that room, or buy lettuce at the grocery store? It doesn’t matter. No one has died because I never finished crocheting that tablecloth. No one is losing sleep because their bedroom is yellow instead of blue. And no one has starved to death on my watch. If I focus on the most important things, they will get done. And some that are left until later, or perhaps never done at all, probably won’t be remembered. The time spent with friends and family will be.
• Will there be photos of me on display one day at my funeral, where I look like the Marshmallow Stay Puft guy from Ghost Busters? Yes. I just won’t ever purchase a sailor suit. I’m doing my best to keep my weight down (but it keeps bringing new friends to the party)!
• Who is going to change my diapers when I get old? I’ll probably be in them long before I’m old and research suggests that after only 21 days, you can form a habit. By the time I’m old, I’ll be functioning on muscle memory and it won’t be an issue. Unless I’m on Big Guy’s balcony.
• What will happen if I lose my job? Since an alternative career option has presented itself twice already, there’s a good chance it will happen again. Or I can work at McDonald’s. Even completely senile I am confident that I could do a better job, with a smile on my face.
• When will I die? Who cares?!?! Every day is a gift! You’re still breathing right? So grab Henry (O Henry) and get out there! Maybe get dressed first.

It’s the weekend-make it a good one! I’m already way ahead of you!

Hey Baby – My Next Career Move: Pt. 2

Tags

humour, work humour

So this morning, on the way to work, I royally ticked off a fellow commuter when I came to a complete stop in front of him…at a red light. He gestured widely with his mouth agape at my audacity. I waved over my shoulder at the red light. He waved at me with one finger. I waved back…with all my fingers. Seriously, it was a bouquet of fingers!

This guy was not the worst guy I encountered this week…

Sunday afternoon my cell phone started making phaser noises like the Federation was under attack, and I jokingly said, “maybe my cell phone # is in another porn ad”.

http://www.giphy.com

Oh Snap!! Sometimes I hate it when I’m right…

I have been extremely popular this week, at all hours of the day and night. And not in a good way.

When this happened last October, the ad offered “massages”. This time, the ad is…less clear. Most texts are just ” Hey baby, are you free?”. Only one really tipped the scale on the Creepometer.

I was laughing about it with Little Guy the other day, and I pointed out that the ad couldn’t be more wrong about me. I’m not young, Japanese or cheap, but at least they got lady part right. He pipes up…”you’re not a lady either”.  Good job, buddy!

http://www.giphy.com

(I wonder who taught him sarcasm?)

I may have joked about wearing “hooker” boots and have been known to make comments that were seriously misinterpreted. This career opportunity may have appeared unexpectedly…again, and I may have more ambition than to be the Gatekeeper in the Cubicle of Purgatory for the rest of my working life. But even so – pass.

Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action. – Ian Fleming

Happy Weekend!

Close Call

Tags

embarrassing moments, humour, toilets

Recently, a new study came out listing the Top 40 Signs You’re Getting Old. Among them were simple things like forgetting names, losing hair (or growing it in unwelcome places), and misplacing everyday items. There was a nod to complaining about new aches and pains, and moaning about ailments. As I kid, I clearly remember asking about moaning from my grandparents’ friends. It’s frightening to think that I’m now the age they were when I asked my innocent questions.

After reviewing this list, ticking off several boxes along the way, I noticed a glaring omission, at least one that surfaces in all of the circles I’m in – toileting issues. I am not referring to that stage in life when you’re negotiating with a toddler terrorist who refuses to poop in the potty. I’m referring to the war stories we trade like Pokemon cards. These stories range from simple oopsies (like a shart in the lineup at Walmart) to full blown Def-con 1 situations! This is one such story…

A few weeks ago, I woke up with an uncomfortable sensation low in my gut, long before my alarm started blaring. It was early because I had to be at a church “up north” by 9 a.m. to help lead worship. I managed to dress and grab a bite to eat in between 3 “rest stops” in 30 minutes. By 8:20, I was still feeling uncomfortable, so I popped another pepto and with my Bible in one hand and a change of clothes in a bag in the other, Little Guy and I headed out the door.

We stopped at the gas station five minutes later.

Once we hit the highway and the seat warmer was toasty, we sailed happily along. And then we got off the highway… and ended up lost on a windy, hilly country road in the middle of nowhere. I don’t just mean a place where there weren’t Tim Horton’s on every corner. I’m talking fields. Empty, snow-covered fields alarmingly absent of trees. I know this because I was scouting out an escape route.

With pressure mounting and prayer intensifying, we pulled over to check the map again. We were so close. Tears of relief wet my lids. When I pulled beside the little blue car in the parking lot, I did a double-fist-pump in the air. Then I realized the driver in the other car was not my colleague for the morning, but a rather pasty-faced, startled young man. I smiled and looked away.

Ten minutes passed.

Nothing stirred, except my digestive track.  I started to feel a chill running up to my shoulders, so I  tried to distract myself by reviewing what I had eaten the day before. The only suspect was one little homemade star-shaped cookie, filled with strawberry jam and lightly iced with a vanilla glaze. I hadn’t eaten sugary treats for over a month.

The inevitable wave of panic was still growing when my colleague arrived in his van. With his family – young, innocent babes who were going to witness a terrible tragedy if a keyholder didn’t show up soon. Deep breaths.

Another painfully long 5 minutes passed before he did.

Not knowing if he was a keyholder, I let my colleague and his son walk in first. I waited, debating whether I should text him. I knew that once I moved from this seat, the legions in my body would unfurl their wings and my chance of making it would be small. I wasn’t prepared to move an inch until I was certain.

I finally bolted from the car and down the driveway with as much dignity and lady-likeness I could muster in this precarious predicament. I rushed ahead of Big Guy and my colleague’s wife and daughter, who, upon seeing the wild look in my eyes and the beaded sweat on my brown, warned her daughter to let me go ahead (she’s a great Mom)!

I went straight to the loo. I would visit that sanctuary at least twice during the rehearsal. But I feared what would transpire once the service began. You see, the piano was on the far left side of the platform, the door to the loo in back right corner. The aisles were narrow; the room small. There would be no escaping without everyone seeing me. I popped another pepto!

I survived rehearsal, but as the counter on the screen hit 3 minutes, the demon inside me started to writhe. “Sorry!” I blurted as I hustled from the room. By now I had sweat through my clothes.

The pastors were praying when I returned, so I sat in the chairs behind them. When they finished, they glared hard at the back door, evidently wondering if I was coming back. I don’t know how much my colleague shared with the pastor but just before he headed up to start the service, he whispered sweetly, “We prayed for you”.

Fortunately, God answers prayer! I made it home.

I’m heading to my folks this weekend, and praying for an uneventful trip!

Happy Weekend!

War Stories

Tags

"I have failed as a mother", children, family, motherhood

This past week, I spent time with a group of women, sharing the “story” of our child(ren)’s birth(s). Hubby has often asked, why do women insist on sharing these  horror stories? He thinks it’s cruel to terrify new moms-to-be (which is why I don’t share all the details and try to focus on the happy ending) and makes kids feel terrible about putting their moms through so much (again, which is why I don’t share all the details and try to focus on the happy ending)!

It’s a good question, and here’s my answer: Our birth stories are our war stories.

The desire to nurture has been ingrained in us since creation. Even way, way back  in the Old Testament, there have been strong women but few female warriors. Those brave women had important parts to play in their time, but most didn’t have grand adventures and exciting stories to swap with each other, or share with their children. No one was interested in remembering that one time they kept the home fires burning while Hubby rode off to war!

As little girls, my friends and I had 3 milestones for our Barbies: Fall in love, Get Married. Have Babies. Sometimes there was a career in there too. And lots of parties. We weren’t caught up in gender stereotypes or interested in breaking glass ceilings. We knew we could do anything we wanted and so could our Barbies, and our Barbies wanted to have a family.  For many women, having a family is a milestone in life. Elizabeth Stone said “Making the decision to have a child – it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. ” It’s the day we enlisted in an “army”, to join the ranks of the women who have gone before us. We are prepared to sacrifice and to fight on behalf of our offspring.  Sharing war stories bonds us as moms. We instantly become part of a world-wide community that bridges language and culture in an extraordinary way.

Our kids are living, breathing miracles of complexity far beyond anything we can imagine. They are also God’s way of reminding us that there is hope for the future. And who doesn’t need a little hope? I survived that battle; I can survive the others.

Do not mistake her gentle and quiet spirit for weakness.
She is a mighty warrior princess, Super-Mom.

We re-tell them because it was the most terrifying, most painful, most exhilarating experience of our lives. Paragliding in the Alps, swimming with sharks, or in my case, running in Mud Hero, are pretty pale in comparison to the physical, emotional and psychological effort it took to bring that child into the world and take its first breath. Sharing our story gives us a sense that we had a part to play in a greater plan, beyond the home fires and the battle lines.

As much as the birth of a baby is a defining moment in any person’s life, giving birth is something uniquely female. While you supported us by staring at the floor (or in some cases, kissing it), willing with us for a safe end and a grand beginning, we still had to do this thing alone. It is our crowning achievement, and one of the grandest highlight our human hearts will ever experience in life’s journey.

And finally, it makes me think about my own mother, and grandmothers, and all the women who came before me. As a child I loved hearing Mom tell her story, because it entwined with my story. She loved me so much and willingly went through all that for me, even before she held me in her arms or saw me take my first breath.

Her heart became my heart. Her legacy became my legacy. I love being a Mom. Someday, no one will remember that my favourite colour was pink or that I loved the smell of moist earth after the rain. I will become a name that appears in a long list of other names – Jenn, mother to Big Guy and Little Guy, Wife to Hubby. So if another Mom wants to swap war stories about the day our babies were born, then I’m in!

Happy Mother’s Day!

WPC: Unlikely

Tags

birds, humour, Photo Challenge, photography, Weekly Photo Challenge

When I was younger, I used to drive up to a bunch of turkeys, roll down the window and say something. They’d all gobble back at once. – Levon Helm

I know there are plenty of “turkeys” in the city, and were I to roll down my window to “gobble at them”, they’d gobble back…in quite colourful language. I should be accustomed to that. What I’m not accustomed to literally seeing turkeys in the city!

Thanksgiving tip: Don’t let a Jedi carve the turkey.

Happy Star Wars Day!

More Unlikely Photos. 

 

It’s High Noon

So…I turned 45 on the weekend, and for the past year, I’ve been planning on a trip to a local gun range…just to try it, not to take up a new hobby. Big Guy took me on Monday because…

I was nervous on the trip over. That nervousness increased when we were buzzed inside and greeted by Dwayne Johnson’s twin (only this guy had lots of curly black hair). He oozed “don’t mess with me” and never cracked a smile. Fortunately, after we signed our lives away, we were given a different “handler”, who was serious but also very reassuring! He helped us pick out our arms…a 9 mm, an AR 223 and a 12 gauge shotgun.

We started with “gun school” – learning the rules of the range and how to operate our chosen firearms. Half-way through our lesson, he paused and asked, “you guys play video games, right?”. I glanced down at my new Overwatch t-shirt and he smiled.

To make a long story short…it was awesome!

I felt like…

 

 

 

 

But looked more like…

 

Our “handler” was really impressed with how well I did for my first time. I never missed the target and the kickback on the shotgun didn’t blow me over!

AR223 – 9mm – 12 gauge

I’ve had a few rough days at work in the last 6 weeks, and a friend suggested I discreetly hang my targets in the office. Probably not a good idea. I’ll just leave them hanging in our dining room. Across the table from where Hubby sits so he can see them. Every day.

Happy Birthday to me! Happy Wednesday to you!

Buyer Beware!

Tags

children, fear, humour, spider

Last night, Little Guy walked into my bedroom and handed me my husband’s steel-toed shoe, and said “you can have the honours”. The honours of what? Apparently there was (and I quote) “a BIG black spider in the bathroom”.

That would explain why he closed the bathroom door on his way out, because spiders can’t work doorknobs. (He didn’t think about the 0.5″ gap under the door).

As the parent, I could only think of three options. I could call Hubby to do the dirty deed, but risk that he would say “no”. I could block that 0.5″ gap and set the entire bathroom on fire, but we only have one bathroom. It’s ugly but it’s all we’ve got! Or I could do the mature thing, set the example and kill the spider…with Hubby’s shoe.

I chose the mature option. I boldly walked into that bathroom, with Little Guy hovering at my heels, shoe at the ready. But there was no spider to be seen. I scoured the walls around the toilet (it’s last resting place). I (reluctantly) kicked the garbage can and package of t.p. away from the wall. I stood on my head to see behind the toilet. No BIG black spider.

“No, Mom. It was on the toilet. I finished going and put down the lid, and it had been on the lid the whole time”.

“This toilet?”  The one I’ve just been rubbing my body up against as I scanned the floor tiles.

Ew!

Another bathroom assassin.

There are a number of ways to kill (or migrate) spiders. Hello Giggles lists 11 ways.  Wikihow uses pictures. But the key component to killing a spider…is the spider! And our BIG black spider was gone!

Rule #1 – Always check your surroundings. Assume they are everywhere.

Now Little Guy will never forget Rule #2– when you see a spider, do not break eye contact. Feel free to call for backup, as loud as necessary. Because the moment you look away, they will run away.

We have a BIG black spider living somewhere in our home. So I’m going to suggest we spend the weekend in a hotel (I’m packing nothing), and immediately put our house on the market. Buyer beware!

Happy Weekend!

Wilderness Wednesday: Chloe

Tags

guinea pigs, humour, pets

It’s National Pet Day! Yesterday, our creative cavy, Chloe, was moved to her new home. Now our bunny-sized hairball has a little more room to “play” … sometime this afternoon she manipulated her igloo to the perfect position. Now she can reach her food and keep an eye on everyone without having to move. Truly a girl after my own heart!

I’m having a snack here. Do you mind?

Bonus: It comes with a playpen for both of my kids!

Happy Wednesday!