27 December, 2014

how it is

i have two eggnog bread puddings baking in the oven, the table is set, the coffee made - brunch with my ladies this morning chez moi: i'm really really looking forward to it. k, my sanity salad, and m, of the broken bourbon fame, as well as k's friend whom i have yet to meet, along with crusty juggler, are all coming over this morning. k and m and crusty are women whose company i adore - intelligent, sharp, kind, witty, able to broach topics that some would consider improper for polite society, but what the hell, we're a new breed of lady: wicked smart and taking no prisoners!

i might have said so here before, but having always been surrounded by a gaggle* of male friends and one or two good girlfriends, i have found myself increasingly craving female company in recent years. don't get me wrong, i still enjoy menfolk, i enjoy them a lot, but what i need, in a pretty deeply visceral way, is female company. as we get older, we diverge - men get considered more attractive, grey hair is sexy, wrinkles a badge of honour, age a guarantor of financial success, while women, well…we turn invisible. at best, we are "previously beautiful," or MILFs, at worst, simply a butt of jokes: the cougar, the soccer mom, the chick lit/chick flick afficionada, not quite the wise old crone, but nowhere near the desirable virgin. men, as appealing and intelligent as they may be, fail to grasp the subtleties of this transformation. as a woman of a certain age (42, to be exact, and not willing to play coy) i need my ladies to help me deal with this. and so we brunch.

it's nifty, too, to have company on the road to dirty old womanhood - to sit and drink and feel at ease. AND it's fun to mispronounce "vaginal" (to rhyme with "spinal"), to giggle and guffaw and skewer the tropes that try to limit and define us, while critiquing society's expectations, swigging wine and reinventing ourselves as we shed our old skins. not hockey mom: feminist hockey mom. not cougar: self-actualised sexy 40-something. not desperate single: intelligent professional. in the company of other women my age, i become myself more than elsewhere. m, who had just come back from a feminist conference in puerto rico told me that the best place to make peace with your body was in a pool filled with aging feminists. this is the closest i have at the moment and i adore it.

to my ladies!

*seems like the wrong term. murder? host? harem? yes, i think i like harem the best.

24 December, 2014

may ye sparkle merrily

my darling poultries, you who have been here with me through thick and thin, offering words of advice or support, waiting patiently on my silence, cheering heartily from the sidelines at my words, may you have the most glorious season, filled to the brim with warmth, cheer, loving people, delicious food, irrepressible giggles, restful sleep, and much much joy and happiness. i may have never met most of you, but that doesn't mean i don't appreciate your lovely e-presence in my life.

have the merriest of christmases and a splendiferous new year!

09 December, 2014

up yer butt!

when k and i were gallivanting in las vegas (and by gallivanting i mean getting up at 6am every morning and hiking in the desert…then capping the day off by drinking a bottle glass of wine every night in our hotel room while yelling at watching terrible terrible television and eating junk food snacks) we decided to get cheap pedicures, because, as everyone knows, the united states of america is a place of contrasts: food deserts BUT trader joe's; designer everything BUT 20$ pedicures… i could go on but i'm bored, and thus i suspect you too are bored. so. pedicure. toenails.

an hour in a chair that vibrated in all sorts of salacious and sometimes vaguely disturbing ways, getting scrubbed, rubbed, having pounds of foot skin removed with what looked almost exactly like cheese graters, and eventually having polish applied to our shiny pink toesies. given the price, i didn't expect it to last, but alas, last it did: more than a month!

thing is (oh yaar, there is a thing. the thing is (another thing! the layers! they pile up!) one needs to wade through a whole lotta crap to get to the thing, eh? eh? well, so it goes. you read the fine print, no? no? well, then, i can't help you)…anyhow…where was i? oh! the thing! the thing is, several years ago i lost my second smallest left toenail after doing a marathon. every time i walk or hike a lot now, it comes off. just sort of peels off, painlessly but in a really rather yucky manner. i mean, it's a human toenail, not a fucking exoskeleton of a hermit crab. but there you have it: it just comes off.

so, to return to my really elongated and convoluted tale with a seriously underwhelming pay-off (consider this your foreshadowing, my poultries), i woke up one morning and saw that all my toes were still perfectly painted, except the second smallest left toenail, which seemed to have mysteriously shed its exoskeleton. i halfheartedly looked around the bed, under the bed, and inside the bed, but having found nothing just sort of forgot about it.

           … * * * … * * * … * * * … several days passed… * * * … * * * … * * * …

i was in bed with mr. monkey a couple nights ago when he gets this strange look on his face, reaches his hand under the covers, digs around for a bit while frowning and comes up with something small and dark.

mr. monkey: what the hell was that on my butt?!

yes. you guessed it. he was not impressed, and rightly so. at least hermit crabs eat their damn exoskeleton. me? i just shove it up my husband's ass.

07 December, 2014

the perniciousness of gravity

this being the season of rampant consumerism, i've been doing my best to counteract it, or at least refocus it, by going to local events and supporting local artisans and the like. yesterday i met the lovely m at a craft show. it wsn't your grandma's craft show, unless of course your grandma is a moustachioed hipster who knits sweaters with skulls, rocks a kick-ass tattoo sleeve featuring illustrations from a children's book, makes her own bitters, and has nary a pink acrylic crocheted toilet paper cover in sight.   the point of the afternoon was to do some christmas shopping* followed by dinner at my favourite bbq smokehouse restaurant named, appropriately enough, MEAT.

dinner was stellar (their pulled pork and garlic fries are divine), as was the conversation, and when m realised how early it still was when we had paid our bill, we decided to take advantage of her evening of childlessness and walk back to my place to have another bourbon based drink, because delicious. the walk was bracing, and as soon as we came home, i had the realisation that we did not, in fact have any bourbon in the house because mr. monkey bought scotch instead, and my body does NOT like scotch. or rye. or any whiskey product other than bourbon. it just doesn't. it makes a pfffft face and shakes itself dramatically and then pouts, no matter how fancy the scotch.

m and i decided to remedy the situation and walked across the little bridge to the liquor store where i bought a bottle of bourbon. we were laughing and talking and having a gay old time, until i hit an icy patch mere metres from my front door, and found myself flat on my back, having cracked my elbow on the ice, broken bottle in hand, bourbon and glass chips all over my shearling coat. while m hovered over me, trying to ascertain the state of my wellbeing, a man walked by, casting the kind of glance one reserves for drunk street people making up after a bitter fight. once i stopped laughing and gathered myself up (m was very concerned), we walked back to the liquor store and bought another bottle. as we stood by the till, i realised my left hand was gruesomely covered in blood, smelling like a wino, laughing like a mad person. yes, this is what living downtown does to you, boys and girls!

in the end, mr. monkey made us his utterly addictive bourbon-based drinks. i cleaned myself up. we shook residual glass off my coat. we sat around and had a lovely conversation while i iced my elbow. twas a good day, truly.

*for m, mostly, since i had already done mine earlier last week. and speaking of which, i am suffering, my poultries! since the kidlets have gotten old enough to appreciate a good gift opening, the sweet halcyon days of no christmas shopping are done. and now we have to negotiate that labyrinth of getting something that is attractive, not too expensive and small, because, like most other north american children, they already have everything…in triplicate. ugh. me no like. i mean, i like buying gifts and making the children happy but i also realise their spatial constraints and am not an asshole who will buy a mountain of plastic that will make negotiating a hallway treacherous. and they're too little for books in any meaningful way. ok. rant over.