Oh, it's all nakedly hair-free when you're staring in the bathroom mirror, tweezer in hand, but the very second you're in a public place, like your car in the Wal-Mart parking lot, WHAP, there's a forest of barb-wire-things sprouting from your chin.
It must be stray food that makes those hairs grow so fast. Spilled coffee raises the alkalinity of the chin soil, I understand.
Anyway, you grab the tweezers that are stashed in the console, for just such an occasion (when you're younger, it's lip gloss and rubbers that are hidden there; when you're 52, it's tweezers and slight-urine-loss-mini-pads). You flip down the driver's mirror and start searching for the offending hair, which crawled back up its follicle the moment the tweezers came to light, when something catches your eye.
You look to your right and there, in the car next to you, is another woman plucking hairs off HER chin.
Is this what happens to us all when we hit 50? We hang out in Wal-Mart parking lots plucking our chins?
I'd raise my chin and try not to worry about such things, but I'm afraid I might poke my eye out.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Sunday, August 11, 2013
Why I Hate Booze
I'm the first to admit I have hang-ups about booze. You can't grow up surrounded by alcoholics without being screwed up.
If I'm out at a fancy restaurant, I order a glass of wine. Or a Bloody Caesar. Mmmm, I love a good Bloody Caesar. Other than that, I don't drink. Dave is as much as a boozer as me. He'll have two or three Rum & Cokes at the Christmas party, but there's been a mickey of rum in the house since dinosaurs roamed the earth. (Every once in a while I dust it.)
My father was an alcoholic (who went to rehab later in life and never drank again, bless his soul). My grandfather was an alcoholic. Several of my other close relatives battle with the bottle. My ex mother-in-law and her ridiculous second husband are both alcoholics. I tell ya, I have put up with more than my fair share of shit-faced people over the years and I am sick and tired of it.
I hate how people get when they're drunk. Stupid. Irrational. Mouthy. Violent. Selfish. They fight. They drive. They cause accidents. They lose their licenses. They lose their jobs. They lose their families. Sometimes they live in filthy, disgusting hovels fit only for TV shows like Hoarders. Sometimes they even kill people. And still, they drink.
There's nothing they like better than getting wasted. It's big-time excitement, going to a bar, or a party, or sitting around in a living room with a few drinking buddies and a few bottles of whiskey. Dave and I used to get invited to these shin-digs all the time until people figured out we're boring old farts, dryer than popcorn farts in a desert. Drinkers generally hang out with drinkers. There's no judgement that way and nobody seems to mind if breakfast is hair of the dog and a pack of smokes.
There's the odd person, though, who doesn't "get" that we don't want to hang around with drunks and insist on showing up at our place half (or entirely) in the bag, toting booze and looking for a party. A few years ago this couple showed up uninvited. We offered them coffee or a Coke and the girl asked, "Ya got anything else? Any beer or liquor?" I was shocked by her forwardness and instead of saying, "No," I remembered the dusty bottle of rum in the cupboard and said, "Um, yeah, I think so." I made her and her boyfriend a drink and put the bottle back in the cupboard. Her and the boyfriend guzzled down their drinks in record time. A few minutes later she got off the couch and headed to the kitchen. Without asking, she fetched the rum from the cupboard and poured herself and the guy hefty drinks. She did this again, and again, until the booze was gone, while I secretly fumed at her obnoxiousness and my own inability to stand up for myself.
Generally speaking, I'm a polite person. So is Dave. We're proud of that, but sometimes we get taken advantage of. We should have asked the couple to leave but politeness and good manners stopped us. The couple, on the other hand, had no manners whatsoever.
And that's my problem. That's what I'm so mad about. Boozers will consistently walk all over us because we're too polite to kick them the hell out. We've had individuals show up at our house with booze in their hand (they were probably drinking it while they were driving here), and sit down and carry on without even asking if it's ok. KNOWING how I feel about it, but doing it anyway. Then flinging cigarette butts on our front lawn and leaving them for us to pick up.
Well I'm sorry. I am not putting up with this boorish behaviour any longer. I have drawn a line in the sand. This is my house. Not yours. And I refuse to let your drinking problem interfere with my life. You are not my child or my parent. I am not your caretaker. I am not here to clean up your messes. You want to ruin your life? Go ahead. Just don't involve me.
If you want to hang out here, quit drinking, quit smoking and grow the hell up.
If I'm out at a fancy restaurant, I order a glass of wine. Or a Bloody Caesar. Mmmm, I love a good Bloody Caesar. Other than that, I don't drink. Dave is as much as a boozer as me. He'll have two or three Rum & Cokes at the Christmas party, but there's been a mickey of rum in the house since dinosaurs roamed the earth. (Every once in a while I dust it.)
My father was an alcoholic (who went to rehab later in life and never drank again, bless his soul). My grandfather was an alcoholic. Several of my other close relatives battle with the bottle. My ex mother-in-law and her ridiculous second husband are both alcoholics. I tell ya, I have put up with more than my fair share of shit-faced people over the years and I am sick and tired of it.
I hate how people get when they're drunk. Stupid. Irrational. Mouthy. Violent. Selfish. They fight. They drive. They cause accidents. They lose their licenses. They lose their jobs. They lose their families. Sometimes they live in filthy, disgusting hovels fit only for TV shows like Hoarders. Sometimes they even kill people. And still, they drink.
There's nothing they like better than getting wasted. It's big-time excitement, going to a bar, or a party, or sitting around in a living room with a few drinking buddies and a few bottles of whiskey. Dave and I used to get invited to these shin-digs all the time until people figured out we're boring old farts, dryer than popcorn farts in a desert. Drinkers generally hang out with drinkers. There's no judgement that way and nobody seems to mind if breakfast is hair of the dog and a pack of smokes.
There's the odd person, though, who doesn't "get" that we don't want to hang around with drunks and insist on showing up at our place half (or entirely) in the bag, toting booze and looking for a party. A few years ago this couple showed up uninvited. We offered them coffee or a Coke and the girl asked, "Ya got anything else? Any beer or liquor?" I was shocked by her forwardness and instead of saying, "No," I remembered the dusty bottle of rum in the cupboard and said, "Um, yeah, I think so." I made her and her boyfriend a drink and put the bottle back in the cupboard. Her and the boyfriend guzzled down their drinks in record time. A few minutes later she got off the couch and headed to the kitchen. Without asking, she fetched the rum from the cupboard and poured herself and the guy hefty drinks. She did this again, and again, until the booze was gone, while I secretly fumed at her obnoxiousness and my own inability to stand up for myself.
Generally speaking, I'm a polite person. So is Dave. We're proud of that, but sometimes we get taken advantage of. We should have asked the couple to leave but politeness and good manners stopped us. The couple, on the other hand, had no manners whatsoever.
And that's my problem. That's what I'm so mad about. Boozers will consistently walk all over us because we're too polite to kick them the hell out. We've had individuals show up at our house with booze in their hand (they were probably drinking it while they were driving here), and sit down and carry on without even asking if it's ok. KNOWING how I feel about it, but doing it anyway. Then flinging cigarette butts on our front lawn and leaving them for us to pick up.
Well I'm sorry. I am not putting up with this boorish behaviour any longer. I have drawn a line in the sand. This is my house. Not yours. And I refuse to let your drinking problem interfere with my life. You are not my child or my parent. I am not your caretaker. I am not here to clean up your messes. You want to ruin your life? Go ahead. Just don't involve me.
If you want to hang out here, quit drinking, quit smoking and grow the hell up.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Peeing, Multi-Tasking and the Great Reward
Do you ever, you know, have to pee? But you don't? Not right away? Because you have something to do first, and if you get that done, then you can go to the bathroom. Like it's a reward? Say you're on the way to the can but you pass the kitchen enroute and see you haven't emptied the dishwasher yet, so you stop and empty the dishwasher, and then fill it with the dirty crap that was dumped in your sink by other people who don't share your reverence for multi-tasking (and were probably peeing as you stabbed yourself with the upside down fork that was lurking behind a spoon). And then, since you're there, you gather up the dirty tea towels, empty the garbage and sweep the floor. The sweeping is somewhat difficult because your legs are firmly crossed and you're thinking, geez, I gotta go to the can. But the laundry room is on the way to the bathroom so you take the tea towels with you, except you can't go into the laundry room empty-handed so you take a detour up to bedroom, strip the sheets, gather up gotchies and pick up wet towels from the upstairs bathroom. While you're there you brush your teeth, because they're kinda coffee-scuzzed (which is why you also have to pee,) and you brush whilst holding your breath, which is hard (you should try it), because you have to pee so damned bad and you think, just pee here. Right? Just go pee. But that wouldn't make any sense because you're going down to the laundry room, which has a bathroom, which is where you were headed in the first place, so you stagger cross-legged down the stairs, juggling the laundry basket and a bladder bigger than the neighbour's hot tub. Then the phone rings, so you drop the basket in the kitchen, try to answer the phone, but you can't because it's a new phone and you're a technical luddite so you accidentally hang up on your husband and then spend five minutes phoning him while he's trying to phone you and finally you say feck it, and head to the bathroom, only you have an idea about a blog post, so you drop the laundry basket in the middle of the kitchen floor and swerve to the dining room where your laptop sits and you perch on a chair with your whole body twisted in some weird pee knot and you start writing because you have to write when the muse hits. So you write, and you grit the teeth that are floating around in the back of your mouth, and finally you're done, so you RUN to the bathroom, only you see the laundry basket on the floor and ...
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Lab Lady Meltdown
It's almost time to go to the lab and get some bloodwork done. I do hope I can accomplish this small feat without braining someone.
Yesterday I had a minor meltdown when I tried, and failed, to get it done.
I like to think I'm fairly easy-going, and I know there are others who may think the opposite but screw them, they've probably done something to cheese me off and are well-deserving of any fits thrown in their general direction. Still, if you treat me like I'm non-existant, I'm gonna get mad.
Like, if you're the lady in the lab yesterday you totally deserve a hissy fit. Who do you think you are? God? The Man from U.N.C.L.E? Florence Fecking Nightingale?
Bah.
Anyway, yesterday I headed into the lab for some bloodwork. Requisition in hand, I walked the entire length of the hospital to the lab, because, if you've ever noticed, labs are always in the hiney of any hospital. I guess planners figure emergency departments need to be up front. I barely get the logic, other than that having emerg up front prevents bleeders and vomiters from dripping down the hallway. Oh, and I guess maybe dying people can't be expected to walk that far ...
I got to the lab, requisition and health card at the ready, and handed it to the woman behind the glass window. I am fairly confident it was bulletproof glass for reasons that will become apparent. The woman took my paperwork, glanced at it, then kinda shoved it back into my hand.
"You need to register at the front," she said.
"Sorry," I said, politely. "I didn't know. This is the first time I've been here."
She ignored me. Continued doing whatever she was doing.
I said to Dave, who was with me, "Did you want to wait for me here?"
"No," he said, "I'll come with you."
Away we went, back from whence we came. As we toddled down the long hallway, me with my bad knees, I saw a poster advertising the benefits of walking. Pffft, I thought.
I honestly didn't know you had to register at the hospital's front desk in order to have bloodwork done in the lab. Hey, I was fresh from Ontario, where you go directly to the lab – you don't bother the lady at the front desk unless you need information or you've severed your arm or something. But hey, that was cool. We went back to the front desk and waited in line for what seemed like an eternity as the poor receptionist dealt with complicated problems ahead of us. I shifted from one sore knee to the other, trying my best to be patient as the pain started radiating to my hips.
Finally it was my turn.
The nice receptionist took my paperwork and started to process it, then stopped dead in her tracks.
"I'm sorry," she said. "The lab is closed."
I looked at her like she had two heads.
"But the lady in the lab just sent me here," I protested.
"It closes at 4 o'clock," the receptionist added.
"Really! Seriously?" I said, shocked that the lab lady would send me back to the front of the hospital without even mentioning that she would be closing soon.
"Do I look like I'm joshing?" said the receptionist and I immediately realized I was giving her a hard time, when she didn't deserve one. I lowered my tone and she, very nicely, phoned the lab to see if they, by some miracle stayed open to wait for me.
Alas, the lab was, in fact, closed.
Why, I fumed, didn't she TELL me she was closing? That there really was no point in going back to reception and waiting in line? She might have even pointed out that the lab closes at 4 p.m. and that I left my visit too late in the afternoon. But no. Not a word.
I cursed and swore and mumbled and whined all the way home. Wisely, Dave didn't say a word. About an hour later I wound down but it was still the first thing I thought of this morning.
Now the time has come to go back to the lab. Round two. I'm almost afraid. At least this time I know I have to register first. And I know what time they close. But I'm telling you, if she starts giving me a hard time about anything else, like my health card being from Ontario or my veins misbehaving, it won't be me that gets a needle shoved up my ass.
Yesterday I had a minor meltdown when I tried, and failed, to get it done.
I like to think I'm fairly easy-going, and I know there are others who may think the opposite but screw them, they've probably done something to cheese me off and are well-deserving of any fits thrown in their general direction. Still, if you treat me like I'm non-existant, I'm gonna get mad.
Like, if you're the lady in the lab yesterday you totally deserve a hissy fit. Who do you think you are? God? The Man from U.N.C.L.E? Florence Fecking Nightingale?
Bah.
Anyway, yesterday I headed into the lab for some bloodwork. Requisition in hand, I walked the entire length of the hospital to the lab, because, if you've ever noticed, labs are always in the hiney of any hospital. I guess planners figure emergency departments need to be up front. I barely get the logic, other than that having emerg up front prevents bleeders and vomiters from dripping down the hallway. Oh, and I guess maybe dying people can't be expected to walk that far ...
I got to the lab, requisition and health card at the ready, and handed it to the woman behind the glass window. I am fairly confident it was bulletproof glass for reasons that will become apparent. The woman took my paperwork, glanced at it, then kinda shoved it back into my hand.
"You need to register at the front," she said.
"Sorry," I said, politely. "I didn't know. This is the first time I've been here."
She ignored me. Continued doing whatever she was doing.
I said to Dave, who was with me, "Did you want to wait for me here?"
"No," he said, "I'll come with you."
Away we went, back from whence we came. As we toddled down the long hallway, me with my bad knees, I saw a poster advertising the benefits of walking. Pffft, I thought.
I honestly didn't know you had to register at the hospital's front desk in order to have bloodwork done in the lab. Hey, I was fresh from Ontario, where you go directly to the lab – you don't bother the lady at the front desk unless you need information or you've severed your arm or something. But hey, that was cool. We went back to the front desk and waited in line for what seemed like an eternity as the poor receptionist dealt with complicated problems ahead of us. I shifted from one sore knee to the other, trying my best to be patient as the pain started radiating to my hips.
Finally it was my turn.
The nice receptionist took my paperwork and started to process it, then stopped dead in her tracks.
"I'm sorry," she said. "The lab is closed."
I looked at her like she had two heads.
"But the lady in the lab just sent me here," I protested.
"It closes at 4 o'clock," the receptionist added.
"Really! Seriously?" I said, shocked that the lab lady would send me back to the front of the hospital without even mentioning that she would be closing soon.
"Do I look like I'm joshing?" said the receptionist and I immediately realized I was giving her a hard time, when she didn't deserve one. I lowered my tone and she, very nicely, phoned the lab to see if they, by some miracle stayed open to wait for me.
Alas, the lab was, in fact, closed.
Why, I fumed, didn't she TELL me she was closing? That there really was no point in going back to reception and waiting in line? She might have even pointed out that the lab closes at 4 p.m. and that I left my visit too late in the afternoon. But no. Not a word.
I cursed and swore and mumbled and whined all the way home. Wisely, Dave didn't say a word. About an hour later I wound down but it was still the first thing I thought of this morning.
Now the time has come to go back to the lab. Round two. I'm almost afraid. At least this time I know I have to register first. And I know what time they close. But I'm telling you, if she starts giving me a hard time about anything else, like my health card being from Ontario or my veins misbehaving, it won't be me that gets a needle shoved up my ass.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
If I was a pin-up girl ...
... I'd be Hilda!
Look at that girl. Happy, fun-loving, gorgeous and, unlike just about every other pin-up girl on the planet, plump! Up until a few days ago I had never heard of her. Then bloggy friend Carrie Clevenger posted a Facebook link to a collection of Hilda paintings and I fell in love. Artist Duane Bryers brought this famously ravishing redhead to life and you can find out more about him (and see lots of other happy Hildas) on Les Toil's website.
Hilda's one of the reasons I finally changed the name of my blog. I know, I know, I'm slower than a frozen roast beef in a broken crock pot, but I didn't want to pick a new name until I found something that tickled my picky-pants fancy. Nothing made me stand up and sing. Nothing. But it was bothering me, so much so that I didn't even go near my blog because I felt guilty. I'd see the bookmarked link on the top of my computer screen, Life on the Muskoka River, and avoid it like I owed it money. Last night I dreamed about the darned thing. Argh. I woke up this morning and went, that's IT. I have to change the stupid name on my stupid blog before my head spins and I start spewing pea soup.
I wanted to put Cold Lake in the title and liked the Cathy-Cold Lake thingey going on. I mentioned Cathy Does Cold Lake but Dave thought it was too corny and way too porny. Then I kinda settled on Cold Lake Cathy, thinking it reminded me of Buffalo Bill, which is all western, and I'm now all about being western. So yeah, Cold Lake Cathy.
Then all I had to do was come up with a new header. Easier said than done.
Cold Lake isn't easy to sum up in just one photo. It has multiple personalities, it does. It's "out west" but it's also "up north." It's known for being home to Canada's largest air force base and not a day goes by that you don't see fighter jets zooming overhead, or military folks lined up in the grocery store. But it's also a booming oil town, with a soaring economy and camp-dirty 'oilers' lined up behind the guys and girls in fatigues. Even more, it's famous for the lake, Cold Lake, a deep, clear, wave-swept lake so big you can barely see across to the other side. And yeah, it's cold. Freakin' cold.
If this town had a nickname, it would be Sybil.
I looked at airplanes and oil wells and people shivering in the cold. I thought seriously about vintage cowgirls. Nothing seemed right. I almost gave up in frustration. I've been such a lacklustre blogger lately that I thought maybe I should just stop. Feck the header. Feck the blog. Just stop.
And then I remembered Hilda. She of the wide smile and the wide hips and the wide, wide love for life. She was perfect.
Welcome to Cold Lake Cathy. Because life isn't on the Muskoka River anymore and it was beyond time for a change.
Look at that girl. Happy, fun-loving, gorgeous and, unlike just about every other pin-up girl on the planet, plump! Up until a few days ago I had never heard of her. Then bloggy friend Carrie Clevenger posted a Facebook link to a collection of Hilda paintings and I fell in love. Artist Duane Bryers brought this famously ravishing redhead to life and you can find out more about him (and see lots of other happy Hildas) on Les Toil's website.
Hilda's one of the reasons I finally changed the name of my blog. I know, I know, I'm slower than a frozen roast beef in a broken crock pot, but I didn't want to pick a new name until I found something that tickled my picky-pants fancy. Nothing made me stand up and sing. Nothing. But it was bothering me, so much so that I didn't even go near my blog because I felt guilty. I'd see the bookmarked link on the top of my computer screen, Life on the Muskoka River, and avoid it like I owed it money. Last night I dreamed about the darned thing. Argh. I woke up this morning and went, that's IT. I have to change the stupid name on my stupid blog before my head spins and I start spewing pea soup.
I wanted to put Cold Lake in the title and liked the Cathy-Cold Lake thingey going on. I mentioned Cathy Does Cold Lake but Dave thought it was too corny and way too porny. Then I kinda settled on Cold Lake Cathy, thinking it reminded me of Buffalo Bill, which is all western, and I'm now all about being western. So yeah, Cold Lake Cathy.
Then all I had to do was come up with a new header. Easier said than done.
Cold Lake isn't easy to sum up in just one photo. It has multiple personalities, it does. It's "out west" but it's also "up north." It's known for being home to Canada's largest air force base and not a day goes by that you don't see fighter jets zooming overhead, or military folks lined up in the grocery store. But it's also a booming oil town, with a soaring economy and camp-dirty 'oilers' lined up behind the guys and girls in fatigues. Even more, it's famous for the lake, Cold Lake, a deep, clear, wave-swept lake so big you can barely see across to the other side. And yeah, it's cold. Freakin' cold.
If this town had a nickname, it would be Sybil.
I looked at airplanes and oil wells and people shivering in the cold. I thought seriously about vintage cowgirls. Nothing seemed right. I almost gave up in frustration. I've been such a lacklustre blogger lately that I thought maybe I should just stop. Feck the header. Feck the blog. Just stop.
And then I remembered Hilda. She of the wide smile and the wide hips and the wide, wide love for life. She was perfect.
Welcome to Cold Lake Cathy. Because life isn't on the Muskoka River anymore and it was beyond time for a change.
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