"No He Didn't!"

Last week blew chunks. Big giant chunks of blue whale. It wasn't the worst week, but it was far from the best.

First - boys, just a warning, I'm going to talk about lady parts. One of my ovaries may have exploded like a super nova. When I die, they'll find parts of it all over my insides. The coroner will say, "Wow, that must have been painful." Yes, yes it was. I'm no stranger to Middleschmertz, but this was more like middleschmOHMYGODMAKEITSTOP.

No idea what's going on, but I have to wonder if all the activity from the prior week - spending hours out & about on snowshoes and x-country skis - may have jostled things around enough so that once the ovulation started, parts that were already tired or tender became super upset with all the swelling and bursting that goes on with shoving an egg out into the world.

Because, you know, those little ovaries are only tethered by ligaments and if the owner of those ligaments is ridiculously out of shape, well, I'm just sayin. Probably not a good thing. At any rate, by Tuesday night I was on vicodin praying to the pharmaceutical gods for sweet relief.

That's as bad as it got - every day afterward was a little better until the pain was almost totally gone by Thursday night. Then the cops came.

We were enjoying 30 Rock when the doorbell rang. Because it was after 9pm, I wasn't about to answer it. We get frequent solicitors and I was annoyed that one would come by so late AND that we'd have to interrupt important television viewing. Then it rang again.

Irritated, I got up and answered the door asking, "Can I HELP you? It's after 9pm!" Oh, Hello RCMP... fuuuuuuuuuuuuck. With no trace of humor in her voice she asked if it was our dogs barking and causing a disturbance.

I explained that No, they're our neighbor's/landlord's dogs and she lives downstairs and why, was there anything wrong? She said a neighbor called about the noise.

We'd heard them barking but they weren't bothering us, so who's the spineless douchebag who can't come over and ask us to quiet them down?

She wouldn't tell me who called, but one of her partners - THREE of them came out to investigate DOGS - went directly across the street to the lady I like to call Mrs. Kravitz. They didn't chat with any other neighbors, just Gladys.

After telling Ms. RCMP that they weren't our dogs she asked to see my driver's license. I didn't realize you had to have a license to rent a flat. I got it, handed it to her, and she proceeded to write down all my info in her smart little notebook. She never asked for the dog owner's name or phone number. Just mine.

I did apologize to her for snapping when I opened the door, explaining about the solicitors. She didn't respond.

When they left, I came back inside and was SUPER tweaked about #1, the douchebag who called them in the first place and #2, that the RCMPs now have all MY information, information they have no business having. THEY AREN'T OUR DOGS. WOULDN'T YOU PREFER TO HAVE THE INFORMATION OF THE ACTUAL DOG OWNER?

David didn't understand why I was so annoyed. He meant well, but he made the egregious error of saying "Calm down..."

He's had no negative experiences with law enforcement. He thinks it's all fine & reasonable to have cops come to the door and ask you about dogs that aren't yours and copy down YOUR driver's license info into a cute little notebook.

I was on the verge of calming down until he said "calm down." Funny how that happens. When I relayed this riveting story to my good friend Mary, she said "No he didn't..." Yes, yes he did. And then I was seriously pissed.

I think boys, when confronted with an emotional female, immediately try to quell the uprising because they just don't know what else to do. I think it's terrifying for them to see a woman getting agitated.

But, long story longer, we worked it out and all is fine. I'm just glad that I'm no longer doubled-over in pain or trying to get an RCMP to act like a human instead of a Hortons-eating robot.

Zero to 60

Been a while... sorry about that. Got busy - quick.

Last week we had a marvelous AmeriCanadian holiday with friends from SF. Had to clean up a bit, make the loft into a suitable guestroom, gather up the requisite groceries and run a kajillion errands.

Shopping on Robson, suspension bridge fun @ Capilano, Wii, tasty dinners out, Thanksgiving dinner at home and of course, Tim Hortons goodness. Good times - very good times.

Unfortunately, it rained like a bastard the whole time with dense clouds that obscured what would have been lovely snow-capped mountain vistas all around us. Instead, it looked like any damp, rainy area anywhere - say, New Jersey maybe, with a little less mob activity and quirky Pacific-Northwest architecture.

I wanted to post sooner - I've missed you - but my head's been full of syrup. I've been homesick, yet still happy to be here. I know we're where we're supposed to be, but my whole life is somewhere else.

Well, not my *whole* life - most of it's right here in this house. But family, dear friends and favorite haunts are all far away. It's difficult to start over when you're in your early fogey years.

I get by with email, a brand new magicJack and... Facebook. For reals. It really helps. I don't feel so disconnected from everything. Fun photos of friends (alliteration rules!) in festive situations, silly status messages... if only Scrabulous was still there... fugging greedy licensing bitches.

Driving back from Seattle last weekend where I dropped off our fabulous house guests, I felt torn. Part of me wanted to turn around and keep driving to California, but the pull was much stronger to keep going north, back to my little family.

I feel unsettled rather than settled. It feels like I'm dating two guys at once. Both have fun qualities and annoying flaws, but one is the guy I know a lot more about - the one who feels comfortable. The other guy *seems* nice & interesting and may be a refreshing change of pace, but his pants don't fit him quite right and he talks funny.

I don't think I can break up with America. Definitely not San Francisco. There's no leaving the Bay Area without regrets. The food, the wine, the Peet's, Target, North Beach Pizza, and the fantastically liberal, accepting, bubble... god I love that bubble. The dark blue, No-on-8, I'm Getting an Abortion at Lunch bubble. That's my home. And I miss it. I cannot wait to get back to it. There, I said it.

Right now, I miss it more than Thin Mints when the freezer stash runs out. I know I was ready for a change and I couldn't wait to get here, but now I think what I couldn't wait to get to was David. I need to be wherever he is, and I hope one day it'll be back in our Bay Area bubble.

A Quiz - It's Fun!

Below are two options to see an eye doctor - choose the one that seems easiest for all involved:

a. A doctor close to your office - just a few blocks away.

b. Have your spouse drive you to the train station where you can take your usual train to work - the early train, the one that comes before the sun rises - so you can take a different train later on a different system to another part of town where you'll need to have your spouse come and pick you up after the appointment, which will require driving in rush hour traffic on streets clogged with construction equipment, with three lanes merging down to one and no easy way into/out of the area where the doctor is located

If you chose a., you're crazy and probably a total bore. If you chose b., you're my husband and isn't this fun!?

Romantic Weight Loss

Got a piece of spam yesterday I almost deleted - I'm so glad I took a moment to read the preview before losing it forever.

My new friends at ColonMed700 are offering me a wonderful Free Colon Cleanse Sample enabling me to Lose Weight With My Mate Today.

Isn't that terrific? We'll grow even closer while we race each other to the toilet with horrific abdominal cramps and explosive diarrhea. I ordered a 90-supply.

Someone For Everyone

I love my husband - I really do - but I really don't want him using my toothbrush. It's not about germs, it's about how he creates a wild froth of toothpaste and spit that drips down the entire length of the thing, dropping giant foamy globs into the sink. He seems to love doing this but I think it's disgusting.

Just the thought of that all over *my* toothbrush grosses me out. He knows this and it's why we use the little color-coded thingies on the attachments. But he's color blind, so I use a darker red or pink one and he gets a lighter one - something that can't be confused for the darker color. It's a good system and it usually works.

The other day he came home from the store with off-brand replacement brushes. They're color-coded, but you can't interchange the colors - they're built into the stupid brush.

Knowing there wouldn't be any way to tell our brushes apart, I went to the trouble to mark my brush with a handy code - my initial - and a smiley face decoration. Proud of myself for solving the problem, I went to bed assured that I wouldn't find my brush in the shower the next morning sitting in a pool of slimy foam.


The next morning my brush was right where it should have been, on the charger, and his stood right next to mine with its own new decoration. Is it weird that something like this makes me love him even more? Because I do.

Wifing is OK

That's pronounced "whyfe-ing." I'm doing a fair amount of wifing these days and I have to say, I'm starting to like it.

Wifing is different than being a Lady Who Lunches, which from what I hear is a fine way to pass the time, but I'll have to work up to that.

As we settle into our new Canadian lifestyle, my day is largely filled with wifey duties such as managing the household, thinking up things to make for dinner, shopping, cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the pets.

Now, you might remember an earlier post where I wigged out about the prospect of loading and unloading the dishwasher every day for the rest of my life. I pushed past that, realizing one doesn't have to load and unload the dishwasher at the same time every day, or even every day for that matter. It can be a flexible schedule. Whew! That was close.

With that situation resolved the stress disappeared and now I'm enjoying puttering around the house taking care of things, running to the store for supplies, organizing the house. I dare say, I like the wife thing.

Yesterday I realized we needed groceries so I happily went to the store and shopped. In the three weeks I've been here, I've already been to the grocery store more times than in all of last year in Alameda.

My new favorite store is spacious, very clean, has a great selection of stuff and it's never crowded (and has fantastic Muzak). Contrast that with Alameda's Trader Joe's which at anytime of any day is always loud, cramped, often out of the good stuff and crowded full of rude people. So I stopped going.

When people ask me how I lost 20lbs this year (now closer to 30), I tell them I just stopped going to the store, and it's partly true. When there's no food in the house, you don't eat very much.

There was no magic diet or silver bullet hoodia pill endorsed by Leslie Stahl of 60 Minutes. David went to work in the UK for four months and I didn't feel much like eating. When I did eat, it was whatever I could make from what was left in the cupboard, like tuna and crackers. Or tuna and spaghetti. Or tuna on a fork.

By the time my appetite returned, my stomach had shrunk and there wasn't much I could fit in there. Before I knew it, none of my pants fit. Susanna made fun of me, seeing me wearing pants two sizes too big held up by a big ol' belt. It's a fine hobo look.

Then we decided to move. Try working full time and packing an entire house for a month and see if you don't lose some weight. Best workout ever and no time to cram anything into your mouth.

But now things are finally settling down and I'm a happy housewife who last night when her husband got home, cheerfully made him a ginormous cocktail then cooked him a steak dinner with baked potato and tasty salad.

As he said last night, having a stay-at-home wife is expensive, but worth it.

Housewife - Day One (Day Last?)

Today was my first official day as a housewife. After I stopped working late last month I became a full-time mover, which was way harder than any job I've ever had. That didn't feel at all like housewifing to me.

Plus, my husband was already "moved," so there wasn't much wifing going on - just being a full-time pet au pair. They'll run you ragged, those furry little bastards.

With the trailer finally unloaded last Saturday, resulting in more bruises, extreme fatigue and scuffed up limbs, now I don't feel like a mover anymore but more like a housewife. A housewife with bruises all over her inner arms, making her look like she moved to Canada to kick a nasty heroin habit.

This morning my husband got up early and went to work and I dozed for another hour before getting up to feed the cats.

With the cats fed, I scooped out all the cat boxes then cleaned and refilled Henry's water dish. As soon as I finished that task, Nikita barfed up her breakfast. After spot cleaning the carpet, it was time to make coffee. Had my coffee and checked email.

By the time I finished catching up on email it was late morning and I needed a shower. But first, the shower drain needed clearing. Drano-ed the shower, then after rinsing the poison away, got into the shower and proceeded to scrub the entire shower/tub.

With the shower finally clean and draining properly, I then showered myself, got dressed and got to work on the Boxhenge in my office, so tall it obscures the windows.

Unpacked several boxes, then took a fridge inventory to make sure dinner was covered. Thankfully we had enough on hand to not require another trip to the market. Restocking a pantry is a lot of work.

I kept unpacking boxes until David got home. That was my day. I know what you're thinking - I can see the gun barrel resting on my bottom teeth too. Because after the unpacking/nesting, what the hell am I going to do all damn day?

I emailed all my clients a message saying "HELLO! READY TO WORK - NOW!!!" Good lord please give me something to do other than load and unload the dishwasher or do laundry or scrub the toilet or vacuum or dust the blinds.

Like a scene from a corny TV show, the best part of my day was when David got home and we could talk about his job - something other than "you'll never guess what I pulled out of the tub drain today."

Even better than grown up work talk was the bike ride we took through the nearby wooded trails. Coming out the other side of a park onto a city street, we saw a guy on the corner who promptly warned us about a couple of black bears down the street.

Of course we had to ride over and check them out. We found a small gathering of neighbors chatting excitedly about the bears, though they were long gone by the time we got there.

Had a great time talking with the neighbors like we've lived here all our lives, then we finished our ride, on high alert for bears. Got home and had a nice dinner, refreshed and invigorated.

Now I just hope tomorrow's minutiae doesn't send me running for the Shelter of Her Mother's Little Helper. Can't wait 'til it's time to change the sheets!

Living With a Boy

As anyone who's ever been to my house can attest, I'm no Nancy Neatnik, but I have *some* standards. And I'm sure not all boys are Slobby Messersons, but some of you boys need to take a class.

It's fine to shave your beardy growth and leave whiskers all over the bathroom sink and counter - just clean them up when you're done. We don't need to see just how much manly hair you had to remove to reveal your boyish complexion. We won't notice your boyish complexion if we're transfixed by the disgusting mess you left behind.

If you're done with the food stored in the container on the counter, go ahead and discard the crumbs and put the container in the sink. There's no need to leave the crumbs and empty wrapper inside the container on the counter. This is akin to putting an empty milk/juice carton back in the fridge. Not really sure what you're trying to tell us with this habit, but you can cut it out right now.

Now this next thing could be a remnant of tribal survival habits learned thousands of years ago, which could be cool historically, but probably not necessary today. We don't need to be able to track your whereabouts by crumbs left in your path, perhaps as a sort-of trail marker.

Poppy seed bagel eaten sometime in the morning, and later, a small pizza assembled in the toaster oven... ah, the ring of a soda can there... yes, the subject is on the move toward the southwest quadrant... Trust me - we know how to find you. It's OK to clean up the mess as you make it, wherever you make it.

If a discarded object is fit for recycling one day, why does it sometimes end up in the trash on other days? Has its molecular composition changed on those other days? This, too, is a mysterious, annoying habit, but why not err on the eco side and recycle it *always*?

And on that topic, if the bag of recycling is just a bit too full, there's no need to artfully balance an item on top of the pile, well above the top of the bag where it will fall right off when it's moved. It is possible to either compress the items in the bag to make room, or start a whole new bag after taking the full one out to the bin. This happens every day all over the world and seems to be a successful system of recycling management.

Back to the bathroom for a moment... If you know you're going to leave something of an odorous nature in there that no other human would want to encounter, please do the right thing and leave that in a secondary (distant) bathroom, if available. We'll all be happier - you won't have to apologize profusely and perhaps be embarrassed by your unfortunate super powers and we won't ever know what happened.

On that same topic, we can hear you. Just being one room away doesn't change the physics of sound waves. It might be admirable that you have so much resonance and power in that area, but we're OK with not knowing about it. I mean, after the first fourteen hundred times, it's just not as funny as the first thirteen hundred ninety nine times.

But maybe it's just me. Maybe I've changed. I hear that can happen. Who wouldn't love living with the habits of a fourteen-year-old boy? All that youthful exuberance right here at home. It should make me feel young, yes?