S.H.*.T.

I was telling a group of work girlfriends over the weekend about this one time I accidentally mis-texted a wildly inappropriate message that was intended for my mom to a male coworker whose name happens to be alphabetically adjacent to hers on my recipient list... aaaand who also happens to be my boss. (What can I say - I've got fat thumbs and slow reflexes).

Most of the ladies laughed.

One of the ladies leaned forward, pointed at me and in the Voice of Eternal Damnation said, 

“I am so signing you up for Sexual Harassment Awareness Training.”

I totally S.H.A.T.

I can only assume that this means I'll be seeking alternate employment in the near future. Dear soon-to-be ex-coworkers: it's been nice knowing you. I would apologize for all those off-colour jokes/texts/emails over the years, but I'm not actually sorry - it's just how I roll. Maybe if you're not feeling too terribly victimized by my perverse sense of humour you could give me a call sometime. We could make out. Er, hang out.

(Oh, what the hell. I meant make out.)

To kick my job search off on the right foot, I'd like to use my blog as a forum for supplementing my formal resume (bo-ring!) with a list of some of my many "alternate" - yet highly transferable! - skillz:

- created well-received employee initiatives
- conflict resolution experience
- workplace safety training

- emergency preparedness planning background
- developed innovative terminology

- accomplished cook and baker
- um ... plant sitting expertise ...
- ... possesses high degree of hepatic fortitude
- really awesome hair ... and, uh ...

- hardly steals the covers at all.

If you happen to know anyone who's willing to pay top dollar for such broad-ranging talent, hook me up. Preference will be given to candidates who have completed Sexual Harassment Acceptance Training, or who have demonstrably comparable experience.
 

Plus, I'll Know Which Plants to Eat

People are all about the zombie apocalypse these days. I hardly know anyone who doesn't secretly believe they've got the ultimate in zompocalypse planning all worked out. Even weirder is that everyone is so frigging cagey about their plan, as if it's actually going to be implemented and they don't want anyone else getting in on their gig. ("Dammit, Greg, this was the office tower I picked out special for me and my flamethrower - what the hell are you doing here?")

Seriously. It's ridiculous. People don't even adequately plan for feasible eventualities like, say, retirement, or inclement weather conditions. Why the zombie apocalypse of all things?

Not to mention that their cherished zompocalypse plans invariably reveal gross tactical errors: castle defense scenarios; heading to the Arctic (it's not exactly hospitable for you there, either); not having a botanist on their team.

Me? I'm just going about my life as normal, contributing to my RRSP and carrying an umbrella. Truth be told, if the unthinkable ever comes to pass, I'll actually be looking forward to finally meeting someone who wants me for my brains.

Mitten String

It's been a beautiful fall here in Cowtown this year - so beautiful that we didn't have to crack the Rubbermaid of winter gear until last week.

In the past seven days, Medium Fry has already lost the two pairs of mittens remaining from the dozen or so we procured for her last winter.

"Maybe," she says, "you should put them on a string."

I like the part where she implies it's my fault because I haven't properly secured the mittens.

Know what, sweetie? To hell with a string. What we really need here is some sort of bungee cord, so if you even try to lose a mitten it comes back and smacks you upside the head. Now that would reinforce the principle.

Actually, I don't know who invented bungee cords, but after having been around for over a century don't you think they could use a little capacity upgrade? Consider the progression of the telephone - twenty years ago portable technology meant yelling into a four thousand dollar brick. Today, the iPhone is smarter than most people I know. But bungee cords? I'm not saying they're dumb, exactly, but they certainly haven't gotten "smart" in the sense that phones have - same elastic cord, same metal hooks, year after year after year. And sure, they hold your lunch box on your quad or keep your sleeping bag rolled just fine, but when it comes to any advanced parenting applications the traditional bungee cord falls sadly short.

What we need is a smart bungee - one that senses the issue at hand, then reliably calculates and enacts the desired parental response. The potential applications are limitless - The Mitten Bungee. The House Keys Bungee. The "you were wearing your glasses on your own face, where in hell could they possibly have gone?" Bungee.

And, at the pinnacle of bungee evolution, The Homework Bungee. The Homework Bungee would not only smack the absentminded child upside the head if ever s/he was about to misplace the homework, but would also ward off all manner of threats to the safe completion and submission of the homework, including (but not limited to):

- put the homework in the backpack*;
- zip up the backpack*;
- fend off hungry dogs;
- remind the child seventeen times to do the homework;
- find the kid some paper;
- find the kid a pencil;
- find the kid a calculator;
- find the kid a goddam full-size eraser;
- find the mom some patience**;
- sop up purple Kool-Aid spills*;
- find the mom some Advil;
- remind the mom what the fuck an integer is;
- check the homework;
- sign the homework;
- put the homework back in the backpack*;
- zip up the backpack*;
- fend off hungry dogs;
- remind the child seventeen times to hand in the homework*;
- repeat. Daily.

Come one, parents. You can't tell me you wouldn't willingly trample someone at Target on Black Friday if the Homework Bungee went on sale.

* Asterisks denote items for which a head smack is warranted. 
** Yep, I get one, too, for losing my shit^^^ over math homework. 
^^^ But seriously - I already passed Grade Six, why am I being punished?*
* Ow. Oh, I get it. Bad attitude.

Mighty Neighbourly

My neighbours asked me to watch their baby so Mr. Neighbour could take Mrs. Neighbour out for her [undisclosed]th birthday - their first date night since Neighbour Baby was born.

Oh. My. Gawd. It's so cute to see couples who actually like each other! I said yes.

Thursday night I put on my most spit-up friendly outfit, tucked my laptop under my arm, and headed across the lawn to my first babysitting job in nigh on fifteen years.

Huh. New job. Fifteen years. Small human life. Man, that's... that's kindof intimidating... I knocked on the door.

Mr. Neighbour said, "Hello."

I said, "I brought my homework," and sortof flailed my laptop at him.

Mr. Neighbour gave me an odd look, conducted a brief risk assessment, then invited me in anyway. "Thanks so much for coming over, we really appreciate it."

I felt... strangely compelled to state my credentials. "Both my kids are still alive."

Somehow, in the seven metres from my door to the Neighbourses, I had regressed from being a competent, decidedly grown-up, thirty-something woman who had just finished feeding and bathing and tucking in her own two children, to a timid, tongue-tied, tit of a teenager.

Sensing a possible upside to the situation, I looked down.

Dang. Couldn't I have at least gotten my old body back while we were regressing my shit? Worst of both worlds.

The Neighbourses toured me around the house, demonstrating how to warm bottles and latch baby gates; describing Neighbour Baby's routine; setting up monitors in case he cried. All very standard items, yet somehow the spiel only succeeded in shoving me further back down my personal evolutionary progression:

"Then you test it on the inside of your elbow." ...17...
"Here's a sanitized soother in case you drop the other one." ...16...
"I'll put it right by the couch so you're sure to hear him." ...15...

The final blow came as they were walking out the door: "Help yourself to some snacks!"

Boom. Rock bottom. 

Oh my gawd, I thought. I feel twelve years old. This is terrifying. What am I going to do if that kid actually wakes up?

Okay. Ridiculous. You're thirty-three. You've done this before. For Pete's sake, they just showed you how to work the baby gate that you gave to them after Small Fry outsmarted it. 

Yep. You're right. I'm just feeling like this because I'm associating a new babysitting job with the way I used to feel with all my new babysitting jobs. This is all in my head. Maybe.

Hmm, I wonder what else is left over in my head from when I used to do lots of babysitting? I'll bet some snacks would help you remember. Oh yeah, that's right. You loooooove snacks. Too bad I don't have a boyfriend I could call to come over... hey, let's see if there's anything on TV that I'm not allowed to watch at home...

Just as I was getting settled in with some solid PG-13 viewing and all seven varieties of available snack food, Neighbour Baby woke up. 

Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Shit. Okay, think. Think. What should I do now? I can't just ignore him for four hours until his parents come home... I can't call DH, 'cause then he'd want a cut of the snacks... I can't call the Neighbourses because then they'd know that I don't know what I'm doing and I really need this job so I can buy a new t-shirt for that party tomorrow night. Okay, that settles it. I'm just going to have to go in there and deal with Neighbour Baby by myself.

I went in.

I looked at Neighbour Baby. He looked at me. I said, "Luke, I am not your father." He vocalized his lack of amusement. I picked him up. He went totally berserkers. And then - ah. Suddenly, all my trepidation was washed away in a surge of oxytocin and muscle memory, and I was once again the world champion baby bouncer and shusher I had become in real time.

Five minutes later, Neighbour Baby was asleep again. Success.

Yet another still-alive child to add to my babysitting resume. I'm going to need a raise.

The Cozmo Guide to Coffee

Coffee. Everybody's drinking it, but it seems like no one's really talking about what it can do to a gal. You can't get enough of the smell of it; the taste of it; the heat of it spreading through your body until the caffeine hits your bloodstream and suddenly - ooohhhhhh yeaahhhhhh. Your heart races, your eyes roll back in unabashed pleasure, and you're pretty sure you're making one hell of a C-face but damned if you can stop yourself now! 

We asked our readers for your deepest, most top-secret fears about coffee, caffeine, and that crazy C-face we all love to hate, and you delivered! Here, Cozmo dishes - uncensored! - on everything you wanted to know about coffee but were afraid to ask.

* * *

Dear Cozmo,

The first time I had coffee with my new boyfriend, he totally LOLed at my C-face! He says that it was just that he had never seen such a "cute" C-face and it took him by surprise how much it looked like I was enjoying our coffee. He is the sort of guy who laughs a lot, but now I'm super embarrassed about it! I'm afraid to drink coffee with him anymore. Please help me get my mojo (and caffeine!) back! 

~Cute C Pie, Age 24~

Dear Cute C,

If you looked like you were really enjoying yourself, that probably means you were - and who wouldn't be, drinking coffee with a fun-loving dude like your BF? He's likely telling the truth - that he was really digging your obvious enjoyment of the coffee. So relax. It's no fun having all your coffee in the dark! Besides, his C-face is probably just as adorkable - relish these intimate moments together!

Dear Cozmo,

I've had quite a bit of coffee in my life, but I don't think I've ever made a C-face. Is there something wrong with me?

~C-Minus, Age 19~

Dear C-Minus,

Everyone is capable of having a C-face - you can't help it when it's that good! - and rest assured you will know a C-face when it happens. Often, not having achieved a C-face is a function of just not having experimented enough with drinking coffee. First off, make sure you're not drinking decaf (taking the C out of coffee since, like, forever!). Second, there are countless ways to enjoy coffee - try yours sweet or strong; fine or coarse grind; morning or night; every which way until you find the combo or combos that work best for you. And third, have coffee every day - even several times a day! You can never have too much coffee. We're certain that it won't be long until you experience your first C-face, and we're positive you'll enjoy yourself having all that coffee along the way!

Dear Cozmo,

I'm only able to get my C-face on when we're perking it and my BF always wants instant! I love having coffee with him however we do it, but it just doesn't seem fair that he gets a C-face every time while I'm left wanting more. How can I convince him to put a little more time and effort into our daily grind?

~Percolatin' Maiden, Age 22~

Dear Percolatin',

It's easy for your guy to achieve his C-face, but it sounds like he's not feeling any real incentive to wait for your pot to boil. If he's not willing to invest a little extra effort to ensure his lady love is satisfied, what else is he taking for granted in your relationship? Have a heart-to-heart to him about this, but go into it knowing that you can have excellent coffee by yourself, too, and be 100% in charge of creating your own C-face instead of relying on some inconsiderate fella. If he's unwilling to change, ditch him and treat yourself to some state-of-the-art equipment to help you get the quality coffee you deserve.

Dear Cozmo,

Sometimes I'm just not in the mood for coffee, or I don't have enough time for it. I've heard that some people take "wake up pills" to get their C-face on. I'm considering trying it - what do you think?

~Impatient, Age 20~ 

Dear Impatient,

Experiencing a C-face is a worthwhile destination, but it's only one stop along what should also be a pleasurable journey. From grinding the beans to plunging the French press to melting the sugar lumps into a mug of hot, creamy goodness, coffee is a sensual cornucopia that shouldn't be rushed. Sure, "wake-ups" might ultimately land you a C-face, but it will inevitably pale in comparison with the real deal. Make time in your schedule for some quality coffee. You're worth it!

~Cozmo~

Liver of Steel

I have a tendency to over-think things. As a result, my decision tree probably looks more like a decision heavily-browsed-riparian-shrub: where other people might have a 'yes' branch and a 'no' branch, I have countless numbers of 'maybes' and 'yes, buts' and 'if I only had a little more information to work withs'... all of which conclusions I tend to arrive at simultaneously, culminating in endless mental gridlock.

On my more euphemistic days, I prefer to think of it as quantum superdecisioning. Sounds more like a superpower that way.

Whitewashed flaws aside, I do happen to be blessed with a great many superpowers. Not all of them are fit for publication in a family-friendly blog such as this, but I can tell you that one of my personal favourites - I used it just today! - is that I don't get hangovers. Ever.

And so, in absence of any perceivable disincentive, the decision whether to imbibe is one of the few I can reliably make in life without an awful lot of hand-wringing or second-guessing. In fact, my decision shrub for whether or not to drink is more like a decision... stick. With 'yes' being the foregone conclusion.

And there might not even have been a question.

Here's a recent example:

"Ooo, I'm so excited about this party, I'll grab a glass of this nice chardonnay and mingle a bit."
"M'mm, that first glass went down pretty easy. Better grab another just to be sociable."
"Oh my goodness, what a delightful time for a refill!"
"You know what this cheese would go well with..."
"Shit, my glass got all empty again."
"Now onto the reds!"
"Don't mind if I do!"
"I love you, man!"
"More = YES."
"YES = YES."
"Paaaaartay!"
"WOOOO HOOOOOO!"

I lost track after the first twelve glasses or so, but you can see how the Decision Stick works: the fact that wine was present in the vicinity functioned as an implicit question, to which the answer was, invariably, 'yes'.  

Okay, so it's a bit of a blunt stick, but what the heck.

DH gave my Decision Stick a try at the wine party we hosted last night, and his trajectory more or less paralleled mine throughout the evening (see above). Unfortunately, the results of his experiment seem to indicate that he doesn't appear to possess quite the same degree of hepatic fortitude as myself.

But don't worry - I was able to force the bathroom door open wide enough to get a blanket more or less on top of him and check his pulse every couple of hours throughout the night. I'm sure he'll be back to normal in a couple of days.

HazelNut

I always used to say to my ex-husband, "I didn't marry your mother!"

It was one of the biggest sources of friction in our relationship: I am a delightful, sensible person, while she is an overbearing, meddling lunatic. Who eats fish heads. (Not even kidding.)

In some sort of horrible cosmic comedy, the fact that I didn't marry her not only had no bearing whatsoever on her decorum for the duration of my ill-fated first marriage, but it also meant that I couldn't divorce her, either. Somehow, in her mentally-unstable fish head-eating haze, she's construed the fact that she and I are not divorced to mean that we must be good buddies, from which it (il)logically follows that she should phone me seventeen times a week to complain about her boss and ask whether Medium Fry needs a new jacket because she just saw some on clearance at Wal-Mart.

My ex phoned me this week to tell me his mother had phoned him to complain that I never answer the phone or return her messages when she calls.

First of all - she tattled on me? And secondly, what the hell did she think he was going to be able to do about it? The moron can't even hold down a cell phone account, I'm not about to start taking his advice. Thirdly, the kid doesn't need some shitty discount Wal-Mart jacket! I buy her nice jackets! What is with that woman and her Wal-Mart jackets?!

*pant, pant*

But I didn't say any of those things. You know why? Because I am a delightful, sensible person. So I put on my most thoroughly delightful saccharine-yet-terrifying-because-it-is-only-thinly-veiling-my-actual-rage voice (with which I assure you he is very familiar) and made an exceedingly sensible point, namely:

"Ohhhh, I see. So how many times a day would you like to converse with my parents? I'm sure I could arrange something..."

... ... (Have patience. It always takes him a while to process.) ... ...

... "Oh. Yeah. Uh, I guess it is kinda weird that she calls you so much. Maybe I'll tell her she should stop phoning you."

"I doubt she's going to be able to go cold turkey after all these years."

"Yeah, you're probably right. So how much can she call you?"

"I think a couple times a month is about the maximum I should reasonably be expected to handle politely."

"Okay, I'll tell her. Oh, hey, by the way, I've been having trouble with my cell phone..."

"You mean it got cut off again?"

... ... (processing... ) ... ...

"Um... yeah. So don't call me on it."

"Roger that."