Thoughts Within His Head

'Hey, Small Fry, I'm going to the drugstore - wanna come with me?'

'Yeah!"

* * *

'So what're we buying?'

'Well, Dad needs some medicine, and your sister needs dividers for her school binders, and I need some of that toothpaste I like.'

'And what do I need?' *waggles eyebrows at me*

'Um... nothing that I know of.'

'How about some ice cream?' *more waggling*

'Ha - naw, I don't think so buddy. You didn't bring your -'

'WAIT!'

*starts singing 'Iron Man' riff while unbuttoning pants in the middle of Shopper's Drug Mart*

*rummages around in front of pants*

*pulls wallet out of pants with dramatic flourish - Iron Man supplanted by triumphant laughter*

'Ta-daaa! Now can I get some ice cream?'

*solid three-second response delay; blinks a few times* '... How long has that been in there?'

*tsks* 'Don't worry, Mom - I'm wearing underwear. I'm gettin' a Magnum Gold bar.' *marches off*

* * *

We were going to go home and make supper right away but I was sortof - I don't know - stunned into letting him get an ice cream. Like, exactly how long has he been stuffing his wallet in his pants every day, waiting on the perfect moment to whip it out and prove his parents wrong? How has he imagined this scene playing out in his mind? Had he really already considered my potential objections to this particular storage location? How does he know Black Sabbath?

* * *

'That will be four twenty, young man.'

*counts up change and plops it on counter* 'Thanks.'

(to me) 'I think it's just so great when parents let them learn how to do some shopping by themselves. He is really learning a lot.'

'Lady - you have no idea the things this kid has learned.'

And come to think of it, apparently, neither do I.

From A to Denial

My very first post here as Frecklepelt, about 7 1/2 years ago, was about bra shopping. I had just discovered online bra shopping at that time and I've never looked back, on either the shopping thing or the blogging thing.

Before I learned about online bra shopping I would do the depressing store-based routine. Once when Medium Fry was just wee, maybe 4 years old, we were in the lingerie section together and she was thrilled with all the pretty "purses" they had on the racks. She had never seen adorable lacy normal-people bras before - only the enormous, pragmatic feats of structural engineering that inhabited our house - so she completely misinterpreted what all these delicate little padded, quarter-inch-strappy things were.

Eight or so years later, she needed some "purses" of her own and I must confess I was unreasonably excited at the prospect of finally, finally in my life being able to buy heaps of adorable lacy things in all the colours of the rainbow, even if they weren't for me. Sadly, my vicarious "lacy purse" dreams were shattered when I learned that her childhood tastes had evolved to more of a "sports purse" flavour over time. Alas.

But who knows, I thought, my day may yet come. Maybe Small Fry will take up cross-dressing in earnest one day, or I will be afflicted with a terrible wasting disease and wither away to a cup size serviced by the likes of La Senza et al. Anything is possible, right?

I have noticed a strange phenomenon among many parents of 20 and 30-somethings whereby they go to bed one evening fretting about their child getting knocked up/knocking someone up and wake the next morning demanding, "WHERE ARE MY GRANDBABIES?!" with no transition phase or sense of disconnect apparent. (I wisely preempted this phenomenon myself by having Medium Fry when I was 22.)

I found myself executing a similarly abrupt about-face on a recent shopping expedition with Medium Fry: one moment I was wistfully eyeing the rainbow lacies section while Medium Fry was getting measured for the correct purse size, and the next moment I was trying to mask the clear signs of the heart attack I was experiencing whilst choking out, "Are you certain she didn't say 'B' as in 'Bravo'? Or maybe 'C' as in 'Charlie'?"

... I was, very clearly, in D-nial.

On the bright side, once I got over this massive cognitive road block that I wasn't even aware I had, I got to mine one of my many esoteric fields of expertise and we spent a very informative afternoon learning about things like "uniboob" and "rocket tits" and how they are to be avoided. And we found a companiable middle ground where comfort, lift and separation all lived in harmony together in a muted yet fashionable colour palette.

My day had finally come.

Pressure is off, Small Fry. Wear whatever you like.

Saskatchewanderer

Paradoxically, there is something about a high-visibility vest that makes a person invisible. I think it lends an air of authority to whatever it is you're doing, so people's minds just slide off of you - I do not need any identification. I can go about my business. Works like a charm.

The only folks the visi-vest mind trick doesn't seem to work on are rural Saskatchewanites (Saskatchewaners? Saskatchewinigans?). Probably on account of they don't see other humans all that often. And I can tell you they sure as hell don't see people out just walking around on the prairie. Like, with their feet. A person out walking around with their feet has an irresistible gravitational pull to Saskatchewanites - it's alarming to them, yet compelling. They don't know whether I've broke my quad or lost my horse. They want to help me. And then they want to have a nice long chat with me about what the heck I'm doing, plus the weather.

This urge to make contact with New Humans and learn all about Their Strange Ways is sometimes difficult for an introverted and socially awkward person like myself to deal with, but I do my best to be grateful. After all, this same friendly/curious/helpful disposition that magically magnets Saskatchewanites to someone just trying to have an honest pee in the grass also causes them to offer you a ride on their tractor to where ya headin' or a tow out of a ditch without a moment's hesitation. Based on my experiences, I'm pretty sure there isn't a viable tow truck business in the province.

I'm actually not sure how there could be any viable businesses, period, because a by-product of the friendly/curious/helpful suite of traits seems to be a degree of trust in strangers that verges on the unhealthy. At gas stations, it means you will be laughed at if you try to "Pre-Pay ONLY" like the signage directs (one attendant was particularly delighted by the notion - "Hahaha, no one does that! How would that even work? No, you fill up first and then you pay. Hahaha!" She's probably still telling her friends about it.). In motel owners, this manifests as a general unwillingness to take my money - I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to get people to let me pay for my rooms, and sometimes to even find someone to pay. I had the politest argument ever with an elderly motel owner just this week, trying to get him to let me pay for my room in advance of checking out. He was clearly offended: "That's not how we do things in the country, young lady." Like I'd asked him to tweak my nipples instead of swipe my Mastercard.

"Please let me pay now. I leave for work early in the morning."
"Well, I get up early too."
"Really. I have insomnia. I usually leave before the sun comes up."

That finally worked, but if it hadn't been so near the summer solstice I still don't think I would have convinced him. I set my alarm for 3:30am and snuck out in the dark so he couldn't feel vindicated in the morning if I accidentally slept in to a reasonable payment hour.

Back to the visi-vest mind trick: if it somehow has a reverse-psychological effect on Saskatchewanites, how does someone who has to wear one to work ever get any work done? I've developed a few techniques:

- Army crawl from your vehicle until you are sufficient distance away so as not to be visible from the road (not always possible - there are some flat parts, as you might have heard).
- Steal out of town under cover of night.
- Really load up your schedule on Sundays when no one else is working (just one of the many perks of atheism!).
- If you see a branding, wedding, funeral, auction or nut-cut happening know that you can safely survey all surrounding lands within a 20-mile radius without fear of encountering anyone at all.
- For the love of Pete, do NOT mention that you or anyone you know was born in Saskatchewan, or you will have to play The Saskatchewan Game until you have established a kinship bond and gotten yourself at least invited for supper, and possibly also invited to marry some chronically single relative.
- As a last resort, if you just can't shake someone, plant ramble. People will literally back. away. slowly. from me if I go Full Ramble. Don't know anything about plants? Just pick a topic, man - even rural Saskatchewanites can be out-crazied, and the revelation frightens them.

Once you cross that border back into Alberta, though, you can forget all my handy hints - your visi-vest will be enough to spare you any human interactions whatsoever. You can walk around with your feet with utter impunity, but you'd best pick up an AMA membership just in case something ever actually does happen to your truck - based on my experiences, I'm pretty sure there are plenty of viable tow truck businesses in Alberta.

When I cross that border it is with a small twinge of sadness for all the friendly/curious/helpful oddballs I'm leaving behind. So long, Saskatchewan, and thanks for all the tows.

Golden Age

I just learned that those really nice, warm, slanty-light sorts of times right when the sun is coming up or going down are called 'the golden hour'. Never mind the actual duration of those times or that there are more than one of them per day, it's just hour, singular, and we're all meant to understand this.

Also never mind that people seem to see this kind of light and think of photography of all silly things. Photography! What the heck? I'll give photographers the benefit of the doubt and assume they just don't have a lot of chin hairs, but I will have it known that when I see that kind of light my thoughts immediately turn to tweezing. I think, That thar is some hella good tweezing light. I think I'll go sit by a window and spend some qualidee time with the zoom side of my hand mirror. A golden hour indeed.

Shortly after learning this bit of trivia, I saw a pair of lighted tweezers for sale in a drugstore. If you're wondering, But what kind of light? then we are on the same page, friend.

It seems to me that the ideal lighted tweezer would be capable of providing all the different sorts of light that are required to flush out all the different sorts of stray hairs, because logic. There would of course be a 'warm slanty-light' setting - it's really a good illuminator of otherwise tough to find strays. A 'romantic table for two overhead light' would help all your unwanted moustache hairs glow especially brightly, although 'elevator light' would be an acceptable substitute if the ambience of the former is too difficult to capture in a handheld device. A 'through the car window while driving light' is excellent for discerning overlong hairs of the jaw and neck, while a plain 'office fluorescent' setting could help tease out the occasional frisky Scottish brow. Finally, 'overcast day' would be a wonderful all-purpose setting for one's general tweezing needs. I suppose they could add in a 'home bathroom' setting if they wanted to, but if that worked then we wouldn't need all those other ones now would we?  

The rubbish drugstore tweezers I saw, however, were apparently made by photographers because they came equipped with only a single, sortof bluish LED light.

Until the technology is there, it seems we're stuck with eliminating our stray hairs the old fashioned way: with the turning of the earth, the changing of the weather, and the driving of the car down the highway and OH MY GAWD WHAT IS THAT SPROUTING OUT OF MY NECK?!

Hell Pinata

Did you hear the one about the guy who accidentally infested his boss' office with zillions of mini spiders on his second day of work? Me neither, but that would be pretty funny if it ever DID happen (*cough, cough, Jeff*). And if such a thing ever happened, it might remind me of this one story I'm super proud of from my life and should probably just write down so I stop repeating it to people. Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess...

Actually, once upon a time there was just regular me. I moved in with this gal who had bought a house with her fiance (her parents gave them the down payment as an engagement gift, if that helps you not feel too sorry for her later on in the story) but then they broke up and he moved out but they still worked together (ugh) and she was still in love with him (double ugh). The latter presumably being why - unbeknownst to me when I moved in there - he still had a house key months after he had moved out and I had moved in. He let himself in the house one night when Roomie was at work. He was a big, imposing guy (he worked as a bouncer) and was high as hell on I don't know what, so he thought he would stop by unannounced to see what I was doing. Was my boyfriend leaving soon? Should he come by after? That sort of thing. You know. Not scary or rapey at all.

So I told Roomie. Gently, because I knew it was not going to be easy for her to hear it, but firmly, because I didn't think I could feel safe living there unless we changed the locks. Her super logical response to her drug addict creep of an ex-fiance trespassing in her home and trying to fuck her roommate... was to kick me out. Because, love?

She generously gave me a whole week to find a new place to live. I won't even bother getting into what a practical and financial hardship this represented for me at that point in my life. What I will tell you is that Roomie was arachnophobic, and I am an excellent multitasker when sufficiently motivated. I kept going to work and school, while packing and house-hunting (no small task in those pre-internet days), and still found time to round up dozens of spiders and store them lovingly in individual storage containers. The house was in a new development and backed on to a natural area so there was no shortage of arachnid diversity to choose from. I even caught one of those huge hairy bastards that drop down onto your head from overhead beams like a pinata from hell. I don't ever really love spiders, exactly, but that one was horrifying to even get near enough to catch in a jam jar. But it was the cherry on the top of my collection because it seemed so poetically analagous to the ex-fiance - big, hairy, predatory, scary - so catch it I did.

On moving day I released my collection into her bedroom. One or more into each drawer, shelf, storage container, etc. A few in the ensuite. Extra in her bed and underwear drawers. And Mr. Cherry on Top, he got the walk-in closet all to himself. The perfect venue to hell pinata someone.

In retrospect, if I would have thought of the hilarious idea of a mini spider infestation back then, I would have done that, too. It wasn't my idea but I'm sure you can go ahead and use it if you like - it's a nice touch for all those 'roommate revenge' or 'new job' scenarios where you might want to make a particularly lasting impression.

The Canola Crush Challenge

It is right around this time every year that I realize that I am going to die. Like, I always know that I'm going to die eventually, but it's the first greens of spring that send me into the full-blown panic of 'it's almost field season and I haven't moved from my desk in eight months'. That kind of die. A 'my first 15 kilometre day in steel-toed rubber boots is going to kill me' kind of die.

Also, are my field pants going to button? Always a dicey proposition this time of year.

2016 will be my 14th field season. I am not proud to admit that I've gone through this exact same process, every year, for over a decade. But I am proud to say that this year, I actually learned my damn lesson and did things differently: I worked out like a maniac five days a week. I did really bad Zumba, and took plus-sized ladies' yoga classes, and attempted insane workout videos in my basement. I even ponied up for a personal trainer a couple times a week.

This is not an inspirational forum so don't go expecting miraculous "after" photos or egg white recipes or anything. I hate that shit. The fact is that I look 100% the damn same as I did last spring, 'cept I can do way more pushups. (And if you want to feel my butt I will let you because it's AH-mazingly firm these days.) (Seriously. Feel my butt.)

So for the first time in all these years I was feeling pretty hunky dory about my upcoming field season. Confident, even. Until I raked (de-thatched) the lawn. Raking the lawn reminded me that nothing can prepare you for raking the lawn - I hurt for days. Similarly, there is precious little about a leisurely 45 minutes of watching Netflix on an elliptical trainer that is remotely comparable to hoofing around all day in steel-toed rubber boots with 25 pounds of crap stuffed in my field vest. Nothing can prepare you for walking through a bog.

Actually, I don't even know if you can call it walking, and it's not just bogs that are tough. Whatever very particular form of habitat-specific locomotion one must employ while attempting to traverse various difficult types of terrain/vegetation: nothing can prepare you. And just when you think you're finally prepared, it's welp, end of season, back to your desk, see ya next year sucker. I'll bet all those kettlebell swings you're doing in the interim will *totally* make a difference next time - good luck with that.

I really wish I had raked the lawn in the fall so I would have thought of this sooner. Dang. At this point I only have 2 weeks left to prepare so I guess all there is for me to do is get out there and hope for at least some improvement over previous years. This season, however, I will definitely be compiling ideas for a hardcore winter training program for field biologists.
 

All Your Towels Are Belong To Us

I frequently think what could only be characterized as UnMotherly Thoughts to myself. I then mentally half-retract them out of guilt; then rally against my self censorship; then ultimately end up justifying my thoughts with the half-arsed rationale, "Well, I'm surely not the only person who thinks that! Totally normal!" and carry on with my day until the next UnMotherly Thought arises. Whole process takes about half a second, and repeats approximately every 5-7 minutes.

Don't worry, it's not very much guilt - just the briefest, weakest of twinges, swiftly followed by a slightly stronger twinge of guilt-for-not-feeling-too-terribly-guilty. Then I talk myself out of it. Very healthy approach, overall. But it occurs to me that others (you know who you are!) have waaay more guilt problems than I do. Wherever you happen fall on the innate guilt spectrum, I figured that perhaps hearing that other apparently more-or-less totally normal people have UMTs** might help strengthen your own inner rationalizations.

** A small caution that my use of "totally normal" and "people" is pure inference: I haven't actually ever confirmed that any other humans have these kinds of thoughts. However, I have been telling myself about it for a really long time so there's a legit patina of truthiness to it if you'd like to latch onto that.

I've been posting blogs here since Small Fry was an infant so if you've been reading along you've probably seen plenty of my UMTs before. Something I didn't realize at first is that they would grow and change right along with my children. (If you're a new/er/ish parent, now you know that, too - it's not just a lack of sleep and you're not growing out of it. I recommend starting a blog.) I used to gripe about super standard stuff like leaky diapers, but now I have a whole suite of both generic and highly individualized complaints about my kids. Those little wonders just never cease to amaze!

Currently, my big thing is dry towels. How are ALL the towels ALWAYS wet? I have no fucking clue. But I sincerely want to experience a dry towel against my skin again before I die. Oh, and a dry bath mat under my feet, too. Plus a toilet paper dispenser with actual toilet paper already on it and not just an empty roll sitting there mocking me with its three wispy, glued-on remnants. And oh my gawd, a dish towel that does not have chocolate/ketchup/mystery grease hand prints on it like my kids are secretly employed as heavy-duty mechanics in their spare time; and windows without more choco-mystery-grease; and STOP TOUCHING THE WALLS WITH YOUR FILTHY HANDS ALREADY.

I could go on. (Like, really. I could really go on.) But I need to come back to my thesis: I'm not the only person who thinks UnMotherly Thoughts. Neither are you. That must mean we're okay.

And if anyone tells you that you will miss having disgusting little filth generators in your house when they grow up and move away one day, those people are liars and you have my express permission to throat-punch them and steal their dry towels.