O Christmas Tree! Part One.

Find the lastest blog about my first Married Merry Christmas Tree here:

http://tallgirltalking.com/o-christmas-tree-part-one/

A Buddhist Pox Be On You!

Newest Blog Post is located here:
http://tallgirltalking.com/a-buddhist-pox-be-on-you/

TallGirlTalking.com is live!!

Please check out www.tallgirltalking.com for my latest post - The Magical Hairnet-clad Senior Citizens at Costco!

The Office Needn’t Hear of This...

Following on: from my earlier post about my first University of Waterloo work term day in Hong Kong – which is described here:  http://www.cpieroway.blogspot.ca/2012/10/i-dont-like-black-people-i-am-mister.html

I had my New Business Objective; 

Forget the Chinese, Christy. 

You’re in Hong Kong to Befriend the Europeans and sell them electronics!

Goal #1 – Meet the Europeans of Hong Kong!

So, I signed up for every non-Chinese social group there was available.  It was 1992, before Google, so it’s not like I could research where the Europeans were and track the herds with a pocket GPS.  I had to improvise old school – using bulletins boards, word-of-mouth, posters, etc. 

I joined groups like the Cornell University Alumni, the French Business Association, the Dutch Business Association, Columbia University, and the Taiwanese European Business Association. 

Obviously, some of these groups weren’t even European, and I was not Alumni - I had not even stepped foot on campus at these Universities.  I hadn't graduated from my own university.  The point was - I had to meet new people. 

I planned to proudly play my Caucasian card and get in wherever I could.  It’s not like the bouncer is going to check diplomas or accents at the door, is he?

I learned about a Cornell Alumni mixer being held in the Lan Kwai Fong club/bar/hotspot area of Central District, Hong Kong.  So I headed off alone to see what fabulous European contacts Cornell University had to offer.

Cornell is the one in Upstate New York, right? 

Town starts with an Ittthhhh…  Oh shit, I hope that comes to me. 

What else, do I know about Cornell?  Uhm, nothing. 

When I arrived, I found myself a bit lost as the mixer wasn’t located on the main streets.  I eventually found it in a back alley, tucked in behind the clubs.  The bar consisted of a take-out window and the awning that covered it.  Nothing more.

There were very short stools and cocktail tables scattered in the actual alley.  There was no ‘going inside’ this was alfresco drinking.  And,it was not the ideal setting for me – a tall, short-skirt-wearing, frizzy-haired, anti-humidity-crank-the-air-conditioning-kind-of-girl.

I spied the crowd, seeking any friendly face making even accidental eye contact.  My plan was simple.  Find a preferably European friend, with a craving for Shanghai’s finest electronics, control the conversation and steer away from all topics Cornell.  Impress the hell out of the office tomorrow with an international sale.

No worries, I got this in my sleep.  Fake it until you make it!

A tall guy looked up at me.  He seemed alone so I headed in his direction.  I quickly confirmed he was there for the event and seated myself without his permission.  I think he was initially a bit taken back at my 20 year old boldness, so that made it very easy to control the conversation - as he was speechless and all.

I chatted enthusiastically and plunked my stuff down to mark my territory.  I was staying.  Within minutes, I had him smiling.  Eventually, I felt confident enough, that he would still be there on my return, if I snuck over and ordered us another round of drinks at the window. 

By the time I returned with the beers, his male friends had arrived and now I was part of a small group.  I joined in like I naturally belonged.  I couldn’t possibly be intruding.   I started to chime in the conversation.

Shit-damn, they’re all Americans. 

And, I missed their names – Chuck?  Dicky?  Bill?  Bob?  Or was that Billy-Bob? 

How stereotypical.

Oh well, this is good practice for my preferred demographic targets – Hans, Lars, Dimitrios, Giuseppe and Antoine.

The one on the left is kind of cute.  If only my right eye wouldn’t twitch when he speaks...

I had them all engaged.  This was going well.

But then I felt it…

A run in my pantyhose.  How annoying.

All women have felt this. You ladies all know that particular tickle - that starts at your ankle and moves its way up if you move or tug in any direction.   Well, I felt that.

Shit. I hope it is a small discreet run, not one of those she’s-had-sex-like-a-drunken-hooker pantyhose shreddings.

Now, the last thing I wanted to do, especially when things were going so swimmingly, was to break eye-contact, stop my incredibly charming story, and publically address a run in my nylons. 

I mean, how ridiculous would I look? 

So, I tried to stay as still as possible and just ignore it.

Only something wasn’t quite right. 

I was sitting perfectly still, but the run was travelling up my leg.

What the hell?  This run is getting faster.

Christy, you’re not moving?  How can the run be getting faster?

Holy hell.  It isn’t a run? 

What if it is some Asian-venom-spitting-assassin insect that National Geographic has yet to photograph?

Oh gawd.  Don’t go there.  Think ladybug.  It’s surely just a ladybug. 

A pretty, cute, red, little ladybug with long eyelashes and a worried family back in Canada.

Stay calm.  Rise slowly.  Just brush it off.

It is more scared of you, than you are of it.  Don’t let it smell your fear.

Wait, does that contradict?  No time to debate.

I rose slowly and didn’t miss a beat in my charming story. 

I contained my tropical Chinese bug imagination and calmly tried to brush whatever was on my calf back to the sidewalk from whence it came.

Only, the minute I stood up, the beastie gained speed and was using evasive running tactics to skirt a simple brush off.  It was now circling my calf.

I smiled at the group, paused slightly in my story, and looked down to brush this thing off.  I didn’t want to break much eye contact, so I was taking quick glances down to see where it had gone.

That’s when I saw a large black square.  

It was like seeing spots after some jerk passes you with his high beams still on, only it was a black square. 

Kinda like a zippo lighter with 80 legs.  An evil chill ran up my spine.

HOLY HELL.

WHAT IS THAT??  NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC??

The square dug in.

The damn thing was now focused on its purpose, and galloping, like a thoroughbred, full speed up my thigh.

It was headed right under the edge of my short skirt - like that was the Promised Land.

I jumped up and was brushing at it wildly. 

I started screaming “GET IT OFF!!!  GET IT OFF!!!”

But, I’d played it too cool, for too long, and my American mates were bewildered.  They had no idea what was transpiring.

There were millimeters left before this unidentified thing would be under my hem line and up my ass.  Sheer panic set in.

CHRISTY!!!  DON’T LET IT GET UNDER YOUR SKIRT!!!

WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T LET IT GET UNDER YOUR SKIRT!!!!

DON’T LET IT GET UNDER YOUR SKIRT!!!

And it is at that moment that I did what every logical woman in the world would do…

I screeched wildly like a banshee in heat,

I swung my hips round & round like I had an imaginary hula hoop,

and then,

I pulled my skirt right up under my armpits,

in front of the whole bar.

Dicky-Bill-Chuck-Bob, whatever his name, was caught completely off guard. 

On his short stool,

my ya-ya,

clad in the hot pink pair of practical undies from the Hanes 3-pack,

and sucked in by the finest of control-top technology the 90s had to offer,

was flailing around at his eye level.

I was swinging my arms up and down my legs trying to get this thing off when I heard someone scream -

          “IT’S A COCKROACH!!  SHE HAS A COCKROACH ON HER!!”

Well that was it. 

If I wasn’t freaking out before, I had now hit my maximum freak out potential. 

I was shrieking and thrashing – knocking over stools, drinks, tables, scrawny Americans…

The entire alley was staring, the women were screaming, the babies were crying, I think I heard sirens.

I’ve never felt such terror.

I took a large random whack at it and actually hit it.

The cockroach flew off me, across the lane, and accidentally hit some poor woman squarely in the middle of her back.

She was wearing a tank top. 

It was cockroach-to-female-skin direct contact.

She picked up where my freak out had left off.

She immediately stood up, knocking over her table, and was flapping her arms back and forth like a frightened squawking condor taking flight.

The cockroach wasn’t even moving.  It was riding it out like nothing was going on.

I was frozen.  Gob smacked.

I couldn’t take my eyes off this thing.  I had never seen anything like it.

And, the poor woman - how awful!!

I should help her, but I was too stunned to walk.

She flailed about until finally her friend knocked it to the ground with a menu or something.

The cockroach took off and the bar started to settle down.

I tried to mouth my apologies and condolences to the woman across the lane. 

She gave me the stink eye & hissed at me. 

She must be really mad at that cockroach.

Mentally, I was moving out of shock and horror and back into reality.  It was then I realized, I was standing in the middle of the crowd, with the waistband of my skirt somewhere up over one padded cup of my bra. 

It was time to pull my skirt down and slink the hell out of there.

Double damn.  I hadn’t moved quickly enough.  Strangers were surrounding me and telling me to sit, have a drink.  Voices were spewing facts like:

“You’ll get used to them.  At least, the cockroaches here don’t fly like in Brazil”.

“They don’t bite, but it will take a can of illegal DDT to kill one”.

“Cockroaches can live up to 9 days without their heads”.

“Do you need another beer?”

Finally a sentence I actually wanted to hear.  I took the opportunity to say ‘yes’, leap up, and go get it myself.  I got to the counter and the bartender said to me –

“Don’t worry ‘bout the roach.  Last week, it was raining, and a rat slipped and fell off the ridgepole of this awning.  On the way down, it hit a woman in the shoulder.”

Oh my gawd.  What is this place? 

Hell’s drinking hole??

I thought the people from Cornell were supposed to be smart?!

I returned to my table and tried to forget all that had transpired, but honestly, I was looking up, looking down, looking up, looking down, looking up, looking down…I was giving myself whiplash.  I felt violated. 

Who could relax when rats could fall from the sky and cockroaches could rise from the street grates? 

It was time to call it a night. 

The office needn’t hear of this.

A true story.

Links to a couple YouTube accounts of Hong Kong Cockroaches:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9RWGX3QQHUg

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a9eijW-1g7c

© Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts? Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts?  Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.



A Halloween Streetcar Named Desire

I love Halloween and I love dressing my Kidlets up.  They are young enough that I can still have all costumes “government issued” a.k.a. “Mom Selected, Purchased, and Inflicted”.

Dressing the kids is a complete snap for me.  I wish I could just as easily find something great for Husband and I wear halloweening with them. 

Or better yet, to wear out to a fantastic Halloween party!

Actually, I came up with a great couple costume once, but sadly, it is not suitable parental attire for trick or treating down Kettleby Road.

Circa 2001, when we were just dating, I talked Husband into going to the Halloween Toronto Streetcar Party as an S & M couple - specifically Dominatrix & Slave.

A Toronto Streetcar Party is basically a pub crawl for about 200 or so people.  You meet at bar #1 where they serve you $2 drinks and get the party primed. 

Then a specific song is played and to cue all the drunkards to leave the bar and board one of the many Toronto Transit Commission streetcars waiting out front. 

The streetcars then become the party until you get to the next stop.  The group leaders pass about bottles of hard liquor and fill the party-supplied plastic yellow shot glasses (which are conveniently strung around your neck along with your Streetcar party entrance pass) so there is no interruption in your party buzz while on the road.

A Streetcar Party usually takes the group to about 4 bars in total over the course of the evening. 

It is survival of the fittest drunks.  Not all make it to the final bar, and the numbers drop off significantly by the end of the evening. 

This can be for many reasons including public pass-outs, couple hook-ups, or failure to recognize the song and depart the bar into a Streetcar (ahem, Husband?).

So I borrowed my friend’s PVC pants - I know, shocking I didn’t have my own - and found my highest pair of matching PVC kick ass boots with 3 inch heels.  I had bought them in Stockholm, Sweden.  Perfect. 

I lucked out and scored a PVC tank top at Halloween store, as well as a dominatrix/batwoman type facemask, and a small whip.

Husband and I were just dating at the time, so he was WAY more likely to do what I asked than he is now. 

But nevertheless, I wasn’t sure if he would be up for it. 

So I put it all on, held the whip high, and sprung the idea to Husband.

He made a face and cringed twice, but, in the end, even he had to agree it was a better that his nerd ideas to go as ‘Carl Sagan’ and ‘Carl Sagan’s wife’ or characters from “Bladerunner”. 

(What is it with men and that movie??)

But, he firmly stated “No ball gag”.

Can you tell?  He was in the know, he’d seen Pulp Fiction.

Awww…well…okay then.

So I dolled him up in a leather vest, studded collar, sex hood, tight bicycle shorts, Doc Marten’s and black eye liner. 

My girlfriend Giselle had a Rottweiler dog named Sheba, who I guessed was about the same weight & neck size as Husband, so I had already asked to borrow her leash. 

We attached it to his spiked collar and he went as my ‘sex slave/pet’.



Getting Ready to go...



It started out as any great Halloween party does…

The gang was all there.



Me, Hawkeye Pierce, Gorgeous Geisha, Russian Spy, & Mad Cow.



Dirty/Horny Priest, Husband Sex Slave, Gorgeous Geisha



Gorgeous Geisha, Me & Hot Lips Houlihan



 We were circulating & making new friends.

And, Husband’s costume was a hit with the Pink Ladies.

We traversed happily from bar to streetcar, and back to bar, all evening, drinking our weight in fruity shots, beers and god knows whatelse. 

I don’t know exactly where we were, or what time it was, but the group was summoned by song to get on the next Streetcar.  I left the bar leading Husband out by his leash and boarded the closest Streetcar, securing many of us seats at the very back.  We all sat down. 

Me & Husband's Leash

As the three minutes of the song were up, the streetcar was filling quickly with the last of the intoxicated party goers.

It was crowded, and I was very tipsy, so like any responsible owner, I tied my sex pet’s leash to the long metal rail running the length of the streetcar so I wouldn’t lose him. 

There. 

Sit. 

Stay.

Good slave.

The leash was quite long and there was a loop at the end of it as a hand hold. This hand loop flopped over the top of the metal bar. 

Well, I guess it looked like part of the actual Streetcar because a couple of women got on and one of them put her hand right through the loop.

We all snickered like 8 year olds, elbowing each other and pointing. 

Husband sat still on his seat, at the end of his leash, looking up at her expectantly. 

And we waited.

Nothing.

When is this chick going to notice?

Please notice!

Please, please notice!

Nothing.

But then, the Streetcar started moving and she tightened her grip.  Her inebriated friend toppled over and slammed into her. 

So she looked up to see if there was another vacant hand grip for her BFF.

It was a brilliant moment. 

The whole back of the streetcar could feel her thinking and see her thought process.

Hey, there are no other hand grips.

Well, how come I have one?

(Please read this last line in a Steve Martin “those aren’t pillows” kind of way...)

Wait, this isn’t a hand grip! 

And with that, her eyes followed from her hand, along the leash, around the metal pole, through the knot, and down the length to Husband’s hooded & collared & enslaved head.

He had a goofy inebriated grin on his face.

His unfocused black rimmed eyes were hopeful and he was already looking right at her.

“Are you my new Master?”

She screamed,

threw off the leash,

lurched back,

and fled up the streetcar,

pulling her friend with her,

by the hair.

The back of the streetcar erupted in fits of laughter.

I defended my man & cried out after her, “It’s okay!  Come back!  He doesn’t usually have a lazy eye, he’s just drunk!  It will go away by morning!”



But, she couldn’t have heard me. 

She didn’t come back to claim her sex slave. 

Can you imagine if he’d worn the ball gag??

Damn, I hate a missed opportunity.

Like I said, unsuitable parental attire for trick or treating down Kettleby Road.  Perhaps, I'll work on a couple's costume for next year.

For information on Streetcar Parties - http://streetcarparty.com/

© Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts? Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts?  Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.



We're together on this one! Ya know! Ya know!

Last night we took the kids for the dreaded Family photo shoot at the Real Canadian Superstore.  For anyone who hasn’t been through it - you get a twenty minute time slot to get 2 overtired kids, sitting together and smiling perfectly, in at least 2 outfits each, and over 5 different poses. 

And, we got the only slot left – the 6 pm dinner time slot. 

Sure, no problem.  Parents unite.  We can overcome this setup for failure. 

Only, my Kidlet #2 can’t sit up by himself - a time chewing disadvantage.

I have been a delinquent Mommy and have cut short his ‘tummy time’ too often. 

And now, smell the shame…

I have a slow-sitter.  Mommy fail.

Kidlet #2 is now over 7 months old, and according to the pediatricians, he should be sitting all by himself by this age.  The average baby will learn to sit and roll over between 4 and 7 months. 

To avoid Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) it is recommended that all babies sleep on their backs.  So to strengthen neck, stomach and back muscles in babies, parents are encouraged to place their infants on their tummies for 30 minutes a day.  This ‘tummy time’ also helps them to get ready to push up, roll over, sit up, and stand.

But, I hate ‘tummy time’. 

It stressed me out with Kidlet #1 and hasn’t gotten any better with Kidlet #2. 

For me, this was the first milestone-making Mommy task that was emotionally counterintuitive.  You worry about every little thing with a baby.  The shape of their head.  Is it too flat?  The milk.  Too much?  Too little?  The bath water.  Too hot?  Too cold?  The diaper.  Too wet?  Or can it take one more load?

And then, you are supposed abandon all that instinctual parental conditioning and place your child tummy down with inadequately formed muscles to lift his own head. 

As a new Mommy, there is nothing quite like the first time you flip your precious child on his stomach only to watch him try desperately raise his head and seek out the comfort in he only finds in your smiling face - only to suddenly have his neck give out.  His eyes bulge, he buckles, and inevitably bounces his skull off the floor, bursting into fits of shocked tears.

It’s horrifying.

And, I didn’t realize it, but our play mat has a section with a sewn in squeaky toy. So one time, my sweet Kidlet crashed his head and the toy squealed on like the car horn in that scene from the movie “Little Miss Sunshine” until I removed him. 

So ‘tummy time’ wasn’t going well.

The ever-so-helpful-internet recommends getting down on the floor to baby eye level and using eye contact, praise and toys to incent him to practice lifting his head. 

Well, thanks internet.  That just sets up distractions so your child smashes a nose or chin instead of a forehead. 

Spread the bruising around, I suppose.

The ever-so-helpful-internet also says you can lie down on the floor and put the baby on your chest. 

Husband found out first-hand that this is just an invitation for baby to arch his back, raise his head, and spit up directly in your mouth.  Amusing for me, but he wasn’t so keen.

Needless to say, we stopped using ever-so-helpful-internet and just let our Kidlets develop stomach muscles at a more natural, yet slower pace, by using the exer-saucer, bouncer and high chair, etc.

But apparently, that leads to Mommy shame in the portrait studio as you are questioned “Can’t he sit, yet?” repeatedly.

Clearly, portrait studio employees do not understand that developmental ‘tummy time’ is a front row seat to watch your child helplessly bash his face into his colorful discovery play mat repeatedly - until he can bash no more. 

I believe ‘tummy time’ can lead to one of or both of the following outcomes:

1.    If your child likes it – the repetitive head slamming will undoubtedly come back in his teens to haunt you.  He’ll morph into a heavy metal headbanger.  Black will be his favorite color - a direct result from all the induced blackouts at 4 months old – and forever more, all his t-shirts will have some sort of skull on them.

2.    If your child hates it – it will be the systematic destruction of parent/child trust and lead to teen rebellion.  After repeated ‘tummy time’ sessions, your child will not want to do anything you suggest, ever again.

Think about it.  It wasn’t the joint at the Led Zepplin concert that led to headbanging. 

It was their unsuspecting Mommies.

Weren’t all the mothers in the 50s & 60s told to put their children tummy down to bed & nap?  By 1970, we were inundated by headbangers. 

Then the powers that be told Mommies to put babies on their backsides to bed, and the percentage of headbangers per capita significantly dropped. 

Artists like Rick Astley & Corey Hart thrived.

That was, until ‘tummy time’ was introduced by some Spinal Tap loving pediatrician.

But before any of you rocker Mommies get your Ramones t-shirt in a twist, I want you to know that I have nothing against headbangers. 

·        I used to date them. 

·        They provide the necessary ambience at Casino Rama concerts.

·        I may have even been one, a pathetic one mind you, in the ever-so-surprising mosh pit at a Sugar Ray concert.

Headbangers have their place in this world, like everybody else.

I just don’t want to raise one.

I’ve got my Tiger Mommy sights set on a Nobel prize-winning, Harvard graduating, doctor specialist (or lawyer or such), who enjoys life, marries the perfect girl, has beautiful grandkids for us, buys the house next door, and eternally loves his Mother above all else.

All the preschool & tween love and attention I lavish on my children is intentional and an all-out effort to bond and fuse them to me.  

I see it as a kind of Mommy insurance - so they could not possibly go off plan, get into trouble, flunk school or ever rebel in any way against me when we hit the teen years. 

I figure I have between the age of 0 and 12 to set this in concrete & hormone resistant place.

Kidlet has a lot to accomplish.

There is no time for a detour into the headbanging or the teen rebellion world.

Now, I don’t want you Alpha mothers who have complied with the 30 minutes of tummy time per day to worry too much.

There is still a chance your child won’t be a joint-rolling headbanging teen nightmare.

But, watch for the signs.  The worrisome baby behaviors that evolve from ‘tummy time’ may include, but are not limited to:

• Moshing - This is most commonly witnessed post-sugar-high in bouncy castles. 
• Stage diving - Previously known as toddler couch diving.  Attend any organized playdate and you’ll see the group dynamic in action.
• Crowd surfing - Have you been to the ball pit at IKEA?  Those urine coated balls are a pure Scandinavian adrenaline rush that may send your child fearlessly flying into the toddler masses.  It’s a bad IKEA, and it’s not worth the $1 hot dog and the free Allen key.
• Your kid lines his Fruit rollup with Jello powder, rolls it, and passes it around to his buddies.

If you are seeing any of these behaviors in your child already, this is your red flag, your wake up call.

With just a little more fine and gross motor development, your precious angel will flip you the sign of the devil horns and the Gene Simmons tongue as he crowd surfs out the flap of the bouncy castle in your direction.

You need to stop this before he bites the head off the rubber bat he stole from the Halloween display at Target and/or snorts live ants on the playground like Ozzy Osbourne.

My educated guess is that they don’t let those kids into Harvard no matter how high their MENSA score.

I recommend putting junior immediately in collared shirts, khaki pants, advanced math and classical violin lessons.  Dork him up.  ‘Dork’ is your new Mommy verb.  Go all in.

And, don’t let any mulleted Judas Priest loving teen photographer at the Superstore give you any attitude when your next child won’t sit alone at 7 months old.

I didn’t.

Our photographer pulled out buckets, barrels, large trucks and everything imaginable to prop Kidlet #2 into a stance that wouldn’t emphasize the belly and make him look like baby Buddha. 

Husband took direction well.  He writhed around on the backdrop trying to prop up Kidlet but keep his hands out of lens way. 

It wasn’t pretty, but we came, and we conquered, the family photo shoot.

© Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts? Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts?  Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

There is a sensitivity thing that some people have. I don't have it.

Husband has just been through dental surgery. 

Something about his gums…  I heard the words ‘scrape’, ‘peel back’, and ‘sew up gum pockets’ and figured I had heard enough to get the gist of the horror.

He went in a couple weeks ago and had this done.  He came home with a puffy puppy dog face and this strange gauze-like packing lining on both sides of his upper gums that he had to wear for about 7 days.

He also had to have 12 needles in the upper jaw and he was awake for sound symphony of the ungodly dental power tools.  

Husband is convinced these were the very same instruments used to kill Braveheart.

He went back in last week to have the packing removed.  His mouth will be sore for another couple weeks until it is fully healed. 

He got the special Tylenols.

My mother-in-law kindly called and wanted to know if I wanted to drive down to pick up and borrow her smaller blender. 

The silence on my end of the phone tipped her off that I was confused.

So she explained that I would need it to be able to make homemade meals of broth, soft meat & veggies for him.  She expects I will want to blend them and serve the warm mush to Husband as he recovers.

I bought him a couple weeks’ worth of frozen Hungryman dinners at Walmart instead. 

They were on sale.

He shares them with the cat.

He eats the mashed potatoes.  She gets the chewier turkey section. 

I think they fight over the brownie.  The cat thinks it's meat.

I know I should feel worse about this.

But, I can't tell you how thrilled I am to have found something the geriatric cat will actually eat.

That, and, as a woman who went through 2 years of daily stirrups spread-ems, countless needles, side-effect inducing pills, and painful corrective surgeries etc. mostly alone - it is hard to feel for Husband at this time.

I’m not unfeeling about what Husband has been through, but clearly, I am too bitter to blend.  And, I took his special Tylenols for my next menstrual cramps.

In the middle of my treatments, I had such deep purple bruising across my full stomach, I eventually I had no other choice but to give myself needles into the bruise itself as there was nowhere left.  And, I was simultaneously shooting needles full of thick oil into my ass, that not only needed to be warmed up, but they took 20-30 seconds to fully discharge, and left welts that ached for weeks.  My ass was like a black diamond run full of moguls that even Steve Podborski wouldn't attempt. 

Meanwhile, Husband got free porn, alone time & like, two dozen Dixie cups.

I realize there should be no comparison.

However, the "Life's Unfair" soapbox is not one Husband should get up on in front of me.  And he knows it.  There are too many creative ways for Wife to bring him back down.

For now, Hungryman meals are our symbolic middle ground.  That is, as long as he shares them with the cat.

And besides, it couldn't have been that bad.  Everyone knows Braveheart was really killed with a vaginal speculum.

© Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts? Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts?  Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

I don't like black people? I am Mister black people.

It is funny, writing this blog.  In that last post about my son’s run in with the kid with Dwarfism, I was so worried about coming across discriminatory, when really it was just factual.

I think about that kid.  I don’t know how it feels to be different and extra short everywhere you go.  I hope it helps that he has a few years as a kid where everyone is roughly his height.  I can only somewhat emphasize.

I was stared at constantly and felt like the tallest freestanding structure in Hong Kong for over a year.  And, I will never, ever, forget my first day of work in Kowloon.

The University of Waterloo had brilliantly helped me secure a job at a Tool and Die Mould company just outside of Hong Kong.  I was just 19 and had no idea what the hell a Tool and Die Mould company did.  I still don’t.  But, the job came with a plane ticket to Hong Kong so I was emphatically in! 

It’s another story for later, but I got myself from Waterloo to the front door of my new job!  It was going to be FABULOUS.

The door to the office was like one of those old houses where, when you enter, you are immediately in the kitchen with no foyer to greet you. 

I stepped inside, my head grazed the ceiling, and I was directly in all the bustle of the office on a bright Monday morning.  People were everywhere, but it was not clear who my receptionist was going to be.  Surely, they have all been anticipating my arrival.

I smiled at everyone and politely waited there for some time.  My professional perma-grin was starting to give me a face ache and I was sure my look had gone from welcoming to crazy creepy.

Eventually, I called out “hello” a couple times, but nothing. 

It’s not like I wasn’t making any eye contact.  I was locking eyes all over the place. 

They didn’t even try to hide the staring.  It was totally rude. 

There were at least thirty or so mouths hanging open in my direction. 

I should have brought peanuts to feed them. 

Still, no one would approach the frizzy-haired, 6ft., scary, white chick in the front hall.  How I longed for one of those little desk bells to ring.

What now??  I’ve been calling out hello??  Maybe they don’t speak English.

I know! Do it in Cantonese.  Show them they are your people now. 

Bridge the gap.

“LAY-HOW-MA?  LAY-HOW-MA?” I squeaked.

More heads popped up.  They looked confused and started muttering amongst themselves. 

I was sure they were saying ‘Look!  It’s trying to speak to us’.

Clearly, that is not “hello” in Cantonese.

It likely means “I’m a dork, I’m a dork ”. 

So stop it.

Finally, a perfectly groomed Chinese woman approached me.

I expected her to say something like “Haaro, chan I helps you?”  But she through me off completely and said something perfectly English in a strong Australian accent. 

I’m terrible with accents.  I couldn’t make out a word she was saying. 

On top of that, her head didn’t match her body.  And my god, she’s wearing blue contact lenses. It was sensory overload and I just couldn’t compute.  I stood there gaping at her.   

Christy!!!  She’s repeating things to you like you’re an idiot. 

Pull it together!!! 

I still had no idea what she had said to me, but knew it was time for me to give some kind of a response.  I gave a head nod.  She seemed relieved to have made alien contact and led me down a skinny hall towards a bright red door.

It was clearly the head honchos door and the sharp red color made me feel like I was about to go through the gate to Communist China. 

This was clearly planned to intimidate. 

Why?  Is this guy short or something?

I had missed his name while gaping at Miss Chinese Australia. 

Shit.

I walked quietly into his office. 

Yup, he’s short.  Oh hell.  This guy is short by Chinese standard.

Thank god he is sitting down.  Why didn’t I think to wear flats!!??

His eyes flashed up.

“Oh good, you’re here and you're white!” he exclaimed.

I was stunned. 

          'White' as in 'Caucasian'?  That is the prerequisite for this job?

But then he paused, his head fully lifted, and the hopefulness dissolved from his face as he took a longer look at me.

“But, errr, you’re a woman”.

Go back to that ‘white’ part where you were happy to see me.

I’m great at being ‘white’.  I can do ‘white’ all day long.

“Anyways, can’t change that now!  I want you to take these brochures and go study them at your desk.  I need you to sell this line of electronics into Europe - Mainland Europe.  If you have any questions, find someone to ask.”

He fanned out about 20 booklets that looked weirder than a Japanese television ad.

Oh sure…

I see where your highly skilled business mind is going with this.

You’ll see, I’m no slouch, I follow! 

Hire a random, white, but preferably vag-less, Canadian university student to come to industrial Kowloon and sell Chinese crap into France, Germany, Belgium or Italy. 

They speak Canadian there.

His manner dismissed me so I quickly scooped up the brochures and scurried out of the office.  What the hell just happened?  I didn’t have time to digest it.  The second I emerged through the door, thirty black haired heads, all with the exact same haircut, looked up, mouths still hanging open. 

Great, I am the office zoo animal.

Blend in Christy, blend in.

Or, bring peanuts tomorrow. 

I turned and saw that the Australian receptionist was standing there.

Ah, so nice of her to wait for me.  She has to know how much I need her. 

Could she be my first office friend? 

Ever so thoughtful, she had cleared a spot for me while I was inside the big red door. 

She flicked her finger towards a chair sitting in a haze of incense smoke.  It was in front of a child-sized, three-legged desk between the photocopier and one of those mandatory Buddhist alters/shrine thingys you see everywhere in Hong Kong. 

It was also the closest desk to the office door of the boss.  Everyone else in the office was on the other side of the photocopier. 

I’d been segregated.

Yeah, nix the office friend idea.  Clearly, you are being punished for thinking her eyes aren’t naturally blue.

I thanked her warmly and tried to gracefully ease into the kindergarten desk for my audience. 

There was no graceful.  The chair was so low I thought I broke a hip landing on it.  The top of my nylons snagged on a metal blur as my first thigh slid across to get in.  The other knee stuck to some gum. 

She turned on my computer and showed me how to launch “WORD STAR”.  She informed me that all the other computers have the shiny new “WORD PERFECT”, but they will be sure to upgrade me soon.

She turned and left. 

Wait.  No invitation to lunch??

I will not be at the cool kid’s table anytime soon.

It had been a bad start to my first Kowloon day.  I needed to self soothe.  I flicked through the first crazed booklet.

It’s not so bad here.  You’ll be just fine.

They’re going to love you once they get to know you.  You’ll be just fine.

How nice.  That the burning incense covers the smell of the decaying oranges and assorted fruit shoved up that shrine.  I wonder how long they have been there.  Wait, won't that attract cockroaches?  You’ll be just fine.

And really, the smoke at my desk is no thicker than at a Canadian campfire. 

You like campfires.  You’ll be fine.

I’m sure the fourth leg to this desk is around here somewhere.  Perhaps you can ask for it this afternoon.

So, what do you think the phone number is for Mainland Europe??

You’ll be just fine.

© Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts? Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts?  Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.