Category Archives: When I grow up

Fall is short for “snowfall”

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It is now officially fall and as I write this, the cold rain is falling, soon to turn into wet snow. Well, the beautiful summer was nice while it lasted, so I won’t complain.

I might complain just a little though. Wednesday was the first cross-country meet of the year, and it poured rain before and after the race, with a temperature of eight degrees. At least it didn’t rain during, I thought. I ran into a friend who looked at me, aghast. What are you WEARING? she said. I had come prepared; two thick sweaters, my good-to-minus-30 long winter coat, legwarmers, winter boots, gloves, scarf, and an umbrella. It worked, I wasn’t cold. My son, on the other hand, wore his regulation shorts and t-shirt, refusing to wear the regulation sweatpants and hoodie for the race, as it would “slow him down.” Sweatpants are not aerodynamic, MOM.

Fortunately I had spoken with my friend (HI FLORENCE) who is a seasoned cross-country mom; she had warned me that the parking situation would be a nightmare, and she was correct. There WERE a few hundred kids there from all over the quadrant of the city, and so you can imagine the driving/ parking/ people cutting off other people to squeeze into a non-existent parking spot situation. I was prepared, and yet I wasn’t prepared, as I had no idea of the magnitude of the meet. Anyone who knows me knows I have a bit of anxiety about driving to new places, finding parking, and getting lost, since my sense of direction is – to understate things – very poor. However! I was brimming with a bit of confidence since on Tuesday I parallel parked my minivan into a tiny spot, without hitting the curb or crying, and spacing myself perfectly between the two other vehicles. People, it was a thing of beauty. I felt like this:

But without the cigarette.

Despite that boost to my self-esteem, I did not feel equal to the task of parallel parking in the pouring rain, with a line of forty cars behind me, and so I found a spot on a side street instead.

Speaking of driving, whatever happened to the thank-you wave? Personally, if someone courteously lets me merge in busy traffic, or makes space so I can change lanes smoothly, I give at least one – and usually two – thank-you waves. The first wave is to acknowledge the courteous behaviour, and the second wave comes after I have successfully merged/ changed lanes. ALWAYS. However, when I pay it forward with my own courteous driving, I receive a thank-you wave less than five percent of the time. Why? I mean, I am driving courteously for reasons other than to receive a thank-you wave, namely to have good karma and also to not be an asshole, but it is NICE to receive one.

People, let’s teach our children to do the thank-you wave. At this point in my life, I am generally so happy and, frankly, astounded to receive a wave that I give the single-hand-off-the-wheel acknowledgement of said wave. It’s like the thank-you note to the thank-you note, which may be overkill but I regret nothing.

Tonight is the parents’ meeting for the Quebec French trip; I seem to be in some kind of denial/ disbelief that yes, my thirteen-year-old is actually going across the country without me and without the ability to text me. Deep breaths. I suppose this is character building, or training for the day when the little birds eventually leave the nest, texting or calling once a week out of a sense of duty.

Deeeeeeep breaths.

Red wine and cowboy boots

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Well, hello there, Friday. You beautiful thing, come give mama a kiss.

I desperately try not to wish my life away but I have been looking forward to today. It hasn’t been a long week, not really. If anything, I feel like time is rushing by like one of those super speed videos; I can hardly believe that June is past the halfway mark, 2017 is almost half over, and life is just going by quickly. All the same, I have been looking forward to cracking open a bottle of wine tonight.

Speaking of which, last night I was in Superstore, which is my wont on evenings that the kids are in karate. Usually at that time – which is non-negotiable for me – it is a disaster zone. Things are unstocked, empty cardboard half-boxes sitting on shelves which previously contained my much-desired items. But not last night, dear reader, NOT LAST NIGHT. Last night I got every last thing on my list, including a three-pack of Romaine hearts, which they NEVER have in stock when I shop. I got everything I wanted and in record time, so I thought I’d pop into the liquor store to grab a bottle of wine.

That’s when I saw it: Wayne Gretzky Cab/ Shiraz, on sale for $13.77 a bottle. The friendly man working there asked if he could help me, and I just said “I’d like a case, please.” In and out, and then tonight I will be able to enjoy that delicious wine and revel in my (relative) thriftiness.

It’s been a busy week though, and I had a dentist appointment, which I always dread. It’s the scaling that gets me, every time. That scraping noise just gives me the chills. I floss daily and brush my teeth several times a day, and scaling is still a torturous process for me. Maybe it’s the red wine.

Honestly, given the choice I’d take a Pap test over dental scaling, even with my ham-handed doctor searching for my elusive cervix. The last time I had a test I endured what felt like hours of poky cervical torture, and then a week later the office called to say that they’d made a mistake with the sample and I had to come back for another test. I nearly cried. But cervical health – like dental health – is no joke, and so off I went, only to find out that the doctor needed to use a totally different speculum, for my special-snowflake lady-parts. “Remember to ask for the LARGE speculum next time!” my doctor cheerfully said, which was a hit to my already-beaten-up feminine mystique.

I’d still take that over scaling. However, no one wants to end up with a mouth full of dental issues, and so I shall soldier on.

Today was the elementary school’s Stampede Breakfast, our last one. I got all kitted up in my annual cowgirl wear; I was responsible for manning the syrup station. It was literally the easiest volunteer hour I’ve ever spent. I kind of wished I’d volunteered for that every year.

If you’ve ever wanted to dress up for the Stampede, or if you are not in Calgary and you – for reasons unknown – need Western-style wear, I refer you to my post of yesteryear, entitled How To Dress For The Calgary Stampede Without Looking Like An Idiot. Since the writing of that, I have actually purchased cowboy boots; I bought them last year for the Zac Brown concert. They were breathtakingly expensive, and so I justified the cost by promising myself I would wear them often and incorporate them in a cute way into my wardrobe. They are, without a doubt, some of the most comfortable footwear I have ever had on my tootsies, and so I thought that would be easy.

I have worn them exactly zero times since then. Well, except for today. I guess today really brought down the average-wear cost. At this rate I will be wearing them in the nursing home, in fifty years or so, when it’s Country Western Theme Day, just to justify the cost of purchase. I’ll wear them with my old-lady beaded and fringed cowgirl dress, my lipstick bleeding into the lines around my mouth. It’s going to be great!

Some people think of nursing homes as sad places they never want to end up in, but in my opinion, it sounds kind of nice. I mean, in fifty years do I really want to be worrying about my hot water heater or who’s going to mow the lawn? No! I do not! I want to be concerned with making my macrame owls or whatever happens during craft time; I want to have someone else make my meals and wash the floors. Bloom where you’re planted is my motto; I want to be like that 98-year-old yoga teacher when I grow up. With red wine and comfortable cowboy boots.

Favourite Outfits of My Teen Years

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It’s no secret I love clothes and fashion, and I always have. Every day is an opportunity to play dress-up, in my opinion, or at least to wear something pretty. Some of you may remember when I Kondo’d my house (and life), I discovered something important about myself: clothing sparks joy for me. I love my entire wardrobe; I love every last one of my twenty-plus black sweaters, my dozens of black tops, my twelve black bikinis, and my two shelves full of tightly rolled up yoga clothing, in varying hues. My friend Lyndsey (HI LYNDSEY) is a professional organizer, and I’m pretty sure she would faint if she saw my stuffed-to-the-brim closet. BUT I LOVE AND WEAR THEM ALL, LYNDSEY.

I’m at the point in my life where I am very comfortable with my own sense of style. True, I do like to keep up with current fashions, but I don’t feel the need to adopt them unconditionally. For example, I’m not a person who is flattered by peasant blouses or white jeans, and I’m literally too cold to wear the cold shoulder look. I’ve already done my time in pleated shorts and cut-off jeans, and so I shall leave the youth fashion to the youth for whom it is intended.

And yet, it is very fun to look back at the fashion I adopted when I myself was a youth. Last week, my friend Swistle (HI SWISTLE) wrote about favourite outfits in high school, and I have been thinking about it almost non-stop since then. I’ve been riding a wave of nostalgia for the late 80s/ early 90s, and the accompanying terrible fashions. I was at my parents’ place on the weekend and I thumbed quickly through a few photo albums. HOO BOY. Those were the days, my friends.

My own personal style really changed a lot from junior high to senior high, and it also changed a lot from year to year. I feel that the summers were a time of renewal and reflection about our own personal fashion, and that September was a time of new beginnings, clothing-wise. It was the time where we all decided what we wanted our look to be, for better or worse.

Grade Seven, 1987-88

My very favourite outfit was one that I have photographic evidence of, since I wore it on the first day of school. It was a long, full skirt that was meant to look like denim but was actually cotton. I paired it with knockoff white Keds, a white tank top, and a blue-and-white striped blouse that I tied in front.

I also had a denim slouch bag! And, if you look closely, light-blue nylons. I wore a lot of skirts in the beginning of grade seven; notably a light-blue bubble skirt, a beige ruffled skirt that I paired with an enormous white t-shirt, tucked in, and a pale pink skirt that I wore with a pale pink sweater and pale pink ankle boots. I was a sight in pastel, apparently. I wore skirts until I figured out that junior high boys were terrible and that they always tried to look up skirts when walking up the stairs, or flip them up when you were innocently standing at your locker.

Grade Eight – 1988-89

Once I figured out the terrible truth, I lived in jeans and gigantic sweaters. I had a few cable-knit sweaters that I begged for – and received – at Christmas. They were ENORMOUS. I wore acid-wash and other light-wash jeans, Levi’s with the red tab, rolled up at the ankles. Nothing is so terribly unflattering as baggy, high-waist jeans rolled at the ankles with a gigantically baggy, tucked-in t-shirt. But such was the fashion back then. I found this gem at my parents’ house and it cracks me up uncontrollably.

Ah, nothing says excitement like being fourteen years old and getting your photo taken for the no-cavity club at the dentist. Just look at the size of the t-shirt, with polka dots, no less. Look at the knockoff Swatch watch. LOOK AT MY HAIR.

A store had just recently opened up, in the spring of 1989, a store that was, to me, life-changing. It was called Freedom, and it sold many items like jeans and t-shirts embellished with peace signs. Oh, how I loved that store.

Grade Nine – 1989-90

Grade Nine was my year of predominantly black sweaters – a trend I have kept for a lifetime since – a ton of jewelry – ditto – and ripped jeans or long, multicoloured broom skirts. I also embraced band t-shirts from long-since-unbanded-and-usually-dead musical acts, such as The Doors.

Another dentist photo! I guess I’ve always been good at brushing my teeth. It is very hard to tell in this photo, but I have – in addition to a LOT of necklaces and my dad’s old watch, a long fake-silk scarf used as a belt in my jeans. My jeans would have, of course, been Levi’s 501s, and they would have been frayed at the bottom and, rather than rolled, pinned tightly at the ankles.

Grade Ten – 1990-91

Grade Ten was the year I fully embraced the dichotomous look of either ripped jeans or dresses. There was no in-between. I loved babydoll dresses, particularly crushed velvet ones, worn with tights, army-style boots, and a trench coat. It was the look of the early nineties, along with long, permed hair. Sadly, I have no photographic evidence of this in my possession, but I do have this lovely one with a classic Sulky Teen look.

Long, silver chains with crosses were my jam, along with silver hoop earrings and a mood ring. My mood ring was stuck on black, however, because even then I had terrible circulation and my hands and feet were always freezing. In fact, I remember a boyfriend I had around age 16, who looked at my bare feet and asked, alarmed, how I bruised them so completely. They were just purple from my lack of circulation, and were totally normal for me.

Grade Eleven – 1991-92

My very favourite outfit I remember so well, but I cannot find a photo of it. I wore it on my first day at my new high school, and it was red plaid HOT PANTS paired with thick black tights, a black mock turtleneck, and a black blazer. I also wore black loafers. God, I loved that outfit. Jeans, loafers, and blazers were very stylish at my school at the time, and I wore them all the time. Jeans were, thankfully, no longer pinned or rolled, but they were high-waisted and straight-legged, and t-shirts were oversized and tucked in. I found this treasure from my high school Europe trip, in which I’m wearing one of my favourite outfits, complete with Revlon’s Love That Red lipstick.

Also from that trip: my beloved leather bomber jacket, which I bought in a Florence market, paired with pink striped shorts and gladiator sandals.

Vogueing was popular back then.

I also had this outfit, which I absolutely loved and I would still probably wear today, mutton dressed as lamb be damned. I bought it at Le Chateau, and it was a short black skirt embellished with fabric daisies, and a swingy matching top. Oh, how I loved it. Note also my exclusive use of Love That Red.

Grade Twelve – 1992-93

Sadly, I cannot find ANY of my casual photos from grade twelve. I’m sure there are some in existence, but I cannot locate them at this time. Suffice it to say that by Grade Twelve, I had gone full-on Princess in my clothing choices. Kilts and turtleneck sweaters were my signature look, with my long, hot-rollered hair and Love That Red lipstick. I also seemed to have a lot of coloured jeans – high waisted and belted, naturally – and silk blouses. SILK BLOUSES, PEOPLE. It goes without saying that those blouses were also ridiculously oversized, as was everything back then. Although I don’t have any photos of these terrific outfits, I do have one on my graduation day of my hot-rollered hair:

That took SOME effort, let me tell you.

So now it is your turn – what were your favourite outfits in your teen years? Were your favourite clothes a sign of the times?

Small side note: I just realized that the song, Sign of the Times, is by Harry Styles. Guys, I like something by Harry Styles! I’m a modern girl! Proof positive that my husband is WRONG when he says I’m stuck in the past, in terms of music. Although it is true that my favourite genres are Motown, 70s soft rock, and “Fat” Elvis. Is that a genre? I don’t really know, but Kentucky Rain is my jam. xoxo

Accomplishing Things and Reading Motivational Quotes

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You guys, the Mayday tree is budding, the tulips are up, all sorts of hardy plants – yarrow, daylilies, ornamental sage – are making their appearance in my backyard, and today it RAINED. Do you know how rare it is to get rain in Calgary in April? Usually it’s snow. I feel like I’m in some exciting new world where winter doesn’t last eight months.

Now that I’ve said that, it will probably snow tomorrow.

Similarly, I realized that it has been over a year since I was last ill. I made it through the entire winter – including close-quartered yoga teacher training when a number of my fellow students were hacking up lungs and feverish – without getting sick. I thought, perhaps I should write a post about that, but then decided that was hubris, and in doing so I was guaranteeing I would be immediately struck down with the bubonic plague. So this brief mention is all you, dear reader, will have to endure. In any case, my “stay healthy” regimen consists mainly of daily smoothies containing 8-10 cups of spinach, washing my hands like a surgeon, never directly touching doorknobs, and having children who are no longer mobile petrie dishes.

I currently have five library books piled up on my side table; four of them came in within two days of each other, and the other one was a title I picked up on a whim, so I’ve been reading a lot. I finished What Alice Forgot, and while it wasn’t my favourite by that author, it was certainly thought-provoking. The premise is a woman falls and hits her head and is suddenly missing the past ten years of her life; she doesn’t remember her children, her friends, her impending divorce.

If you woke up tomorrow with no memory, none whatsoever, of the past ten years, and had to just reintegrate into your regular life, can you imagine what that would be like? Imagine if you still thought you were the same person you were in 2007. It boggles the mind. I had only just started practicing yoga in 2007, I wasn’t 100% vegetarian, I didn’t have a blog, and I looked a lot like this:

Well, I FELT like that, anyway, since I hadn’t slept through the night since 2003, and by that point I was pretty tired. I really looked like this:

Whatever happened to that denim jacket? I guess I donated it; I barely remember it.

Anyway, it’s an interesting thing to think about, if you just erased the past ten years. All the friends that you would have made in the past ten years, you’d have no memory of. The children’s school years, family dramas, deaths, home renovations, etc., all of those would be GONE. My god, I wouldn’t even remember Barkley. I would just suddenly be thrust into a home with a super cute fluffy dog who insistently nudges me when he wants to be petted, and begs for carrot ends.

Well. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.

It’s been a real Get It Done week in the Boyhouse. I don’t know if it’s post-vacation energy or the fact that I’m reading motivational quotes, but I have been Down To Business around here. You know those little jobs that take hardly any time, but are annoying and you hate them? I’ve been doing all those jobs! And I have to say, it is incredibly Empowering (motivational quote-inspired) because damn, now those stupid little things are Done. Going through the pile of mail and filing things and recycling others, picking up boring items at Walmart, vacuuming the stairs. That kind of thing. I feel a vast, and probably greatly overstated, measure of accomplishment in doing those little chores.

I will confess to one of the stupidest jobs that I always put off; I hesitate to even call it a “job” because really, it’s almost nothing. I don’t think this can even qualify as a job, but here goes: Sunday nights I make a big dinner, and usually there is gravy. My gravy boat resides in the cupboard above the fridge, and every Sunday night after the dishes are done, I just let the gravy boat sit on the counter for a day or two before I put it back, because it seems like too much work after all that cooking. Because pulling a chair two feet and then getting on the chair and putting the gravy boat back in the cupboard is just a Bridge Too Far. But having the gravy boat on the counter is incredibly annoying to me, and I keep thinking to myself, all Monday and Tuesday, I need to put the gravy boat away, I need to put the gravy boat away, I need to put the gravy boat away, before I finally do it.

This is a long and boring way to say that last Sunday I just PUT THE GODDAMN GRAVY BOAT AWAY ON SUNDAY NIGHT and honestly, it was – is Life-Changing too dramatic? – Life-Changing. I mean, I have to do it anyway. It takes literally thirty seconds. Why do I aggravate myself by not just doing it? This thought spiraled into other areas in my life. Why put off something that can be done right now, and get it off the Giant List of Things To Do? Why have something as stupid as a gravy boat hanging over me? FREEDOM.

So, I urge you, dear reader: go DO IT. Do whatever it is hanging over your head. Do the thing on your to-do list that will take no time but you don’t want to do it. Make the phone call. Schedule the appointment. Just Do It And Then It Will Be Done, is my new motto. It is incredibly Freeing, I tell you.

Just in case you’re wondering, no, no one else in my house will put away the gravy boat because I have somehow created a Reign of Terror around putting things away incorrectly in the kitchen. I know! I need to figure out how to rectify this issue but in the meantime, Gravy Boat Serenity rests on my shoulders.

Penne for Pi Day

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Happy Pi Day everyone! This year the grade sevens were really learning a lot about pi, and calculating circle area, and discussing how pi is actually calculated and how for every circle – every one! – pi is equal to the circumference divided by the diameter, every time, and isn’t that amazing? It is amazing. My grade seven student was pretty into it so I must say the apple did not fall far from the tree in this case. I don’t mean to brag, but I was known in certain circles as the Conics Goddess when I was in Grade Twelve, because of my conics calculating skills, I casually mentioned to my husband, who responded by saying that was the nerdiest thing he had ever heard in his life. But it’s true! I swear!

Anyway, I’m not making a pie for Pi Day because it’s Tuesday, and who has the time? Also, we are having penne, which is a cylinder of sorts, so that’s how I’m going to celebrate. Penne for Pi Day! It could be a new trend.

I am in a fabulous mood today; the hideous weather finally broke and everything is gloriously melty. Even wiping up Barkley’s constant muddy paw prints cannot bring me down from this cloud. I went to move the garbage bin back to its usual spot today – my life is extremely glamourous – and I noticed tiny green shoots where the yarrow grows wild. Tiny green shoots! What could be more heart-warming than that?

I also got a good, heart-warming laugh out of these pants that my friend Julie (HI JULIE) had posted on Facebook this morning. Although I must add that THIS IS NOT A JOKE, PEOPLE. These pants are available at Nordstrom and are called, hilariously, “Topshop Clear Knee Mom Jeans.” Since when are we using Mom Jeans as advertising? Also, not one mom I know actually wears Mom Jeans, so I’m wondering if this is a new trend with the youth of today, although I can hardly imagine that it is. Guys, let’s wear the least flattering pants ever! Oh, know what would be better than cropped, high-waisted, stone-washed jeans? Cropped, high-waisted, stone-washed jeans with plastic panels in the knees. It’s like ripped jeans, but waterproof if we kneel down in a puddle somewhere.

What do I know, though? Maybe it is a trend with Young People These Days; I am certainly not one of them so I can’t say. I certainly had my own share of unflattering pants back in the day, when everything was high-waisted, belted, and tucked-in. Hugely baggy jeans that were tightly rolled or pinned at the ankles was the big trend when I was in junior high. In fact, everything about junior high was terribly unflattering. It’s almost like someone said Let’s make a style that will cause everyone to look back on it and cringe. Okay, those jeans, giant tucked-in t-shirts, and while we are at it, let’s get all the girls to spiral perm their hair and tease the bangs into free-standing walls. Yes, that should do it. No wait, wait. Let’s add a crimping iron to the mix.

I mean…

You guys, I just realized that those Clear Knee Mom Jeans are $133! That is USD, my friends. That is nearly one hundred and eighty dollars in Canadian funds. Plus shipping! Who is exactly the market, here?

Well, there’s no accounting for taste, as they say. Judge not, says she who had a giant sweatshirt with Garfield’s Zodiac on the front, and wore it often. Judge not.

The End of the Book Fair Lady

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That sounds a little ominous, doesn’t it? It’s not the end of my time on this planet – I hope! – but it is the end of my Reign as Book Fair Lady. Eighteen book fairs, people. I have done eighteen book fairs, although to be honest, the New Book Fair Lady (HI HAYDEE) has really done the lion’s share of the work for the past two as she prepares to fly solo, for her own Reign as Book Fair Lady. Still! Eighteen book fairs is a lot of book fairs.

I remember my eager young self, when I had children in kindergarten and pre-kindergarten, happy to take on this monumental task. The Outgoing Book Fair Lady was asked at a school council meeting if she was sad to be leaving, and she said no, because she was leaving things in MY capable hands. This is exactly how I feel; Haydee is incredibly capable and smart, and I know that the book fair will keep on keeping on, without me.

That’s not to say I didn’t feel a little wistful, knowing it was my last one. I saw all sorts of hulking sixth graders, in all different stages of growth and hygiene, who I knew as kindergarteners – and in some cases, pre-kindergarteners. I saw those kids pick up books on inclusion and bullying and ghost stories, when they once were thrilled with Hot Wheels and Barbie early readers. At recess, one of the teachers asked me to quickly come to the staff room and my first instinct was that something terrible had happened to Jake on the playground; fortunately – and heart-warmingly – I was asked there to receive a beautiful bouquet of flowers from the staff, along with some very kind words about my years as volunteer. I did get pretty teary-eyed, knowing that I only have three months left of being an elementary school parent.

I know there are many people who think ill of Scholastic book fairs, due to marketing and branded leveled readers, and the plethora of cheaply-made boutique items, sold at a huge margin. However, if I had to do it all again I would. During my eighteen fairs, we raised over $62,000 for the school. This money went to the library, classrooms, the English as a Learned Language program, and the home reading program. Some books were even Brailled for the vision students. I feel very good about that. I tried to be sensitive to different financial situations, and for a few years had implemented a program for teachers to discreetly “draw” certain names that would “win” a book. Even when I was tired and exhausted, the sheer excitement of the kids would buoy me up.

Onward and upward! For all the feel-good moments, there are a lot of things I won’t miss. For example, I saw a child touch everything – absolutely everything – on the eraser and bookmark display, right after he had his finger up his nose. I also won’t miss being handed disturbingly warm and damp coins and bills. I won’t miss tears from small children who desperately WANT to re-order a book, but cannot remember a single word in the title, rendering their efforts completely useless. “It has a puppy on the cover,” they might say, vaguely, or “I think there was a car. Or maybe a train.”

But there is – strangely – one thing I will miss: the incessant questions about how much the posters cost. I do not know how many times I was asked that question, since 2009, but I feel that it must be in the millions. And yet, this last fair, I smiled every single time. Five dollars. Yes, that one too! The puppy poster is also five dollars. The half-man half-pig all-zombie poster? Also five dollars. This poster, that I had cleverly hung on the door of the fair, because I have my finger on the elementary-school-humour-pulse?

Five dollars.

Maybe I’ll just get someone to semi-annually ask me how much the posters cost, for twelve straight hours.

And as god – and Haydee – is my witness, the very last question I was asked as I slipped my coat on to head out after my shift, the very last one, was “Do you have a lot of those Lamborghini posters left? And how much do the posters cost?”

It was a fitting end to my Book Fair Days.

Women’s Health Week in the Boyhouse

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You guys, it is Wednesday already, and in one week, February will be over. Over! February feels like it just started, I have four months left before both of my children are junior high students, one month before I have a teenager, and six days until my very last book fair, all of which are good reminders that Time Stops For No One.

It has been a busy week already, even with Monday being a holiday; lots of lovely classes to teach, things to do, children’s dental appointments to sit through. For some reason I booked dentist appointments on the same day that the orthodontist office is closed, and woe, the cleaning will have to take place with wires still in place. The receptionist who called me to confirm sternly said that it would be okay this once, but next time would I please book the cleaning NOT on a Friday. Her tone made me feel like the consequences would be much more dire than they probably are.

It’s also, apparently, Women’s Health Week for me – I had my physical yesterday, and I appear to be fit as a fiddle, as they say in old-timey books about healthy individuals. I had my Pap test and I was not accidentally inseminated, which is my new bar for such things, thank you Jane the Virgin. I did, however, have to endure the usual Where’s Waldo game my doctor plays with my cervix. My cervix is apparently like a toddler in a clothing store; only one doctor has been able to locate it with precision and minimal discomfort. I feel like my cervix is starring in its own drama; like it’s a reclusive Greta Garbo, shying away from the public.

After my physical, I was given my usual requisition forms for blood work and a mammogram, and I went downstairs from the doctor’s office to book the latter. Now, I do not know what is going on with medical imaging in Calgary, but I have to tell you, I like it. For some reason every year that I’ve had a mammogram (this would be my fourth), it’s been in a different location, because the previous location “doesn’t do mammograms anymore.” Why? Why do they keep moving all the mammogram equipment around? I went to book it and was told that they didn’t do them anymore but fortunately, I was able to get an appointment at an even more convenient location. Score! Now, the first time I had a mammogram I had to wait several weeks for an appointment, and they ran late, and I had to sit shirtless, covered only by a paper robe, in a freezing room for thirty minutes before testing, the whole thing taking over two hours to complete. Yesterday, the woman at the clinic offered me an appointment that very afternoon. I was completely unprepared for that, so I declined, instead getting an appointment for nine-thirty the following morning. What is this magic? I don’t know if it’s a new imaging firm that has the contracts, but I LIKE IT.

This morning I trundled over to the imaging clinic, deodorant-less but with a book in my bag and several articles bookmarked on my phone. I was preparing for a hefty wait, when the receptionist told me “Your check-in is at 9:30, but your actual appointment isn’t until 9:35.” Talk about precision! I had barely made it into the waiting area, and taken my book out of my bag, before my name was called. I was literally in and out in fifteen minutes.

The technicians that do the mammograms must be specially trained for sensitivity and kindness; without exception every one of them has been lovely, especially when you consider the bizarre nature of their job, squishing and squeezing the girls to get them in “just the right position.” Getting a mammogram feels a lot like being part of the weirdest photo shoot ever, with the technician telling me to “place my hand here” and “turn my chin up and to the right” and gently fixing my hair just so.

My favourite thing about the new location is the style of medical gown they use. Remember last time, how I awkwardly had the gown on backwards, proving my ability to misunderstand basic instructions? There was no room for such issues today, as the robes were kimono-style, and one would have to be REALLY confused to not figure that out. In fact, I felt a little bit fancy in my gown, all ready for my squishy-breast photo shoot.