A Letter to the Fox Who is Eating a Bird

Red fox
Greetings to you, my woodland friend.
I must be honest. I wasn’t quite sure what to think when I first discovered we were cohabitating, here in suburbia. You see, I’ve never really known a foxy fella, like yourself.
But damn, you really are a gorgeous and mysterious creature! Your flaming orange fur reminds me that not all things orange are ill-intentioned. And your R.F.F. (Resting Fox Face) keeps things interesting for me, as I ponder what’s going on inside your sly mind.
Back in June, I was taken aback when our next door neighbour shimmied herself, wide-eyed and determined, between the pines and into our backyard. She tiptoed in, like a secret agent (elderly division), speaking in hushed tones. It seemed you’d been sleeping for hours in her backyard, all curled up on a big rock in the afternoon sun.
Worried for our daughters’ safety, and not wanting to wake you from your slumber, she appeared with her urgent warning of your presence. Believing you to be sick, rabid perhaps, she’d called the local wildlife authorities who were en route.
We rushed the girls inside and awaited their arrival.
Gathered at the kitchen window we witnessed a disheveled duo come on the scene, sporting measly looking supplies. And then we watched you hit the road running. You, a perfectly healthy fox, were not going to be scooped up by some fools with nets.
You hoofed it like a track star that day; the bad guys didn’t have a chance.
And you made your intentions clear: “I’m here, in your neighbourhood, on my terms and there is nothing you silly humans can do about it.”
Since then, you’ve made yourself even more at-home: chillaxing in the gardens of our
suburban ‘hood, frolicking playfully— so carefree— with your siblings; trekking off solo, into the bushes (squirrel-in-mouth), with a sassy twinkle in your eye.
You’ve got swagger, fox. I’ll give you that.

Continue reading

My Massage Therapist Bums Me Out

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I awoke with a pounding headache, a kid’s foot in my face, and a crooked neck. Yet, in a few hours, none of that would matter because I had booked myself in for a massage.

I felt a subtle sense of calm just knowing the sounds of distant crickets and soft breezes would soon envelope me into a Zen-like state. I imagined myself, in a post-massage euphoria, floating out the door, sporting a vibrant, peaceful glow…

So, up went the ponytails and in went the lunches. I then bid my kids adios and peeled out of the school parking lot.

Moments later I was lying, clothes-free, under a clean white sheet; my face awkwardly crammed into the donut-like hole of the massage table. There weren’t any audible crickets or breezes but the background music, a combo of didgeridoo and ocean waves, certainly sufficed.

The massage therapist entered the room, sat down on her stool, and began kneading the knots out of my neck. Her hands were strong and skilled. She checked-in to make sure the pressure was okay. I told her it was.

And then, she stood up, slid the stool under the table directly below my protruding face. I gulped down a gag as a harsh aroma emanated from the stool and crept into my nostrils. Survival-mode kicked in and I held my breath; eyes moving from side-to-side for no apparent reason. Should I say something to her? Like, “I was hoping for eucalyptus or lavender, not Eau de Ass Crack.” I mean, how would I even broach the topic?  Would I say, “Excuse me, but your stool smells like… stool”?  Or maybe, “I’m dyin’ under here! HELP!”

(I’m sure a simple, “Would you please move the stool?” would have done the trick. But, somehow, I didn’t think of it at the time.)

So, what did I do about the situation?  Nothing. That’s what I did.

Instead of facing the problem, I opted to shallow breathe for the remainder of the treatment while mentally downplaying this attack on my air supply.

Needless to say, I was grateful-as-fuck when the face-in-the hole position finally brought congestion into my sinuses leaving me blissfully incapable of breathing from my nose.

Time. Stood. Still.

And when it was over, I launched myself off the massage table and got dressed. I definitely wasn’t floating nor was I sporting a vibrant, peaceful glow. My neck did feel better, though.

I paid the bill, and replied (with a robotic smile) that, “Yes, it had been a great massage!”

I even left a tip because apparently I felt it was mean not to. Yes, I had to endure face to face space with the scent of a bum but I’m sure it was unintentional.

And then, before I could muster up a, “No thank-you!”  I’d booked myself in for another appointment with the same person, for the following month. Because, hey, why not?

I got in my car and drove home, with full intentions of cancelling the massage and possibly sending the masseuse an anonymous note to tell her about her butt.

Yet, somehow I felt badly for her.

So, I decided not to cancel or write a note. In fact, the appointment is coming up tomorrow. I figure I’ll be better prepared this time. If she slides the stool under the table, I’ll just ask her to move it. Right away! I’ll tell her I’m claustrophobic or something like that. Because, certainly can’t be the one to tell her that she has a smelly bum. But if I don’t, who will?

 

This post first appeared on BLUNTmoms.

 

Did you know that Shannon Day and 36 other fab writers have created a book? Well, it’s actually a martini guide too. If you like funny, ridiculous, and heartstring-tugging stories of motherhood (+ easy-to-make martini & mocktini recipes) then you’ll love Martinis & Motherhood: Tales of Wonder, Woe & WTF?!  Available now on Amazon.

Final Book Cover

 

 

 

30 Annoying Mid-Life Truths

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Yo, middle-age! You sure did sneak up on us! And, although we’ve been expecting you, my girlfriends and I can’t help but feel offended by some of the nasty and mean shit you’ve brought along to the party.

Now, don’t get us wrong, we are warriors; ready to take on whatever you toss our way. But we will bitch about it. We must bitch about it because venting and commiserating makes us feel better, damn it!

And, while we’re complaining, tweezing, and locating our missing glasses (usually on our heads), we like to pour ourselves a nice glass of red wine. After all, it’s good for us, right? With all its antioxidants and “gym-like” effects.

So, why don’t you join us for a little wine-sipping bitchfest. We’re happy to have you here.

 

The 30 Most Annoying (& Sometimes Gross) Things About Midlife:

1. Chin hairs,
2. Neck hairs,
3. Goddamn nipple hairs.
4. Sneeze-pees,
5. Missing keys,
6. Muffins tops,
7. And sketchy knees. (Mama’s gonna need a ‘lil help getting up.)
8. Heartburn, (But I love coffee, wine, and chocolate!)
9. Tweens that turn (into hormonal beasts).
10. Lazy digestive tracts,
11. Sore and aching backs.
12. Temperamental sciatic nerves. (Damn you high heels!)
13. Pick-up lines from creepy pervs,
14. Memory loss,
15. An old wardrobe to toss.
16. Lines and wrinkles,
17. More frequent tinkles. (Hello 2 a.m.)
18. Arms that wave from below.
19. Flashes of heat,
20. Changes of mood.
21. Unexpected comments,
22. Coming across as rude. (Did I just say that?)
23. Blurry menus,
24. Farts that slip out.
25. The writing of lists,
26. A foot that has gout.
27. The need for bifocals,
28. And a weekend away.
29. Midlife can suck it!
30. But it’s here to stay. (Until late-life hits and we can make a new, and even more bitch-worthy, list.)

 

We really could name over a hundred indignities, but we keep our sense of humor intact. Because if we weren’t ripping a gut laughing (despite the farting thing) we’d be crying buckets! And they say cry-lines are even worse than laugh-lines.

So, cheers to midlife and its cruel sense of humor!

This post appeared first on BLUNTmoms.

 

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Did you know that Shannon Day and 36 other fab writers have created a book for moms? Well, it’s actually a martini guide too! If you like funny, ridiculous, and heartstring-tugging stories of motherhood (+ easy-to-make martini & mocktini recipes) then you’ll love Martinis & Motherhood: Tales of Wonder, Woe & WTF?!

Dried Apricots Saved My Ass

Happy woman jumping in golden wheat

Joan rediscovered what it felt like to smile and laugh every day. Not just once a week…

“If you want to visit the loo for a number two, eat dried apricots.” – Joan

These simple—yet wise, and oh so powerful—words of wisdom were passed down to me by an elderly friend of the family. She, too, had suffered the traumatic (and sometimes dire) effects of chronic constipation.

She’d known what it felt like to be anal retentive, literally. And she had believed herself to be a grumpy person by nature. But really . . . it was just poo. That uptight sourpuss was actually a peaceful ray of sunshine, stifled by the storm clouds of her predicament. And when Joan realized the power of dried apricots, she rediscovered what it felt like to smile and laugh every day. Not just once a week.

Such a jolly old gal, she is.

Joan is very candid and open, as well. So I chatted with her about my own sufferings in the “shit department” of life. She wasn’t at all surprised when I shared with her the details of a 12 day, fecal-free, bender (that happened back in ’02). The kids had simply refused to be dropped off at the pool! Instead, they gathered together, to form one giant kid—a kid that eventually, through sweat and tears made its debut with a glute-splashing cannonball of mammoth proportions. This ordeal was like a heads up for me (and not in a turtle head kinda way). Oh no! I had been given a sneak peek into what it would actually feel like to give birth . . .

Years later, in the hours leading up to the delivery of my first baby, I drew strength from my past experiences. If I could survive the mammoth poo of ’02, I could do this. And I did!

I’m happy to report that the days of stubborn turds are history now. No longer do I writhe in pain, or pass on seconds because I barely had room for firsts. No way! My digestion knows new joys. And I owe thanks for this, and for the many carefree smiles, to Joan and her dried apricot advice.

 

*Note* – Some of this is utter BS and some of it is based on truth. It has been written for the purpose of “shits and giggles.”

 

This post originally appeared on the fabulous In The Powder Room.

My Husband Hates My Lover….

Free Happy Woman Enjoying Nature. Beauty Girl Outdoor. Freedom c

Like a temperate pool’s caress…

I’ve got a new lover in my life.

She’s a dress. But, not just any old dress. Long and flowing, she wraps herself around me, gently; like a temperate pool’s caress on the booty of a skinny dipper.

Whenever I wear her, I feel fresh and full of life. Her effects, at times, transcend me to places of an almost spiritual nature. I honestly don’t think anything could be more feminine and uplifting than she.

Heavenly. She is so damn heavenly. And I feel grateful to have discovered her on a lonely sales rack last month. Continue reading

Farewell Ironing Pile, Hello Joy

Screaming Housewife With Steam Iron

They say it takes two to tango and I agree.

I’ve been there.

I’ve done the dance.

I’ve ridden the rollercoaster.

Our relationship brought out the worst in me.

We were not compatible.

We did not click.

In fact, our union was doomed from the start. But, everyone else was dancing the same tango and they weren’t complaining. Piles of ironing to do each week was simply part of the UK way of life.

And somehow, even though I was Canadian, my British husband got caught up in the idea of you and I trying to make it work.

I mean, I was the one at home while he was out in the workforce so… you fell into the category of “shit I needed to take care of.”  But, I kinda resented you, all of you, as you gathered in a pile, waiting for my attention each week.

After a ten year–somewhat surreal–experience; and a move from the UK to Canada, I finally put my foot down!

I said: “Fuck this! T-shirts and jeans do not need to be ironed! I AM CANADIAN (proud and true) and this goes against my roots; my heritage, if you will. We do not iron this stuff, in my homeland!”

I then turned to my husband’s dress shirts, with unbreakable will, and said: “You, my pesky friends, are going to the Dry Cleaners!”

Sure, in the UK, people iron everything: jeans, underwear, pillow cases, and towels but we live in Canada now.  And here, we don’t do that. That’s what our big, spacious dryers are for. They do the ironing for us.

So now, we all wear ever-so-slightly wrinkled attire and I take my husband’s dress shirts to the cleaners. I mean, it’s only $1.87 per shirt to have them cleaned and ironed. And every time I drop the shirts off, I leave with a little extra bounce in my step and a sense of gratefulness in my heart.

No more piles, no more steam, no more annoying comments like: “you’ve missed an entire strip of fabric.”

Nope. No more bullshit.

I am proud to report that our iron is gathering dust these days. (As it should be). And we have settled into our Canadian way of life, because a few wrinkles never hurt anyone but I’m sure a housewife with a hot iron could…

 

 

Did you know that Shannon Day and 36 other fab writers have created a book? Well, it’s actually a martini guide too. If you like funny, ridiculous, and heartstring-tugging stories of motherhood (+ easy-to-make martini & mocktini recipes) then you’ll love Martinis & Motherhood: Tales of Wonder, Woe & WTF?!  Available now on Amazon.

Final Book Cover

 

 

 

 

The Battle of the Black Boots

Black boots

If you see a pair of boots that look like these, call me…

 

A few weeks ago, my new boots were just sitting by the front door, minding their own business, when my husband walked in. He glanced down, at my spiffy purchase and, with a face scrunched up, like a disgruntled Shitsu, he said: “What’s with those boots? Are they yours or Ava’s?”

“Mine,” I replied, with a hint of pride in my tone. They were quite unique, after all.

“You’re 40. Not 14,” he said, smirking in that know-it-all way that husbands (who think they know-it-all) do.

I didn’t respond. Nope. I just looked at him because sometimes a look is all you need. I simply smiled, sort of like this:

Miranda

while silently committing to wearing my new boots as often as possible, especially while out with him.

And that’s what I did. I wore the boots. All. The. Time. Our daughters complimented me on them, while John rolled his eyes. He even made a few comments about the boots, in front of the girls, but I soon took it upon myself to turn such moments into lessons in individuality and feminism.

“You see girls, Dad doesn’t like my boots. But, that doesn’t mean I can’t still like my boots. I am my own person and if I like the boots then that’s all that matters!”

This went on casually and consistently for a few weeks. Until yesterday, actually.

Yesterday, the boots went missing.

I know he took them. He knows that I know he took them. I have no idea where they are and he’s not telling me. So, now I have no option but to dig out the old floral sweatpants, that he also dislikes. It just makes sense. Besides, they are so comfy.

And tonight, you can be sure, I’ll be wearing my white gown to bed. Because why wait ‘til summer when I can annoy my husband all year round.

 

 

Did you know that Shannon Day and 36 other fab writers have created a book? Well, it’s actually a martini guide too. If you like funny, ridiculous, and heartstring-tugging stories of motherhood (+ easy-to-make martini & mocktini recipes) then you’ll love Martinis & Motherhood: Tales of Wonder, Woe & WTF?!  Available now on Amazon.

Final Book Cover

 

The Massage

Masseur doing massage the head of an adult woman in the spa salo

So relaxing, peaceful, and …. WTF?!

 

As a Mother’s Day gift, from our kind husbands, my girlfriend Amy and I were sent out for an afternoon of indulgence and relaxation. Both of us pregnant, and with little ones at home, we were grateful for the chance to be de-stressed and pampered.

Our afternoon began with high tea, whilst overlooking Manchester’s city centre, where we savoured gourmet finger sandwiches and gorged our pregnant selves silly, on tiny cakes.

This ever-so traditional English experience, was followed by a spa treatment of a less traditional nature. We were rubbed and scrubbed from head to toe for sixty heavenly minutes…

Sigh. 

And afterwards, feeling both rejuvenated and useless, we beached our indulged bodies on lounge chairs in the spa’s relaxation room. There, peppermint tea in hand, Amy and I had the following conversation:

Amy: “That citrus oil was sooo nice. I think I’ll buy some.”

Me: : “It was nice. You should.”

Amy: “What a great massage. So relaxing. I don’t even want to move!”

Me: “I know. Me neither. I have to admit, though, I was a bit caught off guard by the boob rub…”

Amy: (unbeaching herself with a shocking level of agility) “The what rub?”

Me: “Boob rub… You know, when she put on the anti-stretch mark lotion?”

Amy: “Are you kidding me?! What do you mean?”

Me: “What do you mean? You didn’t have one?”

Amy: “NO!? Like… When? How?”

Me: “Well, she was applying the shea butter, in a circular motion, on my bump and surrounding area and then she gave my boobs a total rub down! It was sort of like a slow motion, holistic version, of Tune in Tokyo. Only slightly less awkward.”

Amy: “Oh my GOD!” (starts laughing).

Me: ….

Amy: “Sooo. How was it?”

Me: “Well, after the initial “what the hell?” moment, it was actually sorta nice.”

Amy: (suddenly serious) “Wait a minute. Why did you get a boob rub and I didn’t?”

Me: “I don’t know! I guess you’ll have to ask for Jessica, next time…”

*******

Well, next time never did happen. Neither Amy, nor I, called to book a massage with Jessica. A surprise boob rub is one thing but signing up for a pre-planned one, is a bit too X-rated for us suburban moms. Instead, life carried on as it always had; after I answered a few predictably basic questions, from my husband, that is. Yes, she was hot and yes, I actually did like it.

 

This post first appeared on BLUNTmoms.

 

Did you know that Shannon Day and 36 other fab writers have created a book? Well, it’s actually a martini guide too. If you like funny, ridiculous, and heartstring-tugging stories of motherhood (+ easy-to-make martini & mocktini recipes) then you’ll love Martinis & Motherhood: Tales of Wonder, Woe & WTF?!  Available now on Amazon.

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Hey Pilates Teacher, Lose the Latte

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I saw you today, on my way out of yoga. You were there, waiting for the studio to clear, so you and the others could pile in. There seemed to be, as usual, a decent turn out. At least 20 people were waiting, mats at the ready, smiles on their faces. You were clearly prepared, too, with your usual instructional tool and attire…

I fought back my annoyance as I passed through the group. You see, I attended your Pilates class three times last year and haven’t been back. Unfortunately, you are the main instructor at the gym, so I haven’t done Pilates since then. I have, instead, chosen to do yoga and to use the machines and weights.

I used to like Pilates, so I feel a bit peeved. But… only when I see you with your latte.

Yes, when I see you, in your chosen gym garb, Starbucks in hand, I’m reminded of the three classes that I spent sweating on a mat at your whim. I’d been there, following your instructions, holding my plank until my arms turned to jelly, sweating it out through the 100 as you lead the session- using nothing but your voice. You’d sat there, at the front of the room, cupping your latte in both hands as if relaxing fireside, on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

The first time you did this, I simply assumed you weren’t feeling well. The second time, when you were sitting all cosy-like, again, I wondered if maybe you had a bad back or morning sickness, perhaps. I noted that the others in the class seemed unfazed by your lack of participation and the fact that you were actually sporting a fucking poncho!

So, curious as to WTF?!, I asked the lady next to me: “Does she always teach from a seated position while sipping a coffee?” She smiled and told me that yes, in fact, she did.

Well, that was it!

I was done.

Maybe the others didn’t mind being guided by the voice of the Chillaxing Champion of Canada, but I did! And I can’t imagine I’m the only one who doesn’t want to gaze upon a coffee-sipper while sweating my core off.

We get it, winter is cold and demotivating. We all know this! Which is why we come to you. We need you to energize us and inspire us. We need you to put us in motion not to ignite in us a feeling of envy over your Starbucks and your Boho shawl with tassels. (Which is really gorgeous, by the way.) You see, Pilates class isn’t the time to stay comfy or to see how close you can get to full fetal, while remaining upright. It’s just not the place for that. When we, the students, look up, sweat dripping from our brow, we want to see you exercising too.

So do us a favour, Moonbeam, next time- leave your poncho and your Starbucks at the door. Is this really too much to ask?

 

This post originally ran on BLUNTmoms. 

 

Did you know that Shannon Day and 36 other fab writers have created a book? Well, it’s actually a martini guide too. If you like funny, ridiculous, and heartstring-tugging stories of motherhood (+ easy-to-make martini & mocktini recipes) then you’ll love Martinis & Motherhood: Tales of Wonder, Woe & WTF?! Available now on Amazon.

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Top Five Faves of 2015

Man And Woman At The Bar - Vector Illustration.

Well, it’s has been another fab year of writing and I’d like to say, “Thank you!” for your continued support! It means a lot to me. Here are the top five posts from Martinis and Motherhood for 2015.

5. What Happens in Vegas… 

One of the highest hands in poker a Spades Royal Flush on a red

This post was widely read and, funnily enough, it had ladies googling: “Shannon Day’s Husband” in what I assume was an attempt to see a picture of John! When Mamapedia shared this piece it brought almost 2,000 visitors to my site which was the most I’d seen in one day.

If you missed it, here is the fifth most popular post of 2015: What Happens in Vegas (Reflections of a Non-Jealous Wife).

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