Feb. 12: There is an itch I cannot scratch
True story.
I was in Chapters tonight because I had an hour to kill. I'm lugging my son, who now weighs 12 kilograms, my winter jacket, the baby's car seat and the baby's diaper bag, which feels like it's loaded with lead balloons. And I had this itch on my back. Like, right on my spinal cord and between my shoulder blades. You can't scratch an itch like that. Not when you're hot and sweaty and one hand is full of squirming baby and the other is full of stuff to make baby's life manageable.
But my back was driving me crazy, friends. It was like beetles had infested my skin. I was going to go mental. Finally, I'd had enough. I went over to one of the bookshelves, pushed my back against one of the edges, and rubbed. The itch went away at last. In the scratching process, I'd knocked a book to the floor but since it was one of the Twilight books, I didn't bother to pick it up.
That was a bad itch but there are some itches that are even worse.
Like bumhole itch.
Everyone knows what bumhole itch is. It usually strikes when you're in junior high school and you're walking down a busy hallway and then your butt starts to itch. And not just your butt but the very core of your bum bum ba bum. It's so itchy that you can't even walk right and you sure can't scratch it there because everyone's going to think you're weird even though you know - in your heart of hearts - that everyone else gets bumhole itch too. (Except girls, who don't have bumholes.)
And then there's driver itch. This is when the sole of your right foot gets itchy while you're driving on the freeway. This is an awful thing. Skin Cancer and Wandering Nipple Syndrome are probably worse, but not by much.
After I'd finished scratching, I went to one of the Chapters computers to see if there were any new Michael Slade books in stock (there was not.) On the way, I passed the True Crime section where two young ladies were asking a clerk to recommend a Canadian true crime book. The clerk was unable to help them so I handed one of the girls a tome about Robert Pickton. She smiled and thanked me and told me I was very sweet for giving her a book about a serial killer who'd murdered at least six women on his pig farm in Port Coquitlam, BC.
Then my son and I looked at notebooks for a while. It is stupid of me to look at notebooks because I have more than enough notebooks at home. My brother always buys me moleskin unlined notebooks as birthday and Christmas presents. Those notebooks rock. But I look at them anyway. While I looked at the notebooks, my son crawled around the floor, threw Valentine's Day cards on the ground, and picked up clear plastic things so he could put them in his mouth.
On the back of one of the moleskin notebooks, some blurb writer had composed something to get me interested in buying the notebook - which was really about 40 folded pieces of paper and two staples - for $24.99. The blurb assured me that the moleskin notebook was a "professional notebook." Gee, wonderful, I thought. What does a non-professional notebook look like? Are the pages ripped? Do they have tomato stains on them? I put the professional notebook down in disgust. Until blurb writers learn to challenge their adjectives, I will not buy their products.
There were two college aged men nearby and they were talking about the controversy over anti-gay propaganda laws at the Sochi Olympics. One of the men said that Vladimir Putin had actually done the gay movement a favour because his stance has solidified guacamole lettuce bacon tomato solidarity around the world. The other one agreed and said that they were even flying the rainbow flag outside the legislative building in Nova Scotia. This made the first man very happy.
Then a lady in her early 30s told me how cute my son is. I thanked her. The lady was holding a Nora Roberts book in her hand. I asked her if she liked Nora Roberts and her eyes got crazy with delight. Yes, she said. Nora Roberts and Danielle Steel were the only writers she'd read over the past seven years.
Kim Mitchell once released an album called Itch and it has one great song on it called, Acrimony. Most of Kim Mitchell's songs make me think of my friend, Heather, for some reason even though Heather has never claimed to be a Kim Mitchell fan. Maybe one of his songs just reminds me of her. Probably rock and roll duty.
I will close with a suitable Shel Silverstein poem
I was in Chapters tonight because I had an hour to kill. I'm lugging my son, who now weighs 12 kilograms, my winter jacket, the baby's car seat and the baby's diaper bag, which feels like it's loaded with lead balloons. And I had this itch on my back. Like, right on my spinal cord and between my shoulder blades. You can't scratch an itch like that. Not when you're hot and sweaty and one hand is full of squirming baby and the other is full of stuff to make baby's life manageable.
But my back was driving me crazy, friends. It was like beetles had infested my skin. I was going to go mental. Finally, I'd had enough. I went over to one of the bookshelves, pushed my back against one of the edges, and rubbed. The itch went away at last. In the scratching process, I'd knocked a book to the floor but since it was one of the Twilight books, I didn't bother to pick it up.
That was a bad itch but there are some itches that are even worse.
Like bumhole itch.
Everyone knows what bumhole itch is. It usually strikes when you're in junior high school and you're walking down a busy hallway and then your butt starts to itch. And not just your butt but the very core of your bum bum ba bum. It's so itchy that you can't even walk right and you sure can't scratch it there because everyone's going to think you're weird even though you know - in your heart of hearts - that everyone else gets bumhole itch too. (Except girls, who don't have bumholes.)
And then there's driver itch. This is when the sole of your right foot gets itchy while you're driving on the freeway. This is an awful thing. Skin Cancer and Wandering Nipple Syndrome are probably worse, but not by much.
After I'd finished scratching, I went to one of the Chapters computers to see if there were any new Michael Slade books in stock (there was not.) On the way, I passed the True Crime section where two young ladies were asking a clerk to recommend a Canadian true crime book. The clerk was unable to help them so I handed one of the girls a tome about Robert Pickton. She smiled and thanked me and told me I was very sweet for giving her a book about a serial killer who'd murdered at least six women on his pig farm in Port Coquitlam, BC.
Then my son and I looked at notebooks for a while. It is stupid of me to look at notebooks because I have more than enough notebooks at home. My brother always buys me moleskin unlined notebooks as birthday and Christmas presents. Those notebooks rock. But I look at them anyway. While I looked at the notebooks, my son crawled around the floor, threw Valentine's Day cards on the ground, and picked up clear plastic things so he could put them in his mouth.
On the back of one of the moleskin notebooks, some blurb writer had composed something to get me interested in buying the notebook - which was really about 40 folded pieces of paper and two staples - for $24.99. The blurb assured me that the moleskin notebook was a "professional notebook." Gee, wonderful, I thought. What does a non-professional notebook look like? Are the pages ripped? Do they have tomato stains on them? I put the professional notebook down in disgust. Until blurb writers learn to challenge their adjectives, I will not buy their products.
There were two college aged men nearby and they were talking about the controversy over anti-gay propaganda laws at the Sochi Olympics. One of the men said that Vladimir Putin had actually done the gay movement a favour because his stance has solidified guacamole lettuce bacon tomato solidarity around the world. The other one agreed and said that they were even flying the rainbow flag outside the legislative building in Nova Scotia. This made the first man very happy.
Then a lady in her early 30s told me how cute my son is. I thanked her. The lady was holding a Nora Roberts book in her hand. I asked her if she liked Nora Roberts and her eyes got crazy with delight. Yes, she said. Nora Roberts and Danielle Steel were the only writers she'd read over the past seven years.
Kim Mitchell once released an album called Itch and it has one great song on it called, Acrimony. Most of Kim Mitchell's songs make me think of my friend, Heather, for some reason even though Heather has never claimed to be a Kim Mitchell fan. Maybe one of his songs just reminds me of her. Probably rock and roll duty.
I will close with a suitable Shel Silverstein poem
There is a spot that you can't scratchRight between your shouldter blades,Like an egg that just won't hatchHere you set and there it stays.Turn and squirm and try to reach it,Twist your neck and bend your back,Hear your elbows creak and crack,Stretch your fingers, not you bet it'sGoing to reach-- no that won't get it--Hold your breath and stretch and pray,Only just an inch away,Worse that a sunbbeam you can't catchIs that one spot thatYou can't scratch.
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