T-Wrecks

I have yet to morph my post-baby body back into anything resembling my former physique. I venture outside for 80 minutes each day with the baby in her jogging stroller and the dogs on their leashes for a power walk, despite the cold-enough-to-freeze-the-brass-balls-off-a-monkey wind.

My wardrobe - hovering between the baggy too big things, the maternity things and the tight like a sausage things - is limited. Today I found myself choosing between bundling up in a maternity jacket or my teal Old Navy swing pea coat. I went with option B. It was bad enough that I was sporting maternity jeans. There was no way I could bring myself to opt for a baby-on-board jacket, especially without getting the neighbors talking. Again.

I had to deflate my lungs just to get the top buttoned over my neonatal ta tas. Ok, so breathing was out. Oxygen is so 2010 anyway.

The walk was uneventful, as they typically are. After all, it is my one escape from the house each day. The only 80 minutes I have to "myself" which is all mine (if you don't count cleaning up dog poo, obsessing whether the baby is dressed warm enough/cool enough, contemplating did Joani really love Chachi and why can't we extreme coupon in Canada like you can in the US).

After duty called for the dogs, I reached down to pick up the steaming pile but discovered the flaw in my choice of coat. Because my chest was so constricted, I couldn't move my arms out very far from my body. Like a tyrannosaurus. Except the tranny is trying to bag crap. So I really had to bend down. And that's when my maternity jeans slid south.

I'd like to say this story ends with me keeping my dignity. But let's be honest, after you've had a spotlight on your v-tunnel in a delivery room, dignity becomes extinct.

364 Days

Forgive me blogger for I have sinned. It has been 364 days since my last confession post.

My transgressions were many, and typically involved gluttony (hey I was eating for two). I have survived Paul going to Afghanistan. Almost giving birth to our daughter in the front seat of an SUV. Gaining weight, losing weight, gaining weight. Indulging in obsessive compulsive cleaning. Not showering for more than 24 hours. Feeling sorry for myself. And most of that's just from today!

I thought life was too busy for you blogger. And now my writing muscle has all but shrivelled up and died a painful death, like Lindsay Lohan's career. Even though I shunned you blogger, you were never very far away [because I like to keep my laptop close incase there's an important status update on Facebook].

But I'm ready to turn back to my writing ways blogger. With your help. And more coffee.

What can I do to atone for these sins? Say 7 Hail Mary's Drink 7 Bloody Mary's?

Done! Perhaps I should add consuming too much alcohol to my list of sins? Yeah, I was only kidding. There's nothing wrong with my sense of humor.

I'm back bitches!

Run In

Paul and I made a break from the house during a Saturday morning rain storm with the kids in tow. After some minimal-bank-account-damage shopping, we went to a local eatery for some lunch.

My food cravings are out of control. I wanted potatoes! So, without thinking, I ordered fries AND potato skins for a nice little carb/grease double whammy. I will never eat potatoes again. And I've banned the kids from saying the "p" word for a least another week. Even hearing the word makes the vomit start to rise.

Paul had the steak, Aidan a hot turkey sandwich and Kenzie opted for poutine.

After we were good and full (read: food coma), we took the kids to see the new Dream Home. Our city has several "Dream Homes" which are built and tickets are sold in support of local hospitals. It's fun to go and look at the show homes to see what a million dollars of home construction and design looks like. The kids always run around declaring what bedroom would be "theirs" if we won the house (which is always the master bedroom - hey, what can I say, my kids have good taste).

We'd just arrived, and were touring the formal dinning room when 11-year old Kenzie turned to Paul and I, and in a louder-than-it-needed-to-be voice annouced that she had a case of "the runs." She ran to the only operational and open-to-the-public washroom where she stayed for our entire tour of the house.

Being the ever supportive step-mom that I am, I pretended I didn't know my step-daughter and quickly ducked into the urber-garage. That poor million dollar bathroom probably never knew what hit it.

Slide Into Home

It is a bazillion degrees (celcius) here in city, Canada. You think I'm kidding?

It's so hot I actually slid off the toilet seat and onto the bathroom floor because my ass was sweating so much.

Yeah, it's hot like that.

Before I Was A Blogger...

Ah yes, the Robinson sisters. Back when we were innocent, and I knew how to rock a pair of Addidas short shorts and a page boy cap. [It's no wonder my parents didn't encourage me to become a fashion designer and it's no wonder I had to explain to random strangers that I was actually a girl, and not a boy].

It's like we're holding onto each other for dear life! But that was back when I was...7? I have no idea how old I am here. I'm the worst with ages (especially my own). I think I'm 5 in every photo I see from when I was a kid. This might explain why I'm always forgetting how old I am, even now.

I said MIGHT explain...

Anyhoo, we had our share of fights. One time I was pretending to catch fish (the fish being my sister's feet - what can I say, I had a great imagination even then!). Unfortunately the "fish" were ticklish and my sister kicked me in the jaw, driving my teeth through my tongue. There is also an apartment wall in the city that will forever be mamed from the high heel that was thrown into it. Luckily my reflexes have improved over time. Thankfully my sister's aim has not.

For the first time in our lives, my sister and I are both the same hair color (L'Oreal Intense Red). There was this one time in university I wanted to become a blonde. So I bleached the red out of my hair. I couldn't decide which shade of blonde to try (why are there so many shades of blonde!?!), so I did what any self-respecting single mom would do - I let my three year old pick for me. Aidan opted for "Tahitian Sunrise". Apparently sunrises are bright orange in Tahiti. I had to work that morning at the university, so a quick fix was in order. I tried to cover the sunrise with a dark chocolate brown, and ended up with midnight black. It was the only time that I've been all four hair colors in 24 hours. Basecaps and dark alleys were my friend.

For the first time in our lives, my sister and I look like we're sisters. It's a nice feeling. Maybe I'm not adopted after all.

Teenie Weenie

[Disclaimer: I apologize in advance to my mother, who is probably reading this.]

There are certain things I want to cross off my "list" of things to do before I die. Like a bucket list, but I was on to the idea way before the movie ever made it hip. Besides, you know how I like my lists.

So when I got the opportunity to par-take in a bachelorette party over the weekend, I said "sign me up!" [Seriously, you had to get on the list, they're weren't just letting ANYONE in].

This party had several things going for it. #1. I was invited (so obvious), #2. they were going to be serving cosmos...out of a keg! and #3. there was going to be some "entertainment" of the hunky naked variety.

Now I know this is going to be hard to believe, but I (up until this weekend) had never set my eyes [knowingly] on a stripper. I certainly hadn't seen a [professional] strip show (unless you count my Carmen Electra strip aerobics workout video). Afterall, I grew up in a small town. If you called a stripper, he was probably going to turn out to be your grade 12 English teacher, or the local grocery bagboy.

To be honest, I was dead curious. And NOT for the reasons you think. All my weenie wiggler* knowledge came from TV and movies. I was wondering how he was going to fit all those $1 coins in his g-string since Canada no longer has a $1 bill (or even a $2 bill). It brought new meaning to the phrase, shake your money maker. I mean, he could really hurt himself swinging all that coin in his banana hammock.  Luckily our hostess (aka my sister-in-law) thought of everything - she'd gotten some $1 american bills at the bank. We played some games which will remain anonymous, and I won a fistfull. I tucked them into my bra (for safe keeping).

I was informed the stripper's name was Tommy (probably not his real name). It seemed kind of unimaginative for a stripper name. I was expecting something exotic like Wild Bill Hiscock or Doctor Feelgood. Sigh.

Alrighty. I could look past the bad name. I was told by my S-I-L that Tommy would be arriving dressed as a cop. Hmmmm, Officer Tommy. Slightly better. Unfortunately he was an hour late, so by the time he showed up with his pimp (I kid you not!) we were well refreshed. My lips were dry from all that drinking and salavating, so I ran to apply some lippy before the main event. I ran into Tommy (literally) in the hallwall. He smiled. Like someone who knew a secret. I noted that his cop hat seemed a bit too big for his head. But who am I to judge? Small headed strippers need to work too.

Ok, forget the lippy. I hauled ass back to the livingroom to get a good seat. The music started... Ladies and gentlemen, what I witnessed was so...so...words can't even describe it. Oh wait, maybe they can. Bare with me.

First of all, it is NOT like the movies. Strippers (well, from my extensive experience with only 1) do not do "tricks". There were possibilities (and I'm not talking crazy Cirque de Soleil shit or anything), but nada. The buck literally stopped there.

Secondly, Officer Tommy was not wearing a standard-issue g-string. He was wearing nothing under his uniform. Now I've never been a police officer, but I think they do a fair bit of bad guy chasing, which could lead to some unpleasant chaffing if you know what I'm saying.

I spent most of the time covering my eyes. I couldn't watch this naked train wreck. Although, to be fair, he never was completely naked. He carried a small (very very small) hand towel in front of his *ahem* pistol, and then later a baseball cap. I found that very odd.

I quickly learned that Tommy was working hard on the girls who's money was peeking out of their bras. So I did what any self respecting married woman would do - shoved my money up my unmarried girlfriend's dress.

Before Tommy was done doin' his thang, our party was crashed by three teenage boys who were walking by and saw the stripper through the window blinds. Also, very odd.

Not to be put-off, my S-I-L asked if we wanted to go to the Rodeo! Turns out the Rodeo is a meat-market country and western bar and not an actual Rodeo. I was bummed, but perked up when I got ID'd at the door. I was just a little too excited about being ID'd so the bouncer took a good look at me (up and down) and decided I was at least 19. Gravity strikes again!

No sooner were we in the door when I was accosted by some yankee looking to take me for a twirl on the dancefloor. I politely declined pretended to be a foreign national who did not speak English. I was debating introducing myself as Ho No from the Orient when I was saved by my S-I-L with two words "mechanical bull."  I almost peed in my pants, not just because I was saved from attempting to pull off an Oriental accent, but because I could strike something else off my list. Hopefully, I would not be introducing myself later as Ho Down.

Now, I've never actually seen a mechanical bull in real life. But they look so fun on TV and in movies. Apparently I need to get out more instead of using TV and movies to do life research. Sadly, my showdown with the bronze bronco was put out to pasture (they only take the mechanical bull out during special occasions and having a famous loveable blogger come to your establishment does not count).

I guess I still have a few things to do on that list.

* I cannot take credit for the affectionate term "weenie wiggler". This is what Paul calls male strippers.

Bad Romance

Yesterday I read on Facebook that a university pal and former radio station coworker of mine, let's call him Garth*, had just celebrated the birth of his first child. This made me smile because, a) I'm a sucker for babies, and b) it made me reminisce about all the crazy shenanigans that happend during my four years at university. Or as I like to call it, back when you could bounce a quarter off my ass.

We didn't use many first names at the radio station, which in retrospect, probably helped us receive less hate mail. We had been using said nicknames for so long the stories of how those names came to be are long forgotten. Or so I keep telling myself while I avoid attending my class reunion.

But yesterday I could not remember Garth's nickname. And if there's "one" thing that drives me crazy it's not being able to remember something I know. So I'll obsess about it until hours/days/weeks later it pops "like magic" into my head - ta dah! Unfortunately when it pops "like magic" into my head I get so excited that I've remembered something. And I'll blurt it out. At meetings, in the grocery store, on the toilet, wherever. It's like I have Bad Memory Tourettes.

Last night I was lying in bed with Paul trying to think of Garth's nickname. Paul gave me a kiss, and I blurted out "Spanky!" (Spanky was Garth's nickname). Unfortunately Paul thought I shouted "Spank me."

It was an awkward situation all around.


*Garth is definitely NOT his real name. His real name is much cooler. It's also the name of a particularly yummy-licious waffer.