Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Cliffs, Corn, Feet & Yum

Bon Echo on a warm sunny morning = Amazing

Corn that's 8 feet tall = Cool

Feet in boat, no Aircast = Yeah!

New obsession - Nutella & bread sticks = Yum

Keep Arms & Legs Inside The Ride At All Times

I'm a Human Roller Coaster and You Probably Should Avoid This Ride.

I'm not good with words lately unless they're profanity-ridden and bitter. I should really wear a warning sign that says, "Tread carefully. If you get too close or blink incorrectly, the rage will commence." I know I need to get out of this funk, and pronto, but that's the thing with funks, you can't just turn them off with the snap of your fingers. Or, in my case, the flipping of the bird.

Adventure Roller Coaster Ride by Heather Conway Photography via Etsy

Tomorrow is a new day. Right?

Friday, July 27, 2012

Cactus What?

I was surfing Amazon (cause I can't seem to concentrate on any one thing for any length of time the past few days) but found so much more...

Why use what looks like a little plastic hand or a wooden forklike object to scratch your back when you can enjoy the company of a Cactus buddy? His googly eyes and snazzy color-coordinated gear make him capable of becoming a true companion - the best kind…soothing, stylish and silent.

What could be better than 22" and hundreds of soft soothing bristles?

Plus he makes you feel truly mind-blowingly fantastic; his bristles have a texture your back is unknowingly crying out for, and when you experience that first wonderful moment of contact with him you’ll want him to be one of your best buddies forever.

I think I love you, cactus buddy.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012


Lately I find that I live my life disguised behind the mask of someone who knows what they’re doing. Calm, cool, collected. I've got it all. But this costume ball is wearing thin.

In reality...I collapse at the end of the day wondering what it would be like to run away. To disappear. To suddenly vanish. Would anyone notice? I've started dreaming about that. To escape.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Why I Can Never Go To Australia

I'm not going to lie (and I'm terrible at it anyway) I have been struggling lately. Struggling with life/work/making a JaAdam baby...you know...all of that life stuff. We have been on a baby making break since March when we lost our embryos and while the break has been good, it's also been very hard. In a few weeks I'll start the last round of blood work and testing before we take another kick at the proverbial "IVF 2.0" can late next month and I am excited, I really am but on the flip side...I'm terrified about what's coming my way. Add to that, my broken foot and resulting inability to rock climb, take my long walks/runs and an insane work schedule - I am not sleeping well and I often find myself wide awake into the wee hours. There has however been an unexpected advantage of this insomnia of mine.

Late night TV - wow - it's been educating me. Take this for example.

Last night I stumbled upon a story aaround 3 am about an Australian man who has collected -I can barely type this - and kept 26 years worth of - give me strength - belly button lint. I had to type that in smaller letters lest I faint or keel over. Why would anyone collect such a thing?

Before I had a chance to run, far, far away...they showed it. By this time, I was staggering to the phone to call for assistance but was able to revive myself once I was out of earshot of the television. Quite obviously, I am not comfortable with belly button lint (or spiders or clowns or masks). I will now boycott the entire country of Australia (continent, or merely country...will someone finally clear this up) as punishment.

Good thing, since I will probably never get there in the first place. It's way too long a flight. Plus, once on the plane, I would be focusing on my memory of the lint - three colors, three jars - and, as a result, I would be a wreck. Plus, once I arrived, some boxing kangaroos might try to punch me...so, all in all, Australia is now off limits.

So I say to the TV...I just might have innocently travelled to Australia...you saved me from the lint and for that I say "Thank you".

 * In all seriousness - I'd travel to Australia in a heartbeat if I could - I hear it's amazing there *

Monday, July 23, 2012

Simple Happy

I’ll admit it takes a lot to get me to smile these days…

But you wanna know what makes me happy? 

Dollar days are back at McDonald’s! That means I get my iced coffee for a buck. 

Now that makes me happy ~ even though they don’t include the large coffee in that! 

This simple little thing...simply make me happy. 

What simple things make you happy?

You Are My Happy blank card by Stranger Days via Etsy

Friday, July 20, 2012

Friday. BBQ. Ketchup. Boobs

Friday work BBQ. 

Choices -  Salads. Sausages. BBQ Chicken.Yes, yes, yes and yes. Thank you.

Oh, what's that? Hamburgers. Slight char. Perfect.

Stack of Swiss cheese. Makes it healthy? Okay!

Yum. Burger. Cheese. Bun.


Drop of ketchup.

Big one.


Bigger than a quarter? Oh, yes,

On. My. White. Blouse.

Why, Why?

Don't look down. 



Look around. Co-worker noticed.

Run to kitchen. All alone. Good.

Woman walks in. Who is she? I haven't seen her before.

"Oh, ketchup on the boobs...happens to me all the time," she says.

Walks out.

Mental note - Like strange woman.

Whisk off glistening red bubble with a practiced hand.

What's left: red stain. Huge.

Feel faint.

Can't leave. Too early. Rumor there is cake.

Sponge. Damp. Blot.

Blot again.

Stain now pink.

Still bad.

Sunglasses! Position over stain. Hide.

Doesn't work.

Blot more. Cold water. Too cheap to buy Tide bleach pen. Looked good on TV.

Should have. If survive this, will purchase.

Stain better. Not gone. 

Leave kitchen. Return to BBQ.

Announce to co-workers (and strange lady I've never seen before) - have eaten hamburger.Laugh. 

Press guy drops an opened bottle of Pepsi. Drops bottle. Soaks co-workers.

People wet. Laughter. Stain? Forgotten.

Good BBQ lunch.
Ketchup by Lyons Editions via Etsy

Thursday, July 19, 2012

The Horror

Disclaimer: If you are a supermodel in a bikini and never had body images at the beach - please skip this blog - it's not for you.

Ahhh yes, bathing suit season is here. In my opinion, when I hear the word bikini, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up straight, the anxiety makes my stomach churn, the thought of it makes me gaggy, I break out into a cold sweat and my knees shake.

Last night I was out with a friend to see Wicked. Aamaze-balls!

Anyway...after dinner and before the show we had some time to kill so we wandered over to the mall and had a stroll around. I have been on the lookout for a cute black blouse to match a skirt I have and spotted something from the corner of my eye.

"Let's check this store out" I said to my lovely friend. 

Over we wander and look...it's the top I have been looking for. At this point I am feeling pretty good about myself. Until....this...

The bikini wall of horror

To me...wearing a bikini is like parading around a beach in your bra and underwear made of a different material, right? So, who feels comfortable doing that? Maybe some...but the majority of us are all thinking the same thing. 
Is my butt hanging out?
Are my boobs symmetrical when I lie down on my beach towel?
Did I miss a spot shaving? Shit - I totally did!
Can you see my stretch marks?
Fat rolls?
Cottage Cheese?
Thigh dimples?

I try and tell myself to just forget it. Who the hell cares? Stop asking myself those questions. I mean, men parade on the beach - hairy, man boobs, shrinkage, you name it...do you think they care? Most of the time - they don't. They put that shit out there loud and proud.

So -  I am going to go and have fun at the beach - enjoy my time...in a one piece!

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Top Twenty Five

Here (in no particular order) are the top 25 reasons why I need a snack...

1. Because I am intensely bored and food will entertain me.
2. Because it's 10:04 in the morning and I've been awake for three hours.
3. Because there are cookies in this world. There are.
4. Because other people are having a snack right now. I can sense it.
5. Because cupcakes need love too and I'm feeling a little randy.
6. Because this is a free country where everyone should be entitled to a snack.
7. Because I can hear a bird outside.
8. Because I am conflicted about Steven Tyler leaving American Idol.
9. Because infertility is stupid.
10. Because icing is the same colour as the clouds.
11. Because snacks are God's way of saying he loves us.
12. Because I am not quite fat enough.
13. Because the voices in my head told me to and it's best not to ignore them.
14. Because it would make me stop sniffing my Sharpie.
15. Because I'm  having a bad hair day.
17. Because there was a little thunder about an hour ago and it scared me.
18. Because there is a fly that won't leave me alone.
19. Because I am relatively certain that the clowns are out to get me.
20. Because snacks are innocent, innocent things in a troubled world.
21. Because a snack will fill the gaping hole in my soul.
22. Because a wild turkey ran in front of my car last week.
23. Because I think a good piece of cheese can actually change one's life.
Because life is just too complicated. 
25. Just because I can.

Snack Bar by Theodora Made via Etsy

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Big Fat Liar

Yesterday I may have suggested that my broken foot was the result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time and that I was consequently trampled by crazy pre-teen girls screaming and crying for Justin Bieber. This my friends was a lie.

I'm coming clean because the more I thought about it, the more I could not come up with a good and plausible explanation for why I would have been anywhere near where Justin Bieber would have been. If I had said Jim Cuddy or Captain Tightpants/Nathan Fillion...that perhaps would have been believable....cause I love them so, especially Captain  Tightpants...he makes me giggle and grin like a pre-teen.  

At any rate...my foot is broken and I am in an Aircast for at least the next 3-4 weeks and I really, really would like to tell you how I broke my foot...I really would...but honestly...I have no idea!

How is it possible to not know how you broke your foot I've been asked. I was hoping you could tell me. What are you thoughts?

Monday, July 16, 2012

A Revisit

It was very difficult falling asleep last night. Thanks, in part, to the last gasp of the humid and stuffy weather before the beauty of today rolled in, and the throbbing of the broken 5th metatarsal in my left foot ~ more on this later but to set the scene...I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and was unfortunately trampled by crazed Justin Bieber fans. Not really, that's a lie...but it seems so much better than what really happened ~ I tossed and turned.

Once asleep, however, I had a dream that brought me right back to a period in my life I'd hoped never to revisit and have tirelessly striven to overcome - my (alleged) inability to cut.

I have never been nimble-fingered. With my clunky little clunkers, aka fingers, if I had been a villain in a Batman movie, I would have been called "Fumbles."

Never was this more upsetting than about a thousand years ago when my friend was vying for the best lemonade stand in the neighbourhood. Last night, through the hi-def clarity of an unexpected dream, I was transported back to an awful day.

I must have been no older than seven or eight when I was invited to help make posters and decorations for the stand. I vividly remember crossing the street and making my way over to my friend's garage - Lemonade Headquarters - to a table piled high with sheets of colourful construction paper, piles of glitter, crepe paper and scissors.

My little heart beat with excitement as it was explained what needed to be done. It involved cutting and lots of it. I loved to cut! 

The were a few older kids that were there to handle the glitter (a terrible disappointment) but I was anxious to get going. Here I was...involved...and cutting!

Shortly after getting started, my little hands working those scissors, cutting away...I noticed a few of the older kids whispering in the corner and looking at me and before I knew it I was whisked off to another table and asked to twirl crepe paper. No cutting. I was stunned.

My friend came over and explained that since I was a "terrible cutter" they had given me another job.

Terrible cutter??

I had no idea that I had a rep as a "terrible cutter."

I think I tried to laugh it off, having learned...by a very early age...to make light of horrifying inadequacies, but my little seven year old heart fell to the floor.

From that moment on, I have...literally...devoted my life to becoming an excellent cutter. I trained through tireless practice, to be able to snip, trim and shape with the best of them. I thought I had successfully submerged this memory under the blanket of near total memory loss years ago but apparently my subconscious had other ideas and returned me, last night, to that day and the pitying stares of the better cutters.

I"ll show you, subconscious! I am going to spend the day making beautiful doilies out of paper napkins.

By the way, my friend's lemonade stand was a total failure. Maybe if they'd let me cut...things just might have been different.

Scissors by Jennopolis via Etsy

Friday, July 13, 2012

I'm A Professional

This morning I found myself facing one of the most challenging decisions I’ve made in a while. That’s right – I went to buy a new toothbrush.

Before you laugh, just consider what a complicated decision it has become to choose a new toothbrush. I spent several minutes pondering, bemused, in the Walmart aisle because I couldn't decide between green and purple, soft and firm, springy head or non-springy head, tongue cleaning or non-tongue cleaning.

What I found particularly funny, other than imagining the sight of me scratching my head in front of the toothbrushes, was some of the marketing on the toothbrush boxes themselves. For example, the toothbrush that I ended up buying (because it was on sale) was labelled as ‘professional’. Now, what exactly does that mean? Can I call myself a professional tooth brusher? There seems little justification for being awarded this title. Surely I should have attended a training course, passed an exam and been presented with a certificate before achieving such an important honour?

Having graciously accepted this title by agreeing to pay $5.95, I wonder whether it’s time for me to update my resume to include “professional tooth brusher?”.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Exposing Myself & The Unexpected Surprises That Come With

Last year I started exposing myself in public. By moonlight, I skulk down dark alleyways clad in nothing but a trench coat and a lusty smirk, ready to fling open my jacket to anything with a heart beat, while my euphemism dangles in the breeze. The chill, of course, can be troublesome, making it all the more embarrassing. Yet I can’t stop. I’m addicted. Pandora is out of the box.

While right about now you’re wondering which alleyways you should avoid, I’ll clarify. I’m talking about blogging ~ the 21st century’s answer to the soapbox where any nut case with an email address can set up and preach to the world...and I mean world...about those thoughts residing in the darkest receptacles of the brain. And...they ain’t always pretty. 

Some do it for fun, some to preach, others to rant. Some do it to beautifully catalogue the routine of everyday life and share thoughts and pics with cyberspace, as though putting those thoughts out there, into the anonymous void, somehow helps to harness life, rather than let them float around willy-nilly, as life tends to feel.

It’s the epistolary tradition of the 19th century...revitalised...of writers sitting by candlelight in the parlour scribbling in loopy cursive on thick creamy paper, sealing it with hot wax, driven only by the knowledge that someone, somewhere will eventually read it.

This appeals. The connection. 

What I didn't expect when I started to blog was...

a) that anyone would actually read it (other than my mom & dad) and
b) that I would meet and get to know some pretty amazing people. 

One of those amazing people is Ashley over at Calmly Chaotic. Ashley is an amazing mom of the sweetest twin girls...Alice & Isla. Why is she amazing? Well, let me tell you why. 

Yesterday after arriving home from work there was a bag waiting for me. Adam said it was hanging off the door when he arrived home and didn't know where it had come from. I opened the bag and to my utter surprise there was a book and not just any book...it was the book that I had been waiting for, for a very, very long time...and a lovely card. It was a very thoughtful early birthday gift!

What Ashley didn't know was that yesterday had been an exceptionally difficult day for me and that her thoughtful gift made my day. I was down and then I was up and for that I am incredibly grateful. Thank you Ashley.

It's because of the unexpected that I'll continue to blog. Every letter needs a wax seal. I click…and my thoughts take lift off and are exposed for eyes to see. 

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Seven Stages

I needed a new bathing suit. I went shopping. I came home empty handed and it got me to thinking....

There are certain stages that one must go through to find the perfect swimsuit. Allow me to present the seven stages...

1. Shock & Denial - This is not my body. This is NOT my body. These are not my boobs, this is not my ass, these are not my thighs. No, no, no. This is not happening.

2. Pain & Guilt - This sucks. What was I thinking eating whatever I wanted for the last few months? I deserve this ass. I deserve this stomach. I suck.

3. Anger - What are you looking at? You've never seen a woman surrounded by 15 bathing suits and three pints of ice cream? Go to hell. Go away. Now.

4. Depression, Reflection, and Loneliness - Why am I sitting here alone? It's because I look like this, isn't it? Nobody wants me.

5. The Upward Turn - It's not even August. I don't have to look like this all summer! I can start a diet now. No carbs. No sugar. Gallons of water. Here I go!

6. Reconstruction & Working Though - OK, so maybe not no carbs. Light carbs. A little sugar. Iced tea.

7. Acceptance - I'm never going to rock the swimsuit again. Pass the Ben and Jerry's. And the cover-up.

Best Friends Swimsuit Girls by maclancy via Etsy

Monday, July 9, 2012


Trying to see life with a new angle,
Letting go of the past memories,
To move ahead with renewed force,
And make use of all the remedies

But she looks back through the tunnel of time,
Only to realise the force behind,
Is too strong to cross over,
And any remedy is impossible to find

She moves ahead through fast paced lane,
Only to find no one on her side,
She searched around for a fellow soul,
To partner her along the ride

The path gets longer & bends along,
Grows its branches all across,
Their ways get divided, the soul departs,
Strikes her hard with the loss

It breaks her down till the point,
All emotions find it tough to find,
The way to exit the broken soul,
To help her soothe her lonely mind

She ends up looking back through time,
Realizes she can't live the past,
And finds new paths to walk along,
And begins the cycle again at last.

It's been a month since we've lost you R...it still hurts so very much...we miss you.


Friday, July 6, 2012


I slink into the bathroom and spy my scales hovering seemingly weightlessly above the tiles, mockingly. I stare at them. They glare back at me, unblinking. I remove my clothes...then my undies...then my jewellery ~ the one ring and one set of earrings I always wear ~ trying to offload every ounce of excess weight before I mount. I step forward then halt. I remember the band-aid on my knee and peel it off. I consider removing my mascara and lip gloss, but decide that’s a tad bit loco.

I exhale all the air deeply from my lungs, then step aboard, praying for some kind of miracle; hoping there was some sort of exodus in the middle of the night that I didn’t know about. Fat cells fleeing for the promised land, leaving my body starved and barren and featherlight.

The needle soars past my usual weight...

The needle finds it’s final resting place. I jiggle up and down a little, hoping to nudge it back a couple notches to my usual weight. It flickers and stops somewhere above what I've known my whole adult life...before a year of infertility treatments.

Vintage Scale by Composure Photography via Etsy

Thursday, July 5, 2012


I have a stowaway. It clings to me...all day...all night. It follows me from room to room. It runs with me, showers with me, jumps into bed with me.

At night when I try to sleep, it demands my attention. It entwines itself around me. It whispers to me. 

It brings out my demons. 

It chases away my slumber. I can't sleep.

I can't eat. I can't think. I can't focus.

It takes herculean strength to keep myself anchored, to not soar off into the abyss. Sometimes the abyss pulls me from the other direction. I have no hope.

And in the morning, before I've even opened my eyes, my stowaway leaps into bed with me...clings to me.

My stowaway is my thoughts...and all of my thoughts are of you...infertility.

It’s a constant distraction. It’s impossible to focus. My work takes twice as long. I read the same lines over and over. I must focus. I can't focus.

Damn you infertility!
Cloudy Thoughts by James E. Thurman via Etsy

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Janet & Dale

This morning I had a really, really hard time getting out of bed. My alarm went off, I hit snooze.. It went off again, I hit snooze. This went on for over an hour and still I had to drag myself out of bed. Which bring me to this...Why don’t they make alarm clocks with a mosquito sound? I can’t think of anything guaranteed to get you out of bed swifter than that irritating, high-pitched whine.

On that note, let me tell you a story about how one clever little mosquito’s big appetite ended up costing him dearly. If I was a super-villain then this would be a most timely moment to include an evil laugh. 

For the purposes of this tale I have taken the decision to name the mosquito Dale, if only to add personality and dramatic effect when I kill him off at the end. I agree that ‘Dale’ doesn’t seem like a very ferocious name for a supremely despised, blood-sucking creature.

Below is a picture of Dale – to add additional persona to his character. Obviously the picture isn’t actually of Dale. I didn’t have time to ask him to pose for a series of candid portrait drawings before sending him on his way to mosquito heaven. With forethought I’d have perhaps considered taking ‘before’ and ‘after’ photographs to publish on billboards as a warning to other mosquitos not to mess with me. Kind-of like the ‘Don’t Drink And Drive’ campaigns. A possible slogan off the top of my head: ‘Don’t Whine And Dine!’ I think it’s got legs… which is more than can be said for Dale – one of his legs is still dangling limply from my curtain. I’m leaving it there as a trophy.
Allow me to set the scene a little. It was a warm Monday night in a land far, far away. I was tired and just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep. At first all was peaceful. And then a few minutes later it happened… a whining sound coming from behind my ear, I immediately twigged that I had a mosquito problem.

What happened next? Well I’m sure you’ve all been in this position yourselves, so I will quickly summarise the principles involved with solving a night-time mosquito situation.
  1. You react impulsively by swinging your arm. Lashing out blindly, and with the co-ordination of a stoned chimp, you slap yourself around the face. If you weren’t awake 5 seconds ago, you bloody well are now!
  2. You reach around for the light switch, only to hit the snooze button on your alarm clock. 
  3. After wiping your eyes on your pillow case, you fumble around some more and finally locate the light switch. The room lights up, blinding you like a rabbit caught in headlights. With blurry eyes you glance around, as if expecting Dracula to be standing by your bed with a big smirk on his face and a small trickle of blood running down his chin. He’s not there. This is going to be more difficult than you thought.
  4. You engage in a game of insect hide and seek. However, you’re at a disadvantage because mosquito's are masters of disguise – they are the chameleon ninjas of the insect world. You try to hunt him out, but he’s craftily transformed into a lamp, or a sock. As a result you can’t find him. Feeling wearier by the minute, you slump into a chair and wait for him to make the next move.
  5. An hour passes and he hasn’t made an appearance. In a desperate attempt to resume your slumber, you stumble around the room randomly hitting and moving things, hoping for some movement. He, in the meantime, is having a good old giggle at your pathetic attempt to find him. It’s a complete mismatch in size terms, but the little bugger is beating you.
  6. After a further hour of searching, and having enlisted the help of binoculars, you spot him clinging to a picture frame by the far wall. Grabbing something substantial (the book on my dresser), you tiptoe slowly towards him. As you reach striking range you take a big swing and… bang!!!! The picture frame falls to the floor. Sadly for you, the mosquito isn’t under it – he flew off a millisecond before the books ample spine had a chance to make contact with his tiny head. You’re now faced with a new challenge – focussing your eyes on where he goes next. You go cross-eyed as he does three circuits of the lampshade before heading towards the dark chair by the door and then… he’s vanished again.
  7. You repeat steps 4, 5 and 6 endlessly until you collapse onto the floor with exhaustion. Beaten.
I didn't get Dale that night. But...

He re-appeared the next evening. I can only think that he got a bad case of the munchies because he attacked me when the light was on. I saw his approach from a mile off, moving off the bed and goading him with a confident demeanour of someone who knew the game had changed in her favour. I waited for Dale to land on the curtain next to me and then, as he settled, I was all over him! Revenge was mine… MUHAHAHAAAAAA!!! 

My point of this story....the sound of a buzzing mosquito will surely get anyone out of bed no matter how tired they are!

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