Just A Little Off Kilter....

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

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. *sigh* Adventure Roller Coaster Ride by Heather Conway Photography via Etsy Tomorrow is a new day. Right?

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.

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. Mascarade Ball Vintage Book Page by Winter Berry Cottage via Etsy

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 c

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 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. PLOP! Drop of ketchup. Big one. Red. Bigger than a quarter? Oh, yes, On. My. White. Blouse. Why, Why? Don't look down.  Must. Arrrrghhh! 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 t

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 pa

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 litt

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?

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

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 ach

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

Martyr-mallow Martyr-mallow by Bent Objects

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. Gall

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.

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&#

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

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