Office Christmas Party Season

Well, it’s that time of year again.  Office Christmas Party Season.  Ah yes.  Nothing says “Christmas” like getting drunk with your co-workers and making a scene at the office Christmas party.  Nothing.

I don’t know what it is about the office Christmas party that leads to such dodgy behavior.  I mean, you work with these people ALL YEAR LONG.  And you will have to face them on Monday.  Seriously.  You work with these people!  Behave!

Although there are many theories as to the source of dodgey office Christmas party behavior, I think it all boils down to one thing.  Open bar. 

I have personally been involved in a number of office Christmas party fiascos and can state with absolute certainty that my behavior was due (100%) to the copious amounts of liquor I encountered upon arrival.  Okay, and maybe a little bit (just a touch) to the amount I chose to consume.

Fiasco #1

While in college, my husband (then boyfriend) had the pleasure of spending a co-op term with Weyerhaeuser; a large forestry company based out of Kamloops.  We attended the company Christmas party, which featured an open bar, a band and a large dance floor.  Let me just say at the outset, that I really did have every intention of behaving like a grown up.  It was our first office Christmas party and I had actually gone out and bought a new dress for the occasion.  I envisioned myself floating around the room, sipping champagne and making small talk with all the fancy pants’.  With no engagement on the horizon, I was also keen to demonstrate my abilities in a professional social setting.  Who wouldn’t want a wife like me?  I’m such an asset.   

It remains unclear to me exactly when everything went south.  I vaguely recall having dinner and being introduced to my husband’s boss, but after that there is a bit of a blank.  The next blip of memory, I continue to find very disturbing.  There was a dance contest.  And guess who wanted to enter it?  You guessed it – moi!  And who do you think I wanted for my partner?  Uh huh – my husband’s boss!  Luckily, he was a very gregarious fellow and was quite pleased to accompany me to the dance floor and perform the twist – over and over and over again.  Although I suspect we won the contest (I am a very talented office Christmas party dancer), I cannot be sure.  Because after the dance contest, I came up with the best idea.  Congo!  That’s right.  I led the entire Weyerhauser Christmas Party on a congo line.  And when that wasn’t exciting enough for me, I decided to lead the congo line out of our ballroom and into the one next door.  Surely these people will be excited to have a 200 person congo line crash their party and then weave its way through their tables, screaming “Congo!” every five seconds.  Not so.  It was a seniors Christmas party and not one of them joined our congo line.  Not one!  In fact, some of the looked a bit pissed off.

Fiasco #2

This fiasco occurred at my own office Christmas Party.  After months of stress and long hours, it was finally time to “let loose”.  Again . . . there was an open bar and a band.  But I was convinced I had learned my lesson!  We were married now.  I was older.  Wiser.  Ummmmm . . . older – yes.  Wiser – no.

Once again, I had procured a new outfit for the event.  Ohhhh, and this one was a doozy.  It was a black and swishy number that tied around my neck.  The back of the dress was so low, that it required the purchase of not only a strapless bra, but a strapless, backless bra.  Who knew such a thing existed!  If you ever purchase such an item, be warned – not comfortable.  Involves lots of extremely sticky tape, which is painful to both apply and remove.

Anyways . . . I looked fabulous!  And once again, I promised myself that I would behave like a grown up and leave fashionably early.  I really do not think that things would have turned out nearly so badly, if my boss’ friend (why he was at our party, I cannot recall) hadn’t started making enquiries about my undergarments.  Seriously!  Things like, “How you holdin’ everything up?” and “What’ll happen if you shake em?”  Gasp!  Who brought this asshole to our Christmas party?  Not keen to participate in conversation with this pervert any longer, I consoled myself by pouring more wine . . . and more wine . . . and a little more wine.  I know my husband suggested I NOT join the band on stage but they invited me up!  And they were singing such a catchy tune – “Ride Sally Ride”.  I actually think it wouldn’t have been so bad, had I not taken the microphone from the singer and began performing my own version of the song, which sounded something like “Rye Shlally Rhye”.  Awful.  Just bloody awful.

Fiasco #3

You’d think I’d learn.  But no.  I continued attending office Christmas parties, despite the “Rye Shlally Rhye” incident.   

Fiasco #3 – my office Christmas Party – 2003.  The party was held at a big fancy hotel and once again, I had procured a new outfit.  This one was carefully selected.  It was basically a spandex body suit covered in lace. It did not reveal too much cleavage when I bent over, and I was pretty sure I could do a summersault without reveling any of my bits.  The perfect party outfit!  I knew I was in trouble the moment we entered the party and saw that there was . . . a band!  A fucking band!  Honestly!  How am I supposed to behave with a band?  In an effort to calm myself, I went in search of the bar.  Oh look.  Open bar.  Great. 

My spirits rose slightly during dinner.  This is not so bad.  One glass of wine, one glass of water.  One glass of wine, one glass of water.  I was feeling home free.  Look at me.  I’m a grown up party goer!  Let’s celebrate by skipping the next round of water! 

There’s almost no need to go on.  There was a band.  There was wine.  I was present . . .

After performing an extremely exaggerated version of the white man’s overbite with my boss (who I think did it to be funny, but I did to make fun of him), I embarked on an air guitar contest with his wife (she was quite accomplished at this particular move).  She was in the process of trying to get the band to join us on the dance floor, when I decided a trip to the ladies was in order.  Has this ever happened to you?  You think everything is going well and then suddenly realize you are completely trashed and unable to form words?  “What am I going to do?” I thought.  “Everyone’s gonna know I’m trashed.  Again.”  Oh, bad, bad, bad.  Panic!  Wait . . . brilliant idea!  I just need to sleep it off.  Just a little nap and I’ll be good to go.  Little lesson for those of you finding yourself in need of a public restroom nap:

Step 1:  Lock stall door (extremely important step)
Step 2:  Sit on toilet (with clothes on)
Step 3:  Scoot down on toilet and place both feet on stall door
Step 4:  Cross hands over chest and lean to the side, resting head on stall wall

I was in a dead sleep when my boss’ wife came yelling for me.  Eeek!  I’ve been found out.  Fortunately, she was just as trashed (she had to be – she tried crawling under the stall door when I refused to come out).   I am embarrassed to say that I had totally lost the ability to walk and literally had to be dragged by two of my co-workers and placed in a cab.  And worst of all, the cab didn’t make it two feet, before I made him pull over so I could get sick on the street – in full view of my co-workers!!!  The shame!  Oh, the burning, burning shame!!  After this incident, I vowed to cease attending all office Christmas parties. 

Ahhhh, here’s the kicker.  I changed my mind!  And guess what?  Office Christmas party this Saturday night!  While my intentions are good, I have to face facts.  I am an office Christmas party disaster and must take comfort in the fact that I rarely recall the entire event and have become quite comfortable with the Monday morning walk of shame.  And I suspect I am not the only one . . .  

 

   

My back story

The back is a key piece of the human anatomy.  So key, that when the back “goes out”, your life “goes to shit.”  I should warn you that I write from a place of deep despair and darkness.  Although you might think that spending your entire week-end on your back, packed in ice, and unable to perform any household tasks sounds like a nice idea, I can assure you it is not.

What I find most disturbing (and admittedly this is a bit messed up too), is the fact that I have no “back going out story”.  When anyone asks what I did, I feel the need to embark on a mantra of the things I did not do to bring about this injury:

1.    No, I did not injure my back while performing a triple sow cow on skiis;
2.    No, I did not injure my back while lifting a two ton pick-up truck off a pregnant woman, thereby saving her life and making me a HUGE hero;
3.    No, I did not injure my back while helping my elderly neighbor shovel snow;
4.    No, I did not injure my back performing the bump and grind (to mass applause I might add) at the cabaret;
5.    No, I did not injure my back while climbing Mount Kilimanjaro; (if you know me, you know how truly silly this is); and finally
6.    No, I did not injure my back having sex!!!  Seriously.  I didn’t.  It is NOT a sex injury.  Not.

Anyways.  If you must know.  I injured my back while trying to put my pants on.  See?  Not a good story.  I got out of the shower, erected a hair towel turban, proceeded to put on my pants, and collapsed in a lump on the floor.  I’ve often wondered if I would be a dramatic person if there was nobody around to witness my drama.  Kind of like the tree falling in the forest.  Question answered!  Yes, I am just as dramatic alone as with an audience.  Much screaming and milling about on the carpet in an effort to find a position that relieved the pain.  Sadly, this resulted in my getting a very bad rug burn on my torso and part of my bum.  In the end, I found a very comfortable position, beside the bedroom door, with my feet propped up on a suitcase and my head in the dirty laundry.  And here I proceeded to wait until my lovely husband returned from outside.

Although I’m sure it was only minutes, it seemed like FOREVER until I heard the front door.  While I initially planned to be calm and collected (I decided this after the rug burn situation), upon hearing my husband enter the house, I began screaming for assistance.  It was only as I heard him approaching the bedroom door that I realized the gravity of my situation.  I am wearing underwear and have one leg in my pants.  That’s it.  Oh, and my towel turban.  Oh God.  He’s going to think this is some type of twisted mating ritual.  That I’m trying to “spice it up”.  That I’m into kinky shit!  Oh God!  Sure enough, there was hope in his eyes upon entering the bedroom and finding me indisposed. But I quickly dashed his thoughts by screaming, “This is serious! I’m in a lot of fucking pain” and then bursting into tears. 

Over the next 20 minutes, I proceeded to crawl – still half naked – into the living room.  Now, I’m just putting this out there.  And while it may not be pertinent to the story, it is pertinent to my experience of the event.  I don’t have fake boobs.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  I’ve not ruled out acquiring a pair.  But for now, I’ve got the real deal.  And the trouble with real deal is their (in my opinion) udder like appearance when in certain positions (ie. crawling around on the floor).  I felt like an absolute farm animal, hauling myself around on the carpet.  Self-esteem totally plummeted.  I will NEVER EVER put my pants on before my bra again.  Never.  Little tip from me to you. 

The remainder of my week-end was spent in various states of immobility and self-pity.  The drugs were a big plus.  As were the various stretching techniques my husband suggested I perform, after vigilently researching "back pain" and "pain in the ass".  By Sunday night,  I felt positively geriatric and was convinced that this was it.  Off to the glue factory for me.  Luckily, my sister phoned me to report that she was in much worse shape than I.

My poor sister.  By the time I spoke with her, she was in quite a state.  Earlier in the day, she had gone to the dentist for three crown preps.  Three!  At the same time!!  Unfortunately, the freezing wasn’t working.  They kept poking her and poking her and poking her, but no luck.  Finally they gave her laughing gas, which she described as AMAZING and highly recommended.  It sounded like they got her good and loaded, as she recalled saying to the dentist, “Is this shit legal?” at some point during the procedure.  When she left the office, she was frozen from her forehead right down to her collarbone.  She was teary on the phone when describing how she had to proceed with a pre-scheduled college telephone interview in this frozen state.  “I sounded like Jean-Chrétien!” she exclaimed.  Poor thing.  I assured her the college was well aware that she was not a 75 year old French Canadian man and things will be fine.  The freezing started coming out and things went downhill from there.  She phoned the dentist crying when the pain would not abate and he told her he was worried this would happen – she needs to have a root canal.  Tomorrow.  More crying.  Luckily, he has given her some Tylenol 3s in the meantime.  I was worried, but when I called to check on her, she told me her couch cushions were moving and all she can drink is Yop.  I think she’ll be okay.

Retreat = no meat

It has recently occurred to me that I may be in need of a retreat of sorts.  You know, a place to rest your mind and body.  To relax.  To find peace.  To reflect.  And maybe (if there’s time after all that relaxing and reflecting) to have a massage.  And perhaps a seaweed wrap, followed by a full body exfoliation and rehydration.  And one of those two hour pedicures where they don’t just paint your toes, but massage your feet and legs, while you lounge in a leather recliner chair, sipping coffee and reading trashy magazines.  Ahhh yes.  A retreat is definitely what I need.

And so, I was most intrigued to discover that a friend of mine had recently returned from just such a retreat.  “What a coincidence!” I exclaimed.  “I was just thinking how a retreat is soooooo what I need.  You know, lots of time to think and relax and just really focus on me!”  Feeling totally motivated, I demanded details!  My gosh!  Maybe I can do this for Christmas.  Yes.  I will come back after New Years – trouble free and ready to enjoy life. I bet they have AMAZING bedding.  And all sorts of little tiny soaps and shampoos that smell totally spa like and have really naturey names like “Sage Mint Shampoo” and “Birch Grass Conditioner.”  Yay me!  I’m going on a retreat!

So.  The retreat is in San Diego (fabulous!).  Some people go for weeks, but others have been known to go for up to three months.  Three whole months!  Can’t even imagine.  There are classes offered in the mornings, afternoons and evenings.  These classes vary from meditation to spiritual awareness to yoga.  There is even one class devoted strictly to breathing.  Just breathing in (ahhh) and breathing out (ahhh).  This is supposed to calm the mind and allow one to really reflect on themselves and their troubles.  What a brilliant idea!

The food sounds amazing.  Everything is organic and they don’t serve any animal byproducts.  Now, I do enjoy meat, but in the interests of my mental and physical health, I’m sure I can suffer through a meat free week.   I am eagerly telling my friend this, when she clarifies that no animal byproducts means no cheese.  Hold the bus!  No cheese?  WTF?  How are you supposed to relax?  Okay, okay.  Obviously, a bit tense (hence the need for the retreat).  I can handle this.  I’m sure there’s tons of lovely and exotic fruits and vegetables that will more than satisfy me.  And maybe the fancy dancy chefs can shape my veggies into the shape of a steak or something.  I've heard that's how Cameron Diaz stays so thin - eating meat shaped vegetables.  Anyways - I calmly encourage my friend to tell me more about this lovely place.  Don't want her thinking I'm some type of weirdo.


In the interests of health and wellness, they do not serve any caffeine or alcohol.  “Uh huh.” I hear myself saying.  “But there’s coffee and wine right?”  I can almost hear our friendship shredding itself to pieces.  “No” she says politely.  “No caffeine and no alcohol.  None.”  I am baffled.  No caffeine?  How the fuck I am gonna stay conscious for a two hour mediation class without any freaking coffee?!  And how am I supposed to relax without any wine?  They’ve already taken away the cheese.  Honestly.  Who designs these programs? I mean, they say the want to help people, but if you ask me . . .  I am busy contemplating the absurdy of this entire enterprise, when she continues by explaining that every week there are three juice only days (ie. NO food) and that you are required to take two wheat grass shots per day – one of which is an enema.  Gasp!  Oh my God.  My friend has been brainwashed by some granola vitamin health food cult!  WTF?  Grass in your ass?  It bears repeating.  Grass in your ass?  I can't even begin to imagine the consequences of such a procedure.  And no cheese?  No wine?  No coffee?  Days with no food at all???

Upon further reflection, it would seem that I will not be visiting a retreat any time soon.  Instead, I shall lay in my cosy bed, munching oreos, and blogging about my life.

Christmas Hater

I hate Christmas.  Gasp!  I know it’s a bit controversial, but I do.  I really, really do.  This feeling has been slowly building since I was about 18 years old.  And now that I am 31, it is a firm part of who I am – a grinch – a Christmas hater.  And the reason for this – simple – my family is crazy.  100%, certifiably NUTS.

The worst part about Christmas is that I often forget how much I hate it.  You see, I think that deep, deep down I really am a glass is half-full kind of person.  I spend the first three weeks of December watching Christmas movies and imagining my life as very similar to these fictional characters.  Top Christmas movies include: Love Actually, The Family Stone, The Holiday, Four Christmases and of course – Christmas Vacation (classic).  I drink heaps of Chai Tea in the red Starbucks Christmas cups (can’t get enough of those cups), and by the time I arrive at my parents’ house with a car full of presents, I am feeling warm and fuzzy and ready for my fill of quality family time.  Sure there are bound to be difficult and stressful moments, but we’ll just laugh our way through them – like in the movies.  This thought, I now know, marks the early stages of insanity. 

Since graduating from highschool, I have faithfully returned home for 14 Christmases.  And I can honestly say that each year has offered something a little more bizarre and unsettling than the first. 

There was the year we ran out of ketchup, resulting in my father having a massive meltdown at the prospect of no ketchup with his Christmas meat pie (breakfast special at the Robinsons!).  This involved a long and detailed interrogation of my mother as to exactly how such a thing had occurred.  Did she not realize they were running low on ketchup?  Was the ketchup not on sale that week?  Was she trying to covertly punish my father by failing to purchase his favorite condiment?  By lunchtime they were not talking and my mom’s response to everything was, “Well, whatever you do, don’t mention ketchup.”

My sister’s first year away from home was a nightmare!  Not only was I left to deal with the crazies on my own, but by Christmas Eve, my mom’s parcel had still not arrived at my sisters.  Mom spent the entire day at the kitchen table crying her face off about how my poor sister would not have any presents on Christmas Day and she’d be all alone.  First of all, she was not alone.  She was with her new boyfriend (now husband).  Second, I had spoken with my sister numerous times during the day and confirmed she was not at all concerned about the missing parcel.  Alas, there was no consoling my poor mother, whose despair reached new heights when she remembered that my sister’s stocking was in the parcel.  Fortunately, the boyfriend was working at Greyhound that year and located the illusive parcel.  My mom was overjoyed and declared my sister’s new beau (whom she had not yet met) a saint.  This quickly became known as the year Tim saved Christmas.

My sister has recently married this lovely man.  And as all couples do, you want your loved one to make a good impression on your parents and vice versa.  In my sister’s case, it was the vice versa she really needed to be concerned about.  The first year she brought him home for Christmas was very exciting.  Everytime I spoke to my mom on the phone, she was literally vibrating with enthusiasm.  She had filled two full-sized freezers with Christmas baking and was anxiously awaiting our arrival.  This was going to be great!  There had been tons of snow, and the trees were heavy with white.  I was feeling festive in the extreme – Christmas sweater and everything!  As we pulled up to the house, everything looked beautiful.  Christmas lights were up and . . . what the . . . is that a . . . he didn’t . . .  did he?  Oh, my God.  Although not visible from the road, once you pulled up the driveway and in front of my parent’s house, there was a larger skidder with an upside down gutted cow hanging from it.  To make matters worse, the carcass was dripping blood onto the beautiful white snow, which was being eagerly lapped up by the dog.  Oh my God.  Who does this? 

My mother, as expected, was eagerly awaiting our arrival on the front steps.  The look of shock and awe on my face must have been quite extreme, because before saying anything, she loudly declared, “It’s your father.  I told him not to shoot that damn cow!”  Honestly.  Who are these people?

That Christmas quickly dissolved, as both mine and my sister’s husbands were expected to butcher the cow during the holidays.  To make matters worse, the butchering was to take place in the open air carport on a slab of plywood laid across my mom’s two freezers – which were full of the aforementioned Christmas baking.  Filling up the Christmas goodie tray then became a major production – requiring my father to stop the incessant butchering and move the carcass to allow for access to the plethora of buttertarts and mini quiche that lay beneath.  Rock paper scissors was the only fair way of deciding who would fill up the tray next.

There have also been a number of incidents that are just plain bizarre.  For example, there was the year my dad went to bed at 8:00 p.m. and when he awoke three hours later to find us all still visiting in the living room, decided to make everyone Monte Cristo sandwiches (in just his bath robe).  I gained 5 pounds that Christmas.  And although sleeping in is a “must have” on the Christmas holiday wish list, this is made impossible by my father who rises at 6:00 a.m. and begins making a HUGE breakfast for everyone, while listening to CNN on the highest possible volume.  The bathroom situation is also made difficult by staying at a home with two bathrooms and upwards of 10 people (who have all consumed Monte Cristo sandwiches at 11:00 at night).  When times are desperate, we have been known to drive at extreme speeds to my in-laws house, with the hopes of finding an available bathroom.

Now, I know that Christmas is about giving; not receiving.  However, some of the gifts I have received over the years (from IMMEDIATE family members), have caused me to scratch my head and question my genetic link to these people.  I have received used gifts (admittedly purchased at garage sales), gifts that were purchased with HBC points (and, therefore, came with a note advising that they were not returnable), school supplies (a scientific calculator - when I was in Grade 7!!), and gifts that were purchased some 10 years prior (and the warranty had, therefore, expired 8 years prior).  But the all time winner of the “I don’t know a single thing about you gift” goes to my brother, who gave me a $7.99 Teen Pack when I was 23 years old.  I know it was $7.99 because he left the price tag on.  The pack contained shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, shave gel, a razor, and a pack of gum.     

And so, I am facing yet another year of Christmas with the crazies.  Wish me luck people.  Christmas with family is not for the faint of heart.

The Hangover

Stage 1:  Arrival into consciousness.  It usually starts the same way.  I carefully peel one eye open and glance about the room.  My mouth is dry and my head feels fuzzy.  Where am I?  What day is it?  As the events of the previous night slowly filter into my brain, I am faced with a horrible realization – if what I am vaguely recalling is even remotely true, I am on the brink of (yet another) MASSIVE hangover.   

Now, I am no rookie when it comes to hangovers.  I have been suffering from these “bouts” for a solid 15 years.  Sadly, despite mass amounts of internet research, urban folklore, and the advice my trusted nurse friend, I have yet to find the secret formula for avoiding the 8 to 12 hours of sheer hell and torture that I face the day after the party.

Stage 2:  Departing the bed.  This is an especially tricky and painful part of the hangover process.  I find the difficulty lies in adjusting one’s head from a vertical to a horizontal position.  A quick move can accelerate the hangover process rapidly.  Accordingly, I make every effort to keep my head tilted to the side as I rise from the bed in search of the bathroom. 

Stage 3:  The bathroom. There are a number of disturbing things that tend to occur here.  The first is usually the realization that I am still wearing the previous night’s outfit or portions thereof.  Occasionally, this outfit is decorated with bits of vomit, food and/or drink.  The alternative to this is much, much worse – I am naked.  Now this – this is a truly terrible sight to behold first thing in the morning, beneath florescent lighting.  I am naked, with squinty eyes and terrible posture (see Stage 2 – my head is still tilted to the side).  All in all, this is very bad scene.  Occasionally, I have awoke to find myself dressed in some bizarre contraption that my husband obviously mistook for pyjamas the night before.  Believe it or not, I once woke up in a stuffed bikini top and nothing else.  Concerning.  I know.

Once my eyes have adjusted to the light and my “morning outfit”, I risk a glance at my face.  Yup.  Make-up still on, but shifted slightly down and to the right.  I look like a two bit hooker whose head has been run over by a mac truck.  The hair doesn’t help.  It would seem the previous night’s hairspray is working overtime.  You don’t know the meaning of “extreme hold” until you’ve seen my morning after hair.

Once the necessary toilet items are dealt with (no need to go into any detail here), I turn to the teeth.  It feels as though I have been chewing on moth ball all night.  Two rounds of brushing minimum.  Three if brushing induces vomiting.

Stage 4:  The replay.  Although it is only 7:30 a.m., my unrelenting headache and waves of nausea make it impossible for me to return to bed.  Instead, I lay on the couch, willing myself to drink water, while trying to piece together the events of the previous evening.  With each realization, the pain gets worse.  Spit on boss (shit), grabbed strange man’s bum (fuck), threw up in cab (dear God), did sexual grindy type dance with co-worker (please kill me now). 

Stage 5:  Try and consume food.  Despite consuming mass amounts of food the night before, I am famished.  Unfortunately, my massive headache and waves of nausea make it difficult to prepare much more than toast.  After slowly gumming a piece of dry toast, I run to the bathroom, where I proceed to dry heave for several minutes and eventually dissolve into tears at the misery that is me.

Stage 6:  Back to bed.  The failed attempt at food consumption confirms that I am not fit to be conscious.  I return to bed, where I lay for the next two hours, writhing in pain and burping.

Stage 7:  Guilt.  It is now 2:00 in the afternoon and I am once again awake.  The headache has diminished somewhat, but I remain mentally foggy and on the verge of puking.  With the headache gone, there is now room in my brain for the guilt that inevitably follows making an ass of myself after consuming too much liquor while in the company of others. I vow to never drink again and am purchasing a gym membership tomorrow!  I will recycle more, eat less and intend to drink nothing but nature’s beverage – water.   Am feeling so good, I might even donate money to a local charitable organization like AA (but don’t actually feel it’s necessary to attend a meeting – it’s not like I have “drinking problem”).

Stage 8:  Dirty food.  The guilt has once again become overwhelming and I am now in search of comfort.  Ahhhhhh.  There is nothing so comforting as a dirty burger.  Top option - White Spot cheese burger with double triple O sauce, french fries and a coke.  Oh my, yes!  This is exactly what I need to make me feel physically and mentally better.  Although I appreciate the calorie consumption is somewhat high (ie. approximately 3 days worth), I am convinced the previous night’s dance moves burned a week’s worth of calories.  At least!

Stage 9:  More guilt.  Approximately 15 minutes after consuming the dirty burger, the guilt is actually crippling.  Not only have I gone and made an ass of myself (once again), but I am a pig too.  Who eats like this?!  I am gross.

Stage 10:  Recovery.  By 7:00 p.m., I have returned to my normal sense of self and the guilt is somewhat more manageable.  I politely decline wine with dinner and feel very keen to ensure a healthy, veggie laden dinner is consumed.  I vow to exercise the next day and promise myself I will not drink at the office Christmas party this year.  Sadly, the look on my husband’s face suggests I have made these vows more than once . . .

The Nickname

Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary defines the word “nickname” as “a usually descriptive name given instead of or in addition to the one belonging to a person place or thing.”

While I readily acknowledge that not all people are fans of the nickname, I myself am not one of them.  I readily hand out nicknames to all people near and dear to me (and sometimes to enemies).  Aside from enemies, it has always been my hope that no offence will be taken to the nicknames I have assigned to friends and family and they will see them as a sign of love and affection. 

Until recently, I had given very little thought to this nickname habit of mine.  Like most people, I assume everyone thinks much like me and it, therefore, came as quite a shock to realize that not everyone hands out and makes use of nicknames as readily as myself.  Why would that be?  Where on earth would I have gotten this habitual nicknaming thing from?  A quick little trip down memory lane reveals the answer.  As my counselor once said – “It’s your parents’ fault”.  Or in this particular instance, my father’s.

For as long as I can remember, my father has had nicknames for the majority of his friends and family.  In fact, he rarely, if ever, calls anyone by their real name.  And oddly enough, his nicknames have no real rhyme or reason.  I suppose some can be broken down into geographical categories, while others are more visual.  And some are just down right inaccurate.  Take for example, One Armed John.  Pretty straight forward right?  Not so much.  Despite his name, One Armed John actually has two arms, but only one hand.  At the end of his other arm is simply a rounded stump.  He is a very religious gentlman that has lived down the road from my parents for as long as I can remember.  When I was a child, he taught our bible study class, but everyone was too freaked out by his stump to pay attention.  Consequently, I know none of the disciples’ names and am likely doomed to a hot and fiery eternity.  Oh wait.  John.  John is one of the disciples right?  There.  Not so bad. 

In the visual category, there was Porky – a gentleman whose real name remains unknown to me to this very day.  He operated a forest and marine supply shop in town and was called Porky by EVERYONE in town. Although no one ever specifically said so, I suspect the nickname had to do with his stocky stature and somewhat pig like appearance. 

In the racist category, we had German George.  This one at least made sense.  George was in fact his real name and he was indeed German.  German George also lived down the road from my parents and was known for being notoriously cheap and crabby.  His wife apparently couldn’t stand him and would often tell my father so when he would deliver gravel to her husband.  Dad was a big fan of German George’s wife, who would bake him untold amounts of German baked goods.  I never knew her name.  Dad only ever called her German George’s wife.

In the odor category, we have Stinky Willy, an elderly gentleman who lived in an utterly filthy trailer – you guessed it – just down the road from my parents.  Despite his filth, my father was fascinated by Stinky Willy, who would often write long and detailed letters to him on the back of old cereal boxes (aka garbage) and tape them to his gate.  From what I recall, he lived primarily off of spam and other canned goods, and although he claimed to have once had a wife, this fact remains very suspect. 

In the same name category, we have two sets of competitors – Big Jerry and Little Jerry, followed by Forty Acre Kelly and Ten Acre Kelly.  Big Jerry is actually my uncle (Although not really.  He’s one of those people who has known your parents forever and for some strange reason that made your parents insist on you calling them “uncle”.  For the record, I think this only serves to confuse children and makes family tree building very complicated.  “Uncle” Jerry is married to “Auntie” Marlene, who has the longest and fanciest fingernails I have ever seen.  She also has a large selection of Moo Moos, which she actually wears into town, and prides herself on having achieved the highest score EVER on Nintendo’s Bubble Bobble).  Anyways . . . . some 50 years ago, “Uncle” Jerry had a baby boy.  And, as people so often do, he named him after himself.  Accordingly, it became necessary to differentiate between the two Jerrys and Big Jerry and Little Jerry were born.  Little Jerry is now a 50 year old 300 plus pound man and the name “little” no loner really fits.  That’s the funny thing about nicknames.  They don’t change when the conditions do.  Once a nickname has been assigned, it sticks.

Forty Acre Kelly and Ten Acre Kelly are new to the fold, but at least their names make sense.  Forty Acre Kelly lives on 40 acres down the road and Ten Acre Kelly lives on 10 acres down the road, but in the other direction.  My father has recently stopped using the name “Kelly” and "Acre" altogether and now refers to them as just “Forty” and “Ten”.  Sometimes I phone my mom and when enquiring after my father’s whereabouts, am advised, “Oh, he’s having coffee with Forty. Ten’s on the way.”  Surely this is not normal.

As mentioned above, I too have a number of nicknames for friends and family.  And upon further reflection, it would appear that my names make no more sense than my father’s.  I have named people after their attire, their resemblance to animals and their behavior at parties.  I have shortened last names and made them into first name nicknames and have added onto first names to make them into a food item nickname (aka “The Timbit”).  When it comes to enemies, I am particularly creative with the nicknames.  The top recent names have included the Mahogany Q-Tip, Trasha, the Change Room Stick, and the Quail.

In my opinion, Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary should seriously consider changing their definition of “nickname” to “a usually descriptive name given instead of or in addition to the one belonging to a SUFFICIENTLY BELOVED OR DESPISED person place or thing.”

Pants and the Change Room Stick

I have no pants.  I have NO pants.  I have no goddamn f*&^ing pants! This is the thought that marches through my mind at least 3 times a week as I stand in front of my closet, staring at my numerous pairs of pants.  Nonetheless, I stick firmly to my aforesaid declaration that I indeed have NO pants.  Perhaps it would be more accurate to say I have no pants that fit, no pants I like, no pants that match the top I was planning on wearing, no pants that are not worn to shreds on the upper inner thighs, etc. etc.  But no – I prefer the No Pants morning mantra/rant.  Really gets me going before I hit the road.  Almost no need for coffee.  Almost.

The reason for the lack of pants is really quite simple (and I suspect I am not alone here).  You see – the fact of the matter is that I have seen a lot of pants.  Lots.  Tons! There really are a lot of nice pants out there.  The problem is not in the locating of the pants, but rather in the trying on of the pants. And every freakin’ time I embark on the pants shopping mission, events unfold exactly as they did the time before, and the time before that, and the time before that . . .

First, I march into the store FOCUSED.  I purposely breeze past the enormous selection of handbags, shoes, and other lovely things that need no trying on and head straight for the pants.  I approach my selection with the detailed thought processes of a rocket scientist (aka rules as set out in In Style).  Straight leg?  Boot cut?  Low rider?  Curvy design?  Stretchy fabric?  Dry clean only?   After much consideration, I carefully select a pair that meet all of the rules and requirements for a person with my body type (aka "the Pear").  I am feeling confident as I stride towards the change room and allow myself the mini self-indulgent fantasy of how positively fantastic I will look in these pants and how they will go with absolutely EVERYTHING in my closet.  How they are the perfect combination of dressy and causal without being too dressy or alternatively, too casual.  So by the time I enter the change room and excitedly begin wiggling into the pants, I have already started referring to them as “my” pants.  It is only when “my” pants reach “my” hips that things start to go a little sideways.

The pants aren’t sliding up quite like I imagined.  In fact, there is a decent amount of work required to get them up and around the bum area.  A struggle in the bum area usually (but not always) is a sign that significant trouble is about to be encountered in the front of the bum area.  I hate this part. The button of the pants is looking longingly across my midrift at the hole it stands no chance in hell of reaching.  But alas, I just stand there - crotch thrust forward in a yoga like stance desperately pulling the fabric together with such fierce determination that I actually break a sweat and begin cursing loud enough for the Change Room Stick (who is clearly one of those size zero people) to hear. 

When I finally accept the fact that this store’s size 8 (my size) (okay – my size several years ago immediately before my wedding which I basically starved and exercised myself to death for) is obviously smaller than other stores’ size 8’s, I decide I must try a size up.  A size 10.  So, off to find the size 10.  In situations like this, I prefer to just sneak out and find my own size 10. But of course, the Change Room Stick magically appears, thwarting all efforts to inconspicuously sneak off and dig through the rack for my size.  Great.  Now The Stick knows I’m a size 10. And she’s probably telling all her Stick co-workers that she’s gotta help some fat chick find pants.  Awesome.  Self-esteem is very high today.  Off the charts.

Now.  I really must go into a little rant here about Change Room Sticks.  Why is it that companies are employing these individuals?  Surely it is not good for sales.  I don’t enjoy buying clothes from a Stick and I’m quite sure most people don’t.  I would much prefer to be waited on by a woman three times my size who says complimentary and helpful things like, “Oh my God, those pants make you look absolutely tiny” and “I’d kill to look as good as you in those pants.” Feel like marketing genius and intend to send this idea of mine to the Gap, American Eagle, and Guess.  I have found these companies employ an inordinately large number of Change Room Sticks and feel they could really benefit from my wisdom.  Ahhhh.  Anyways, back to the pants . . .

When The Stick finally returns with the size 10 (she can barely carry them), I tell myself calmly that although this is not really my size, I will just try it on anyhow since I really like these pants and the store is obviously doing something totally bizarre with their sizing.  After wiggling the pants up the thighs and over the bum, things are going well.  Just a tiny bit of sucking in and I’m in!  I’m actually in!  Yay!  As I turn to the mirror, I am silently praying, “Lord, please let them not look as uncomfortable as they feel.  Let them look as though they are just “draping” off my svelte figure.  Let them hang from my hips and make me look waifish and malnourished (a look I so desperately covet)”.    Unfortunately, the dressing room mirror is a most unforgiving sort - making things bulge where they shouldn’t, making things look tighter than they really are.  Making people look as if they are trying to wear sizes smaller than they actually are.  I cannot discern what precisely the problem is, but whatever it is, it aint good.  Perhaps it’s the bunching and pulling in the crotch area.  Or the fact that my thigh girth has actually pushed the pockets straight out to either side, making me looking like some type of Mountie Wannabe.   And there seems to be very little room in the thigh area, giving the pants a somewhat spandex appearance.  Whatever it is, I find myself once again, leaving a store without any pants.  Oh well.  I think it would be hard to give up my morning rant.

Home Study Question:



1.  Why did the main character not try on a size 12 pants?

Answer:

1.  Because that's NOT her size.

Storyteller by nature

I often wonder if I am the only one who after returning home from a visit with the parents, leaves with a headache and deep seated fear that I might just be their biological offspring.

The first few years after college weren’t too concerning. It was in my mid to late twenties that I started to notice. They might truly be mad. “Mad” as in “loco”, “coo koo”, “off their rocker”. You get the idea.

I suppose the first “incident” that made me question their sanity was the pigeon incident. The story has grown incredibly famous within our family and for my mother’s sake, I will say at the outset that it was all my father’s idea. There. Happy mom? It was not your idea and there was nothing you could have done to prevent it.

Ever since I can remember, my father has been a fan of farm animals. You name it, we had it. Horses, cows, chickens, pigs, sheep, rabbits, and foxes (that’s another story). Around the time I was 10 years old, he decided it would be nice to have pigeons flying around and shitting on everything in our yard. And so, he built a little house next to the chicken coup and called it the “pigeon coup”. I must say that the pigeon coup was much nicer than the chicken coup and I often suspected the chickens were quite put out by the whole housing situation. In any event, following the erection of the pigeon coup, my father trotted off to the auction to purchase some pigeons. As an aside, it should be noted that whenever possible, my father will purchase animals, cars, household appliances, and mechanical devices at auctions. He does not believe in paying full price for anything and I suspect he rather enjoys the social scene created by several hundred men standing around and dickering over crap.

The pigeons that were eventually purchased were “homing” pigeons. There was talk of “racing” the pigeons, but thank goodness that idea never really took off. And so the pigeons became a regular fixture of the Robinson yard. They would have babies in the spring (terribly ugly creatures) and as previously noted, fly around shitting on everything in our yard.

It took approximately eight years for my father to decide that he had had enough of the pigeons. They were expensive to feed, their “coup” was filthy and you couldn’t eat them (big draw back in my father’s world). Although the pigeons had never actually been “raced” and there was little evidence to suggest they were “homing”, my father crept into their house under the darkness of night, and put each and every one of them into a covered cage. For some reason, he was concerned that if the pigeons were able to see the route he was driving, they would be able to find their way home.

After two hours of driving, my father decided he had traveled far enough. He pulled into an auction yard (of course) and released the pigeons. Satisfied that he had rid himself of these messy, expensive and inedible creatures, he picked up a Big Mac and headed for home. You can imagine his surprise, when he arrived to see that the pigeons were still there. They had beat him home! Despite having zero professional training and being kidnapped under the cover of night, the pigeons had found their way home. To describe my father as ecstatic would be a massive understatement. Not only were his homing pigeons actually “home”, they were quick! For years afterwards, my father would relay this story to friends and family; touting the massive intellect (and geographical sense) of his auction purchased homing pigeons. Although they continued to cost a fortune to feed, their coup was filthy and they remained inedible, the pigeons were just too good a story to let go.

Tiny Dancer?

Let me just start by saying that I am not a fit person.  I do not enjoy excercise and have found numerous excuses/reasons to avoid it.  Namely:

1. I have a terribly busy and important job that leaves me too mentally exchausted to engage in any form of physical activity after work.  Truth:  Although busy, am not particularly integral to the success of the organization.  In fact, suspect organization would continue running just fine without my presence. 
   
2. Choosing a venue to perform the exercise is exceptionally complicated and after being very busy and important at my job, I simply do not have the mental energy to devote to such serious decision making.  I mean there are gyms, dance studios, pilates studios, yoga studios, recreation centres, acquatic centres, running clubs, spinning clubs, hiking clubs, biking clubs.  Need I say more?  How can one possibly narrow it down?
3.  I don't want to get too muscular.  I know this sounds silly, but I really believe that beneath my fleshy exterior, lies a physique that would qualify for entry in the Strong Man Competition.  Seriously - I have HUGE legs.  Lord knows how big they'll get if I start exercising them.  Best not to start.
4. I turn purple when I exercise and it lasts for at least an hour afterwards.  This means I cannot run to the grocery store or Walmart after the exercise, thereby severely limiting the amount of week-day evening errands I am able to perform.

As you can see, I have a number of solid reasons for not exercising.  Nevertheless, after a summer of indulgence upon indulgence, I was struck by my semi-annual desire to "get fit".  This desire usually occurs right before bathing suit season (June) and right before jeans season (September).  And so, it was with this new found dedication to exercise and fitness that I purchased shiny new runners, a 10 day membership to a "dance fitness studio" and promptly enrolled in a Cardio Dancercize class.

I must say that I was quite excited en route to my Dancercize class and had seriously contemplated wearing a Dirty Dancing inspired outfit (tights under panties, tank top, no bra and high heeled shoes), but thought this might be a bit too much for the first class.

All I can say is "thank goodness" something snapped me out of my dilluded Dancercize fantasy and I chose to wear black shorts, a ridiculously supportive sports bra, tank top and running shoes.  Although I didn't feel particulary sexy and Dancerizey, I was grateful not to have arrived in panties and high heels (as apparently I was the only one who had contemplated such an outfit).

Neither the Dancersize class, nor the participants, lived up to my expectations.  There was a larger woman who seemed intent upon maintaining physical contact with the back wall the entire class.  In addition to this odd behavior, she kept suggesting to the instructor that we dim the lights as it would prevent everyone from seeing how fat she was (after this, she laughed like crazy and began rubbing her face).  Next to enter the class was an albino woman of approximately 7 feet in height, accomopanied by her much smaller friend, who I think was deaf.  I must admit that at this point I was feeling pretty confident and began performing a series of complicated stretching exercises (so the others would appreciate that I was clearly not new to exercise).

The arrival of our instructor left me somewhat concerned.  She was a very tiny and fit little thing, who in addition to looking 1000% times better in spandex than myself, didn't require the mega supportive sports bra.  In fact, no bra AT ALL!  Nope.  Just a little tank top with spagetti straps.  I think instead of breasts, she might have just had little muscle plates.

The music begins and I am LOVING Dancercize class.  "Rythym is a Dancer" is blasting and I slide easily into my favorite fantasy of me as lead back up dancer for Madonna or Justin Timberlake.  Ahhhhhh . .  this is bliss.  I really should exercise more often.  By the end of "Rhythym is a Dancer", I feel amazing.  Heart rate is up and I have produced some sweat.  Little sip of water and I should be good for the next song.  Except . . . What? There is no break and no time for water?  Well, that seems a little strict. We are quickly moving into the next song and the instructor is bring out . . . exercise balls?  No, no, no.  What about about all the tap and slides, the jazz hands, the boot shakes?

Dancercize took a very serious nose dive from here on out.  Although I have only a spotty memory of the last 55 minutes of class, I know there was a step, an exercise ball, approximately 100 lunge kicks (during which I became completely disoriented and almost kicked the albino), and a variety of other painful exercises I was both unwilling and unable to perform.  I lost all feeling in my feet approximately 15 minutes into the class and I have not idea how long it took me to notice that my shorts had slid down, thus revealing the top portion my HUGE FAT WHITE ASS to the entire class (That's right.  All three of them).

I left Dancercize class crippled and discouraged.  As initially suspected, exercise is extremely difficult.  I was lured in by the fancy class name and visions of myself purchasing extra small panties at La Senza.  Sigh.  I am enrolled in bootcamp next week . . .

Vanity and the magic carpet

The best thing about close girlfriends is that they accept you for who you are and would never judge you based on your possessions or lack thereof. Assuming this is true, what would possess a sensible thirty something woman to rent a rug doctor two days before her girlfriends` arrival? I`ll tell you what - vanity!

Before I launch into a detailed description of what quickly became known as the ``carpet week-end``, let me just say - who puts white carpet in a dining room? Who?! What kind of madness is that? Don`t get me wrong - the carpet was not disgusting, but it had a small stain and looked a little greyish in areas.

And so, on a whim of self-reliance (and vanity), I rented my first rug doctor. After battling the 20 pound beast into my car and up the stairs, I was exhausted but motivated. Instructions are fairly straightforward. Add soap to hot water. Add hot soapy water to tank. Commence!

I realized I was in trouble when foam starting ejecting itself from the back of the doctor onto my shins. This can`t be right I thought. After several stops and starts, I realized that the compartment clearly labeled ``no foam in here`` was in fact FULL of foam. I must admit that things proceeded much more smoothly after I got that bit sorted out. So, off to bed I go - looking forward to waking up with a shiny clean white carpet.

Sadly, I did not wake up to the shiny white carpet of my dreams. Instead, I woke up to a musty smelling house with ENORMOUS brown sticky patches everywhere. Although I was concerned, I was in a hurry to get to work and thought that perhaps it just needed a little air. And so, I set up a fan and off I went - convinced things would look much better upon my return that afternoon. Not so.

Upon opening my front door, I knew things were not good. That smell. That awful, putrid, wet dog smell filled my house. And those brown sticky spots - still there. In a fit of panic, I phoned my most neat freak friend who owns a steam cleaner (who even knew these existed) and she graciously lent me the wonder machine. No biggy, I thought. The girls do not arrive for another day. Plenty of time to repair the damage.

Although easier to use, this home steam cleaning device did nothing to improve the situation and actually made the lone stain a little brighter! I was mortified. With no time to fix the situation, my friends were destined to witness the humiliation that was my carpet.

Fortunately, my lovely friends were very encouraging and said things like ``it`s not that bad`` and ``maybe you can get a rug``. And so, rugs were purchased and laid down, but I was bothered by what I knew lay beneath . . .

Saturday morning. 8:30 a.m. I place a call to a professional carpet cleaner. He says he can be in and out before we need to leave for the spa. Joy! Am strong independent woman who has solved my problem like any sensible person in my predicament would do - with money.

Although the arrival of the carpet cleaning van filled me with joy and relief, the emergence of the carpet cleaner man filled me with shock and concern. He was approximately 55 years old with the most thread bare white shirt I have ever seen. Thanks to the thread bare shirt, one was able to gain a glimpse at what lay beneath - a mat of black curly hair that appeared to match the mop on his head, which was kept in place by what I believe to be Richard Simmons` original sweat band. When I realized the man was also wearing short shorts and knee high sport socks, I actually threw up a little in my mouth.

Although his appearance was bad, his personality was even worse. In the first 10 minutes of meeting him, I learned he owned a complex in the north end of town, which he was hoping to sell for over $1 million. He had planned to retire last year, but due to market conditions this would have to wait. He is planning a $50,0000 year long vacation to Australia, New Zealand, Thailand and Dubai and ALL of his ex girlfriend want to come with him (wink, wink. Ewwwww). He sexually harassed my girlfriend - apparently spurned on by her freshly showered wet hair (again - ewwww) and then proceeded to embark on a massive question period concerning the state of nursing in this province. It was bad. Very bad.

I paid $168 to that vile carpet cleaning man, and left for the spa convinced that my carpet had been repaired and the girls' week-end could proceed without further interruption.

You must see where this is going. Shocking as it is - he made it worse! He actually made it worse. I paid $168 to an extremely hairy and socially retarded individual, only to have my carpet look worse! What is that fucking carpet made of??? I was astounded, defeated and humiliated. By this point, I had spent well over $200 towards absolutely destroying my carpet (and the odor of my home).

Fortunately, my story has a happy ending. You remember my neat freak friend with the steam cleaner? Ahhhh, yes. She assessed the damage done by carpet cleaning man and professed her machine could do the job! I was doubtful, but curious. And so it came to be that Shawna Bo Bawna's Costco purchased carpet cleaner saved the day. It would seem that both the doctor and the carpet cleaner man had applied WAY too much soap, and all that was needed was a hot water rinse to suck up all that nasty soap residue. Who knew!

Strange, but true - the carpet cleaning incident caused many a laugh and has resulted in four women now possessing the very strong conviction that their homes require hardwood flooring. Immediately.

To be or not to be a "blogger"

For some time now I have been contemplating the idea of becoming a "blogger". Quite honestly, the idea has a lot of appeal.

#1) Is a seemingly brilliant way of excising the plethora of useless nonsense that marches around my brain all day.
#2) Perhaps discover that other people have similar nonsense floating around in their brains and thereby feel much better about self.
#3) Get to feel all creative and artsy fartsy.
#4) Perhaps get discovered by newspaper with enormous circulation and become overnight international writing sensation!!

But if I am to become a "blogger"(Can I stop putting that in quotes? I'm going to stop putting that in quotes. Pretty sure it's unnecessary), what will I write about? What if I have nothing to write about? Zero. Nata. Zilch. Who will read my blog then? Who wants to read about nothing? I mean Seinfeld was about nothing and people watched that, but . . . no.

And how often would I have to blog to be considered a blogger? Every day? Every week. Once a month? And how long would each blog have to be? Is there a minimum number of words like for college essays? I hate minimum numbers of words. So much pressure! If I didn't know I needed to make at least 200 words, I could probably come up with 500, but if you tell me I need 200 words, I'm stuck at 75. Zero. Nata. Zilch. See the theme? Nice huh? I think I lot of blogs have themes and their readers like that. And what are they called? The people who read these blogs. I guess I could blog about that.

Maybe I could blog about work? My job is a virtual gold mine of blogging material! And endless supply of hilarious crap comes out of that place. But then if my work people start reading my blog (or worse yet, my boss!), then I likely wouldn't write the things I really wanted to write because it might hurt someone`s feelings or be offensive (or I'll get sacked) and then I`m not writing what I want to write, I`m writing some censored version of what I want to write and who wants to read that?

After watching Julie and Julia last week, I was totally motivated to dedicate my life to blogging! I laid in bed that night thinking of what I could blog about and decided I would blog about the books I read. Was very pleased with myself as I drifted off to sleep. In the harsh light of day, however, I realized that I would have very little to say about the books I read. I'm just not that deep. I would be the Siskel and Ebert equivalent of book review blogging - thumbs up, thumbs down. How helpful is that?

Is it ludicrous to contemplate blogging about the number of things I could blog about if I wanted to? Could that be the premise of my blog? Would people actually read that? Would any of these people happen to work for a newspaper with an enormous circulation? See the "theme"? Nice huh? I think the blogger readers will really like that.

The baby crisis

So, first let's start with the stats. Am married, am 30 (and just over 6 months), majority of close friends have at least two children, youngest sister is contemplating "trying" in two months directly after her wedding. Have I thought about having babies? Yes. Do I think about it every day? No. Do I worry about not thinking about it everyday? Yes. Is that normal? Not sure.

If I think about lying in bed when I am 85 years old and having nobody to visit me because I decided not to procreate when I was young and vital, I feel I should definitely have them. Tout suite! But if I think about not being able to plan lengthy trips to exotic destinations for the next 20 years, losing the elasticity in my stomach, and my breasts looking more like stretched out nylons than perky citrus fruits, I think "Lord, no!" and quickly consume 7 birth control pills as though they were tic tacs.

So there you have it. What to do?

Oddly, maternity clothes are a big positive to having the babies. Have you seen the maternity clothes lately? Stylish jeans, cute dresses, nice tops. And it all looks so comfy! Very keen to get the maternity clothes. Very keen to eat what I like. Not very keen about the whole "exit procedure" though. Despite hours of research, I have been unable to locate a single article contemplating an alternative "exit procedure" or my specifically, "exit location". I have suspected for a long time, that scientists were not working on this, and it would appear my suspicions are correct. Not one ounce of research is being devoted to this. In my darker moments, I believe this is a government conspiracy aimed at controlling the population. I mean really? They can put a man on the freakin' moon, but they can't alleviate labor pains or collateral vagina/abdomen damage. Really?

But honestly, being a twosome can get quite boring. Perhaps it wouldn't be bad if you had scads of money and could do what you liked, whenever you liked. But the reality is that life is just not that financially dreamy for me, and so we spend alot of time watching the TV. Watching the TV. Watching the TV. And then you start thinking, "You know - we could be watching our baby instead of the TV." And then he's thinking, "Oh my God, I'm going to get some sex." And voila! Procreation.