Excuse me – is that a mullet headband you are wearing?

I am growing out a pixie cut right now and I am at that really awful awkward stage where my hair isn’t quite long enough to be a bob – but isn’t really short anymore either. From a distance I kind of look like I am wearing a bad wig or a really snazzy helmet made out of hair.

Every morning I get up and blow dry it and try to coax an extra inch of hair out of my head. I have tried making it all scrunchy/wavy, tried the flat iron, have even tried hair clips and Molly’s barrettes (not proud of that one) but nothing is helping.

At my last trim/clean up cut my hairdresser suggested I try some hair extension to get me through the awkward stage. She showed me that she has them and explained that they are made from real hair and you can do whatever to them. She brought over the girl who does extensions for the salon for a quick consult and at the start of the meeting I actually had some hope that my days of looking like I was wearing a hair helmet were finally numbered.

Until I found out the price…

It turns out that because my hair is thicker than a Sasquatch who has been using Rogaine - it would take like a bazillion extensions to fill it in properly, and would cost between $800 and $1,000.

What in the holy hell? And the best (or worst) part is that since I wash my hair everyday the extensions are only good for about four to six weeks. So in theory – I would probably have to fork out that amount twice to get through the awkward phase. The woman offered up that if I didn’t wash my hair so compulsively they would last a lot longer. “If you only wash your hair once a week they would last way longer – like probably six months.”

“And how often do your clients who have access to running water wash their hair? I am all for saving a dollar and trying to get the most out of these extensions – but ONCE A WEEK? Am I being too obsessive compulsive disorder about this? I get the whole every other day, and can maybe even get on board the once every three days train – but once a week? I wouldn’t wear the same clothes for a week – so really? Not washing your hair for a week?”

I was feeling a weird mix of total disgust with a side of prude and she didn’t help by volunteering that she washes her hair about every 10 days. She then offered that in fact she is VERY clean – and that maybe I am TOO clean. But she said it with a tone that implied that I was all boring vanilla and she was all wild-child having sex on chandeliers and stuff while I was at home wearing a prairie dress and plucking chickens.

All I knew at this point was that there was no way I was letting this woman do my extensions since I had totally offended her (and didn’t feel like being burned 1000 times by a teeny tiny extension iron) and that I was pretty grossed out.

On the drive home I remembered I had a left-over, never-used Jessica Simpson extension kit from my wedding. Jackpot! I just had to figure out how to clip in the “almost like real hair” and make sure I didn’t stand too close to open flame since I have heard those bitches will go up like a Roman Candle.

I got home and read the extension kit’s enclosed instructions and watched the suggested video and started getting to work clipping those babies in. It wasn’t going as well as expected and after about half an hour of clipping, curling, brushing and fixing - I looked nothing like the perky-ass Jessica featured on the packaging. I looked a lot more like a pissed off woman wearing a hair helmet and a headband with a mullet attached. Fuck you Jessica and your annoyingly perky sidekick Ken Paves! I looked like someone in one of those “people of Wal-Mart” emails.  

Since I am too embarrassed to go back to Greasy for the extensions, I am resigned to the fact that I am going to look like a blond version of Speed Racer for the next couple months.

Hey is that Speed Racer?...Nope, no...that is just
Amy and her awesome hair helmet.

Why some people maybe shouldn't have kids...

My husband and I both work downtown. This morning was my turn to drop the kids off at daycare so I came into the downtown core a bit later than usual. As soon as I hit downtown, traffic started to snarl-up and as usual, people started to drive a bit crazy. 

On top of all the cars jockeying around – you have to watch out for cyclists flying in and out of traffic. There are quite a few people who ride their bikes to work here – and while I salute their commitment – I also think they are a bit nuts. The roads downtown are really narrow and traffic moves quickly and erratically as people swerve their vehicles around parked cars, slow drivers, pot holes…you name it. I am nervous in my van – never mind on a bike.

So, this morning when I spotted a woman riding up the white dotted-line between cars who are driving 50 km/hour on a narrow four-lane street – I just shook my head and tried to get around her. But then – and I think this is when the woman beside me noticed too because we both slammed on our brakes at about the same time – SHE HAD A TODDLER STRAPPED TO HER BIKE IN A BIKE SEAT BEHIND HER!

At the next red light, I was still beside the woman who slammed on her brakes and we looked at each other and gave each other that disbelieving head shake. The other driver pointed to the woman on the bike and I am pretty sure she mouthed “what the fuck?” My sentiments exactly fellow driver!

I was behind the woman cyclist and her kid for about four more blocks before I turned right and she went left – but for those four blocks my entire body was so tense I think almost ripped the steering wheel off and my ass definitely did not touch the seat. As I watched her dart between cars and change lanes I was actually yelling and pointing at other cars telling them to watch out, move over and slow down.

I made it to work by 8:00 am and was exhausted and in need of a drink. That woman (and kid) must have nerves of steel! I have no idea how she does it everyday. Maybe she is medicated? That would explain a few things. I have never had such a stressful drive into work, and next time I come into downtown late, I am sure as shit not taking that route. My nerves cannot handle seeing that woman again.

Taken on my phone after I finally pried my claw off the wheel. Why she decided now
was a good time to go on the sidewalk instead of about 10 blocks back I will never know.
Good luck and god speed!

Lola the Koala Showgirl

Molly and I along, with my friend M and her daughter went to Build-a-Bear on Saturday. All the boys in our respective families had gone to Monster Jam (a monster truck show) so M and I decided to do something fun with the just the girls. Since both our daughters are crazy for stuffed animals right now, we though an afternoon making teddy bears would be a great way to spend the day together.  

As we walked up to the store, the first thing we saw was the big teddy bear mascot blocking the door. Molly is pretty cool with most things, but she has reached her limit with big, dumb-ass mascots. The bear was making people give him high-fives to get in – so Molly marched up - gave him the token high-five and was like “alright sir – I have done my duty – step aside.” That bear wasn’t moving, so Molly took a swing at him - but since he was busy accosting M’s daughter and trying to get her to give him a high-five, he didn’t notice Molly. She gave him a disgusted look and pushed her way past him into the store - pausing only briefly to hit up his handler for a bear sticker on her hand on the way in. 

It was going okay for the first few minutes, but then I could tell Molly was already starting to check out and get bored. After she picked her bear (which was actually a cute and fuzzy little grey koala) she took her sticker off her hand and slapped it dead between her eyes. She then started telling anyone who would listen that “this is my move...” She would bust into a combo Beyonce butt bounce dance with a disco arm pointing thing, followed by vogue-ing into her final stance of her hips thrown out to one side, and both her hands on her waist.

Based on this, it was clearly going to be left up to me to finish the koala as Beyonce Jr worked on “her move.” M and her daughter were behind us in the process and I kept looking back at them as they were laughing and sharing some quality time. This was not how I pictured this day going down at all!

After I finished stuffing and fluffing the koala – it was time for Molly to pick an outfit for her new stuffed friend. Panties were first and Molly picked a pair of hot pink hello kitty ones…so far so good. Then we moved to the actual outfits and I shit you not – there had to of been at least 300 girl outfits alone, not to mention the accessories (everything from clip on cell phones, roller-skates, earrings to headbands).

I was trying to show Molly some princess looking outfits when she spotted the only hootchie momma looking dress in the whole place. She was insistent that was the one she wanted and there was no talking her out of it. The dress she picked had a hot-pink and low-cut bodice with a black skirt covered in multi-coloured sequins. It looked like something a transvestite would wear. She found matching glittery earrings – and Lola the Hootchie Showgirl Koala was born.

Lola...sharing some quality "get to know you" time with Sleep Sheep.

Molly (with the sticker still between her eyes) and Lola the Showgirl started Beyonce butt shaking around the store. I was getting the questionable stare from plenty of parents, but – Molly – oblivious to it all – was busy telling everyone that Lola was a dancer so she didn’t need shoes. Sweet Jesus. At least she didn’t ask if they had any four inch stilettos and maybe a pole for Lola.

M’s daughter on the other hand has picked a pastel pink and blue bear, and had dressed her in a wedding dress. She named her Heart Love and said she was going to get married and become a momma.

When we got back to my house, we sat Lola and Heart Love beside each other on a stool while the girls ran off to play. As the stuffed animals sat there side by side – it was hard not to compare the two’s handiwork.

M started laughing and saying it was so funny since the girls were so different and the stuffies reflected them perfectly. Yeah – easy for the mother of the girl who picked out a wedding dress to laugh about! “I told you I am totally screwed - I think we are looking at a replica of Molly’s future prom dress!”

M suggested maybe Lola can be a bridesmaid at Heart Love’s wedding. I wouldn’t count on it - I don’t think that is how Lola will roll. I don’t see Lola being anyone’s wingman.

Lola and Beyonce Jr getting some well earned sleep

Our seven year anniversary

August 20 was the seven year anniversary of Anders and my first official meeting. We sat next to each other at an 80s party thrown by a good friend of mine – and just like in the sappy movies - everyone else just sort of faded away and I locked in on Anders.

The night we met...

Before this, I guess you could say we vaguely knew each as we were both living in the same small town (Castlegar) and were both working on the same construction project. We were working on it from the opposites sides though -  he was an engineer for the company building the project – and I was working in public relations for the company who owned the project. Although I was at the construction site quite a bit - giving tours, taking pictures, etc., he was in project management and was in the site office so we never had reason to meet. 

Looking back - it is odd we didn't meet sooner as I knew quite a few of his colleagues’ pretty well, and he knew and socialized with a lot of my friends. But fate has a funny way of intervening and making sure things happen as they should. Anders had gotten out of a long relationship in 2004, and was finally just getting ready to start dating. I had also just gotten out of a very long relationship and was finally ready for a fresh start myself. So looking back, it is funny how things – when they are meant to be – just kind of all click together. If we had met even a few months earlier - who knows how it would have turned out?

Our wedding day...

We actually almost didn’t meet that night. I had just moved from Castlegar back to Cranbrook for a new job, and was still pretty high on the bitter scale from my last break up. I almost didn’t go, but my friend was known for throwing great parties, and I thought it would be a good way to re-enter the land of the living. Anders had played golf for about 10 hours that day, and was sun burned and exhausted. Lucky for me – his friends talked him into coming to the party instead of going home.

Max and Molly in the making...

It is true what they say – at least for me anyway – that you just kind of know right away. From that first night, I just felt so comfortable and safe with him. We have talked every day, at least once, since that first meeting and I have never had to worry (and still don’t) about my heart in his hands because I knew he would treat it better than his own. We may have officially gotten married in May of 2008, but I think of August 20 as our true anniversary as ever since that first night – my heart, body and soul have belonged to Anders.

An old dog can learn new tricks

We have lived in our current house for just over two years. In this time, Rusty has never escaped from our fenced backyard. Not once.

During the day when we are at work we leave Rusty in the house. Although Rusty has never had an accident – he is definitely looking for the facilities by the time we get home. So, last Thursday, knowing Max had a doctor’s appointment at 4:00 pm, I left work 10 minutes earlier than planned so I could stop at home to let Rusty out before I picked up the kids to go to the doctor. It was a beautiful day and the little guy looked so happy out in the yard - soaking up some sun in the freshly cut grass - that I made the snap decision to leave him outside. I put his water dish on the deck and left to go get the twins.

I should explain that every day when picking up the kids, I get the same shit show every single time. I walk into the daycare and clearly see that they are happily playing, but once they spot me, it is like a scene from a child abduction movie. They start wailing and screaming, hitting me and begging not to get in the van. Yeah – I feel pretty awesome about myself every afternoon.

Anyway, my theory – and I am sure I will find out more from their therapists in the years to come – is that they have had such a good time and are so busy all day that they are just completely overwhelmed and exhausted by the time I get there. I imagine they are saying “Sweet Fancy Moses Woman! Where in the hell have you been? We are exhausted here and need some quiet time! So can you get my damn shoes on – grab my shit – and get us out of here please!” instead of what they actually say – which sounds a lot more like a shrieked version of “I don’t like you,” and “I want to stay here.”

So knowing this is what I would be up against, and knowing I would still somehow need to wrangle them into the doctor’s office - I decided to bring along a little bribe in the form of licorice and orange pop. Nothing like straight sugar to get a child to cooperate, start listening and settle down right? I can see the flaws in my logic now - but at the time, it seemed like a pretty kick-ass plan. And to my credit, it worked for about 18 minutes. They got really quiet, and all I could hear was the crinkle of wrappers and the slurp of straws. I was feeling pretty smug with myself.  

When we got to the doctor’s office, I threw open the van doors – and son of a bitch – it was like they been snorting meth the entire drive. Molly’s eyes were rolled back in her head and she was picking invisible bugs off her skirt and Max was kicking the back of the seat in front of him so quickly his little legs were a blur.

I now had two super juiced-up, whiny, overtired and sobbing kids who - thanks to the sugar pumping through their veins - could now scream even louder, and run away from me even faster. Awesome. Plus they are smart enough to know that I won’t really correct them sternly or yell at them in public. So they stood there, all jacked up and twitching - just out of arm’s reach - taunting me and knowing I couldn’t do jack shit since we were in front of a bunch of people. (I totally blame all the omega 3 for prenatal brain development which I took by the fistful during my pregnancy.)

So – finally – two nurses, one doctor and a clean bill of health later - the three of us stumbled out of the office and into the sunlight. The kids had finally crashed out – but were a total mess. They were exhausted, covered in sticky pop and licorice residue, and their little faces and eyes were all puffy from crying. I was a hot mess all on my own as the kids had knocked a giant antibacterial gel pump off the counter and it blew up at my feet.    

When we got home, the kids happily sank into the couch to detox and I cracked a beer and called Anders to see when he would be home so I could pace my drinking accordingly. That is about when I remembered I had left Rusty outside. I opened the door and called – but no Rusty. I went outside to look, but still, no Rusty. All the gates were closed, so unless he had been abducted by his mother ship, that little bugger had figured out how to escape.  

I raced out of the front of the house and frantically started calling him. Our neighbor across the street told me that he had just chased Rusty out of his garage about 10 minutes before we got home. At least I knew that he hadn’t been abducted – he was clearly enjoying a hall pass and couldn’t be too far. I raced back inside and started putting my shoes on so I could chase him when I realized that I couldn’t go anywhere. I had two burned-out junkies coming down from their sugar high on my couch.

Without knowing what to do – and picturing Rusty riding shotgun as a grill ornament – I ran back outside and kept calling him from our front yard. I am not going to lie – I was getting pretty panicked. Anders wasn’t due home for at least an hour and Rusty wouldn’t last long out there on his own. He is about as car smart as a caveman, and my two junkies were not up to the task of helping my look for him. I was pretty frazzled, and about to start crying myself when the little jackass came trotting around the corner from the bottom of our street. Luckily a woman who lives down around the corner from us had spotted Rusty in her yard, and recognized him as my dog. She knew we lived up the hill and was kind enough to bring him back.

Rusty enjoying his jail break. Damn dog.

She was very nice, and I am pretty sure I scared her just a smidge with my over the top and extra loud reaction. By this point in the day I had totally lost all sense of appropriateness and volume control and am pretty sure I shouted “Holy Fuck” at some point in the conversation. I may need to take her flowers or something.  

Since Thursday – Rusty has busted out three more times. We have tried putting rocks in the low spots under the fence where we think he could wiggle out, double checked for any holes, and somehow that little (not so) dummy still gets out.

On Friday morning – my neighbor came over and rang our bell to tell me that Rusty was out again and that he had also shit on their lawn right in front of their entryway. Nice touch Rusty – way to make friends and influence people. 

We haven’t had a chance to meet a lot of our neighbors yet – between work, kids, and life, it just hasn’t happened. And I am not sure if coming by to scoop my dog’s shit off their lawn (or shouting really loud profanity in their faces) is the best way either – but that little meeting led to us taking our kids over to their house on Sunday afternoon for a kid’s pool party. We ended up having beers on their deck while the kids played – and it turns out they are really nice people. And all the kids really get along. 

So – look at that! Rusty is doing what we haven’t been able to do in two years – he is helping us to meet our neighbors and make some friends. When people say that getting a pet will help you meet people - I am not sure if this is exactly what they had in mind - but we will take it.

(PS - As I was just getting ready to post this – a kid knocked on our door holding Rusty. When Anders answered, the kid asked Anders if we knew this stray dog. To Anders credit, he actually said he was ours. God damn it Rusty! Make that four escapes since Thursday.)

Things I wish someone had told me…

I am finally completing Max and Molly’s baby books, and as part of it, the book suggests that you write a letter to the grown up Max and Molly offering your hopes and dreams for them, as well as advice and stories/learnings from your own youth.

I have done some seriously stupid shit in my life – and I am not sure if Max and Molly should be told any of it.

There is the standard kind of dumb-ass stuff you do as a kid – which, when looking-back, makes you believe in a higher power since you and about 10 of your friends weren’t killed instantly (taking turns being pulled on a GT Snowracer behind a truck at about midnight down the main highway in Cranbrook in the dead of winter comes to mind) and then there is the dumb shit you did that makes you do that sharp intake of air through clenched teeth. The “yikes – that was not good” kind of stuff.

And when you think about it – the “yikes” moments are the ones that hold real value. Every kid – whether we like it or not – is going to do the standard dumb stuff. But if we can teach our kids about our yikes moments, we might be able to stop them from doing at least some of the stupid stuff we did. Right up there with don’t get into a vehicle with a stranger – we should be telling them not to get totally shit-faced and call ex-boyfriends/girlfriends, or send any kind of email or social media update.

With this in mind, I started my letters to the future Max and Mo. I had all of the usual stuff – telling them to find something that they love and turn that into a career, to follow their passion, be kind and compassionate, and to always remember how special they are. But then I think I started to take a bit of a left turn from the book’s creator’s original intent when I found myself typing, “Always remember that you can’t dance. Don’t be fooled by the three drinks you just had. You are a Norwegian, Swedish, English and Hungarian mix and you should note that none of these cultures are known for their rhythm or awesomeness on the dance floor. Sit your John Travolta ass back down and have another drink.”

At first read – it seems a bit harsh considering how we try so hard to encourage our kids, and to teach them that the sky is the limit. But my thinking is that if someone had reminded me that I can’t dance for shit, I would never have thought that doing the Macarena on top of a speaker at a dance club was a great plan. This would mean that I wouldn’t have gone ass over tea kettle in front of hundreds of people, and ended up in the emergency room explaining to a doctor why I had shards of a broken hi-ball glass imbedded in my ass.   

We have all learned humiliating lessons in our lives and for me – this is the kind of gold we should be passing on (along with the standard don’t cross the street type stuff.) I will finish the letters to Max and Molly outlining my hopes and dreams for them, but I will also be slipping in the below list. I am thinking of it as a working appendix, or a “what I did, and can tell you from experience – don’t do!” guide.

1. Don’t drink Clamato juice which has been in your fridge for longer than two weeks. You will know pretty quickly if it has been open for longer – and in that case - call 911 immediately. And then me. In that order. 

2. When you are pulled over for a speeding ticket – don’t make nervous jokes about the cocaine up your ass, the dead body in the trunk, or how you could have totally outrun them. They will not find it funny. Also – don’t pull-over and then immediately get out and run into the woods*. This will always end with you in the backseat of the cop car while they run background checks.  (*I was on a long road trip and had to pee really badly – which is why I was speeding. I thought the cop would understand – turns out – not so much.)

3. Don’t eat a burger when you are out for a business lunch. It is pretty hard to be taken seriously when you have ketchup on your cheek and your face wrapped around a quarter pound special.

4. Even if they come back in style, don’t get a perm or a mullet. Just don’t. If you need proof – look at pictures of me from about 1990 to about 1994, and pictures of your father circa 1984-ish.

5. If you have any doubts about the outfit/makeup/hairstyle you are wearing – chances are good that you look like an idiot and have taken it one step too far.

6. Don’t do anything drastic to your hair after a bad break up. Give yourself a cooling-off period of about a month before you make any appointments at the salon. If you look at pictures of me starting at about age 17 - you can totally see every time I got dumped or cheated on. I go from looking like a totally sane person with a normal hairstyle – to a red-eyed, puffy-faced case-study for depression, who is sporting a haircut that most closely resembles something from a Tim Burton movie.

7. Always pick friends who are smarter than you. Better to be the dummy of the group – then the leader of a pack of idiots. Plus – maybe some of the “smarts” will rub off on you.

8. Molly – when boys run up to you and try to steal a kiss in your early school years – don’t turn around and kick them in the nuts with everything you got. You will probably regret this in later life when you want to start dating as it turns out boys have long memories – and getting kicked in the nuts is something that sticks with them.

9. Max – avoid running up to girls and trying to steal kisses. See above.

10. Don’t eat anything you can’t pronounce or identify at least three of the ingredients in. Some people may tell you that is a boring way to live - I say it is a good way to avoid food poisoning and/or a tapeworms. (True story – I worked with a guy who got a huge tapeworm from some kind of weird seafood but he didn’t know about it until he got brutally sick with the stomach flu and found a massive surprise in the toilet. If the story ended here, that would be horrifying enough…but there is another terrifying turn. The guy actually picked it out of the toilet, put it in a jar and took it to the doctor and had it identified. It was some kind of fish worm you can only get from undercooked weird shit. You can thank me later when you can proudly proclaim on your deathbed that you have always been tapeworm free. That guy sure as shit cant.)

11. When you are at work – assuming they still use email – make sure you haven’t hit “reply all” when sharing your smart ass comments or opinions about the email subject or the email sender. I did this one a few times, and let me tell you explaining to a coworker that “dip shit” is the new way to say “cool” isn’t fun.

From watching how Max and Molly are shaping up – I am sure I will keep adding to this list as we go, but for now, it is a good start.

I know they will grow up to be amazing individuals and I can’t wait to see the choices they make, and where life will lead them. And if they can learn anything from my list that will help to spare them five minutes of embarrassment or discomfort, then my job will have been done.

Any excuse will do

I am supposed to be running the lululemon half marathon right now – the start was about five minutes ago. Instead I am sitting on the couch in my PJ pants, drinking boozy coffee.   

I do this all the time. I get all pumped up – sign up for half, or even a full marathon - and then about two thirds of the way into the training, something happens. Usually it is some kind of injury, but this time is was a pair of tiny polka-dotted running shorts which pushed me over the edge.   

When I registered for the run, I had to enter my size information as it said lulu would be sending out a piece of fitness wear in advance of the race so that you could wear it during the training and then during the actual run.

So, in late May when I got my package from lulu – I excitedly ripped into – and “What in the what? Really? REALLY? What in the holy hell am I supposed to do with these? This better be a dew rag or fancy-ass headband or some shit….”

They sent a pair of running shorts – which on paper is awesome. In reality – they were the thinnest, tiniest, shortest things I had ever seen in my life.

I decided to suck it up and try them on – and first thing I noticed is that the underwear I had on were bigger than the shorts. That was going to be a problem. Of all the shit I have to worry about in a day, and in training for this race – making sure my lady bits are in top shape and camera ready as I come across the finish line shouldn’t be one of them.  



Molly modeling my shorts...I am a firm believer that
I probably shouldn't wear anything that fits my three-year-old.

The tag called them “speed shorts”. No shit lululemon – you better be able to run pretty fast as you will need to be able out run the police to avoid public indecency charges. They also say they have venting for maximum airflow. Yeah - you can say that. Every time I moved, these teeny tiny polka-dotted hot pants would flap and breeze and show off various angles of my nether region and remind me to book a waxing appointment.

So, knowing I was supposed to wear these for the run - I officially said fuck it, threw my runners back in the closet and cracked a beer.

To everyone running the race – I salute you and your exposed junk. You are a much braver (and I am guessing shorter) bunch than me – and I hope you all have a great run. To everyone living along the race route – get ready for some free live porn heading your way shortly.

Day one of the detox

I woke up this morning at about 1 a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. My mind kept racing about going back to work and all the things I hadn’t gotten done (cleaning the house, grocery shopping, doing some laundry) but mainly – I was freaking out about what I could cram my fat ass into and still be somewhat respectable at work.

The options were bleak. I wear a lot of dresses, but they are mainly fitted. They are not the kind which are forgiving of 17 days spent drinking pina colada Breezers and making a daily 10:30 a.m. run for a double scoop waffle cone.

I dozed in and out (mainly having nightmares of me showing up at work in bedazzled yoga pants) until the alarm went off and I reluctantly drug my ass into the shower. I did one last desperate mental inventory of my clothes  - praying for a weight loss miracle (“touch me Jesus…and take about 20 pounds off when you do”) and hoping that all of my clothes have a high Lycra content – before heading into the closet to face the consequences of my two-week food and booze binge.

I have never in my life wanted to wear that hippy free-flowing look - until about 6:12 a.m. this morning. Why in the hell hadn’t I bought at least one maxi dress this year? Seriously – if there was ever a year that fashion allowed you to hide some extra junk in the trunk (and belly and thighs) – this is it.

I started digging through my clothes and quickly dismissed anything which had a fitted waist or snug anything, and before I knew it, I was in the “fat" section of my closet. The choices were horrific at best. I was down to choosing between a maternity dress and pants which can best be described as palazzo pants – with a side of MC Hammer. When was the last time you saw anyone wearing palazzo pants? I am going to go with mid-1996. And here is a better question – why do I still own a pair of palazzo/Hammer pants?

This is pretty close to what I have in a dark corner of my closet. And since they frown
on drinking at work, I don't have the balls to pull this look off sober.

I found this pic when I Googled palazzo pant pics and had to add it since it is just so many kinds of wrong.
I think a girl actually wore this to our high school grad. 

Then I spotted my little forgotten gem - a black pencil skirt which is my usual go to on bloated days, or days when you just want to wear something comfortable. This skirt is usually so loose that by the end of the day, after taking a few steps I actually have to pull it back up. This morning – instead of sliding up my hips, I had to wrestle it up like I was pulling on a sausage casing.

So – I spent today strutting (strutting is too strong of a word – lets say it was more like lumbering) around the office looking like 10 pounds of shit in a five pound sack. Not something I care to repeat. Fuck the organic cleanse, I need to figure out how to turn my vacuum into a liposuction machine. I am thinking I can totally MacGyver something up with some duct tape and a juice box straw. The next problem will be getting Anders to participate because the plan is to knock myself out on my bathroom counter first, so clearly, I will need an operator. My strategy is to show him the palazzo/MC Hammer pants and beg him not to make me wear them. And if that fails, I will give him a rear view of me walking (lumbering) away in my current sausage casing and cardigan combo. 

On the up-side – the little “detoxifier herb” magic pills which came in the cleanse have made me fantastically sick (on par with the Exorcist scene) – so I am pretty sure if this keeps up, I will be down these pesky 10 pounds (and god willing maybe even a few more) in no time.

Once the kids are asleep, I am totally going to the mall to buy every single maxi and/or shift dress they have left. God damn bubble gum ice cream and Bacardi Breezers.

Let the detox begin!

We are home. We just did a two-week family roadie and had a fantastic time. Apparently – a bit too much of a good time.

Anders and I both put on about 10 pounds in the last 14 days (a personal best for me) and drank more than we have since our pre-kid days. I haven’t felt this gross since the five days we spent in Vegas for Stacy and Lance’s wedding. And that is saying something. During that trip - some of my personal highlights include shopping while I was smoking, drinking some ridiculous blender drink out of a cup that was like four feet long and eating nachos. No shit. I was half cut, chain smoking and eating a plastic tray of nachos while trying on tees in the Gap. And of course Stacy and Lance’s wedding – so beautiful – and yes, I smoked and drank during that too. God bless you Vegas.

Anyway, somewhere between Kamloops and Calgary – in all my bloated glory and getting cut in half by my now too tight shorts, I decided I need to do a cleanse. I did the master cleanse (you know the one – lemon juice, maple syrup and cayenne and nothing else – all day every day for 10 days) about six months ago, and felt great while doing it. I made it to day eight and then went down in legendary style at the Chili’s in Banff. The day started off good – we decided to take a trip to the Banff hot springs (the kids love them – I end up eyeballing everyone else I am sharing this gigantic bathtub with and trying to guess approximate last shower times, and whether they have that glassy “I am pissing in the pool” face.)

For whatever reason, my kids lose their shit for Chili’s – which also happens to be on the main drag into Banff - so we pass it on the way to the hot springs. Once my kids spot it, there is no way around it. We are eating some fucking tacos. So, after the Petri dish soak, we head into Chili’s for a quick snack on our way home. At that point, being on day eight of the cleanse, I am feeling pretty cocky and decide to have a beer. Long story short, next thing I know I am like three beer and Clamato in and am surrounded by the shrapnel of what was chicken club tacos and a nacho platter.

To avoid another incident, I decided I am going to do a cleanse kit this time around and maybe not do the starvation thing. So I bought a kit and will be starting tomorrow night…after I meet my friend Laura for beer and nachos. I can still eat on this cleanse, but since it is a detox and cleanse, it has to be all organic, fresh and healthy, blah, blah, blah. I am pretty sure that by the end of the two weeks I will totally be mistaken for Gwyneth Paltrow and will have to buy all new clothes. Or – and probably the more realistic option – Anders will end up driving my drunk ass home from Chili’s and/or pulling my head out of a family size bucket of KFC.