Rescue Pounds

Wanted: Good, loving home for four pounds.

I have enjoyed bringing them into the world, raising them, nurturing them, carrying them close to my heart (they love to nestle right into my belly—so sweet!), but I no longer have the energy to keep them. Plus, I already have so many pounds to take care of already—these lumpy little sweeties need someone with fewer pounds of their own so they can get the attention they so desperately crave.

I know there has to be somewhere out there for them, but I must say, it won’t be easy parting with the little buggers.

Truth be known, I’ve been trying to find a better home for them for years, but they refuse to stay anywhere I leave them. I’ve walked for miles and miles and miles to find them a good place, yet they STILL manage to track me down and cuddle right back on to the Buddha belly they love so much. I’ve tried leaving them at a lovely Pilates studio, the Dalplex pool, Point Pleasant Park—they just don’t seem to be happy anywhere else but with me! (And who could blame them—am I right?)

But I know there must be a forever home out there that is willing to rescue these darling ones. I’ll be honest with you, they do take up a bit of space and they love to be fed lots of rich, fatty food. But the return is worth it—I mean, is there anything better than cozying up to a few extra pounds in the winter? And, it’s soooo delightful when they line up around your waist, end-to-end: it looks like—I don’t know—like the top of a muffin! Or a life preserver ring! ADORABLE!

I’ve thought long and hard about this and I feel this is my last resort. I can’t stress enough how much I love my little poundies, so I only want them to go to a home where they will be appreciated for how special they are. These aren’t work pounds or show pounds (although everyone will definitely see them—they don’t like to hide!), so that perfect someone needs to be willing to lounge around on the couch with them, or bring them right to the table and hand-feed them the delectable goodies they so love. I guarantee if you do these two things alone, they will love you for LIFE!

(I may be kidding myself but I think if I can find a good home—or homes even—for these fellas that it might be easier to start finding homes for the rest of their siblings. My selfish goal is to be an empty nester—oooh, but I don’t think I’m quite ready for that yet! I get chilly just thinking about it...)

I can deliver them to you as soon as you like—let me know where and when I’ll be there lickety-split.

Right after I finish this snack.

Thanks—you won’t be disappointed!

LoMyFuMiMo

Many writers rejoice (or shudder) as November approaches, for our favourite cold damp month brings with it NaNoWriMo, AKA National Novel Writing Month. During NaNoWriMo, some crazy writer types in the US and beyond commit to writing a 50,000 word novel (each!) over the course of one month.

After a slow start (I did a bit at the beginning, then nothing for three weeks), my NaNoWriMo is looking a little like LoMyFuMiMo (Losing My Mind Month) at this point. However, progress has been made.

Since I’ve already got one novel drafted and another started, and there was no way in hell I was ever going to write 50,000 new words this month, I committed instead to a serious schedule of revising and writing. So JoReWriMo (Jodi’s Revising and Writing Month) broke down into 5,000 new words and 72,000¹ revised words. Or, in other words², a couple of chapters in the new novel and a few blogs for the new, and a completed second draft of the existing novel for the revision.

To me, NaNoWriMo is all about just doing it. Getting ‘er done. Ass in chair, hands on pen/keyboard. Making some goals and sticking to them. Staying up late and shunning paying work for the dream.

And for the past week especially, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.

So why am I boring you with this poopstorm of decidedly unfunny facts and numbers? Because JoReWriMo is precisely why I haven’t been blogging lately. Yes, after only a month into production, I had to take a hiatus from blogging to make a sincere run at draft two. Plus my daughter turned eight and my in-laws visited for two of this fine month’s fours weeks.³ Life gets in the way.

But the cold November rains will soon be gone, I’ve got 2,750 new and 67,000 revised words in the can and I am going for the win.

So stay tuned and wish me luck—we’ll be talking again before you know it...

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1 - Yah – you read that right. 72k. Although it’s turning more into 80k because of the stuff I’ve added in.

2 – Jodi’s are punny.

3 – Yah – you read that right. Please see Now We’re Talking! “Some people (me) never learn...” re: not blogging self out of wills. Also, see this blog. :~)

Mwah! Mwah! Mwah! (1)

So I was going to do a post about rejection (in all its many forms), but I’m feeling pretty damn huggy this week, so I’m going to instead do some Now We’re Talking² (aka Now We’re Talking With Jodi³) shout outs. Word!

First of all, Now We’re Talking⁴ shout outs to each and every one of you who have stopped by, shared a link, made a comment and showed unfathomable support and love. I am touched and humbled.

A Now We’re Talking⁵ shout out to the ultra-fabulous Halifax Broad. This super-talented graphic designer by day and blogger by night (or vice versa) talked about (and expanded beautifully upon) the Kegel Pole-ka™ in her amazing blog and I’m sure is responsible for the handful of new followers I have who are not my friends or relatives! Yay! People I don’t know! Now YOU are my friends too!

Another Now We’re Talking⁶ shout out to the organizers of and participants in the MSVU Celebration of Writing. After all my angst, I ended up having a fantastic time. My panelmates, Jon Tattrie and Jan Morrison, were particularly charming and clever, and I sat front and centre to listen to the lovely and delightful Sheree Fitch's keynote address. (I laughed. I cried. I’m not proud.) During the panel, Sheree⁷ and a few awesome buddies of mine were kind enough to ask me questions that made me feel like a real writer, rather than the poser I am on most days. Now, someone may burst my delusions of grandeur, but I believe I didn’t make a complete fool of myself. And sometimes that’s all you can hope for in this world.

So the next time someone calls and asks you to do something waaaay outside your comfort zone, try saying yes. You might have fun!⁸

That's quite enough treacly sweetness for today. I promise a funny post when this insanely busy week is over. Plus all this happiness—well, let’s just say I’m funnier when I’m agitated, so I’ll work on that.

On a COMPLETELY unrelated topic (*cough*), did I mention my in-laws are staying with us for two weeks? *whistlesasherassgetskickedoutofStarbucksafterbeingthereforsixhours*

Mwah! Now we’re talking!⁹

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1. Those are kisses, in case you didn’t know. Onomatopoeia is not a strong suit for me. Nor are metaphors and symbolism. And here I fancy myself a writer. HA!

2. Shameless whoring of self/Now We’re Talking to search engines, part 1.

3. Shameless whoring of self/Now We’re Talking to search engines, part 2.

4. Shameless whoring of self/Now We’re Talking to search engines, part 3.

5. OK—last one. I swear.

6. I lie like a rug. Better for you to find out now, don’tcha think?

7. Who thinks I’m funny, by the way.

8. Hey Susan D. Rushdie, you can come out of hiding again! Mwah! to you too! Thanks!

9. Jodi Reid... carrying a joke too far... (David Spade voice)

WTF was I thinking?

More advice for you, my friends.

Say you receive an e-mail that says something like this: “So-and-so’s going to call and ask you to do something. Please say yes.”

My advice?

Run the other way.

For reasons I’m still trying to suss out, I did say yes when the call from so-and-so eventually came. And now my leg has a repetitive stress injury from continuously kicking my own arse over my own sheer stupidity.

What in the effin’ jay was I thinking?

Part of it was that, like many women, I have trouble saying no and an inexplicable need to help and/or please people.¹ All the time. Part of it was that I was flattered to be asked.

Ahhh, yes—pride. We all know what that comes before.

What I foolishly accepted was an invitation to be part of a panel of speakers at one of my almae matres, Mount Saint Vincent University. They are celebrating writing next week and asked me to be on the “Writers Talk Publishing” panel. Which is rather frigging hilarious when you consider that I am completely and utterly unpublished. Absurdly so. (Perhaps because I use too many adverbs? But I digress. Predictably.)

The line-up for the day includes Alexander MacLeod (yes, that Alexander MacLeod), Crystal Garrett and Chris Benjamin on the morning panel (“Writers Talk Writing”); uber-author-extraordinaire Sheree Fitch as the keynote speaker; and Jon Tattrie and Jan Morrison on “my” panel in the afternoon.
Well cluck, cluck!² Look at Miss Fancy Pants on the fancy panel! I’ll fit right in, right?

F*cking idiot.

You see, what all of these other people (with one exception³) have in common is that they are published authors. Some ridiculously prolifically so.⁵

Apparently, someone⁶ thought I could add to this discussion amongst these distinguished and accomplished people because I’m flailingly submerged in the lengthy, soul-wracking, ice-pick-to-the-brain process of trying to get published. I’m in the research phase—sorting out the mysterious and sick and twisted labyrinth⁸ that is the publishing world.

There’s just so much information out there. Of course, the same could be said for anything these days—everything is on the information-overload highway somewhere, so there’s no excuse anymore for not being able to find out about any conceivable topic. “I didn’t know” just doesn’t cut it. Read publisher websites. Read agent blogs. Read author websites and blogs. Learn how to fix your plot, your characters, your dialogue, your jitch—whatever. It’s all “out there.” In overwhelmingly choking detail.

So, WTF can I possibly bring these people that they haven’t already found out for themselves or heard from one of my learned and published co-panellists?

Ummmm... Comic relief?

OK. So I’ll try to bring the funny.

Wish me luck—I’m gonna bloody well need it.

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1. Hubby says WHAT?!?!? Where’s the line for that?

2. Props to my sister and her crazy friends for one of my favourite phrases ever.

3. I don’t think Crystal Garrett has a book published, but she’s a professor at Kings and the Mount, a broadcaster whose work has appeared on CNN, and she’s represented Canada internationally as a long-distance runner. Show off.⁴

4. Just kidding! About the show-off part. Yah. Kidding.

5. Adverb theme! Adverb theme!

6. ..who shall remain nameless here but is emblazoned permanently on my brain in the radically overdeveloped “revenge” compartment...⁷

7. Just kidding! About the dish best served cold. Yah. Kidding.

8. Polysyndeton, just for someone.

Say “Squeeze!”

There are few things I dislike more than walking. One of those things happens to be Kegels. Oh dear God, how I loathe them.

The other day I decided to see if two wrongs could possibly make a right, and so I combined these least favourite things into one activity I coined “The Kegel Pole-ka™.” Surprisingly, it’s not nearly as fun as it sounds. (Trust me.)

The idea is that, as I walk, once I reach a telephone pole I squeeze my abs in and up and attempt¹ to do Kegels at the same time. (I am woman. I am nothin’ if not a multi-tasker.) At the next pole I relax and just walk.² Then I repeat till I want to chew out my own eyeballs for the sheer distraction of it.

So if you see me out walking at a seemingly normal pace but I’m grimacing like I’m in the homestretch of a marathon³, keep in mind that, though you can’t see it, I’m actually trying to pull my jitch⁴ up to my navel, and my navel up to my cleavage⁵.

All that squeezing has to be good for something, right?

I’ll keep you posted.

How about you—do you do Kegels faithfully? rarely? ever? Do you not feel the need or (as one character in a book so brilliantly witty is just HAS to be published some day says) can you pretty much drive a Mack truck through there? Do you hate Kegels as much as me?

* * * * * * * * * *
1. I say “attempt” because who the hell knows if they’re ever doing the dastardly things right anyway? The best description I ever read was in The Girlfriends’ Guide to Pregnancy, by Vicky Iovine: “The way you know if you are doing [Kegels] correctly is you begin to feel anxious and uncomfortable...it makes you feel slightly nervous inside. You can even feel lightheaded.” Enticing, no?

2. Note to self, there are no telephone poles on one side of Macara Street. Holy tight twazzer, Batman!

3. ...or like I discovered Nickelback on my MP3...

4. Props to Brenda D. for introducing me to the BEST. WORD. EVER.

5. A distance that is, of course, shrinking with every passing year. Eventually I’ll have to aim for my chin instead.

I get WAY more now than I ever did...

Dear God, or whoever is in charge of shit like this:

I’m 40. Enough with the acne already.

Oh, and world peace, massive weight loss and a lotto win would be great too.

Thanks in advance!

Love,

Jodi

PS: Before my smarty-pants readers say it, I wrote this BEFORE Hallowe’en and the 26-snack-per-day diet I undertook following our fave pagan celebration.

Some people (me) never learn...

A fact of life. A truism, if you will. A word (or 500) of advice:

If, say, you decide to dress up as static electricity for your kid’s school’s Hallowe’en sock hop and you, therefore, tease and back-comb your hair with approximately half a full can of the modern-day equivalent to the Aquanet™ of the 80s to make said hair stand completely on end all static-electricity-ish, and if, say, the next morning you take your visiting father out running errands, including looking for a Lebanese food wholesaler that he SWEARS was just around the corner on Kempt Road in that strip mall thingee but when, after several minutes of staring at and driving around said strip mall, you call your spouse (who took him there last visit) and are told it was at the OTHER end of Kempt Road¹, and if, say, after you find the store and take a look around you then decide to stop at a grocery store for a fruit tray for your kid’s CLASS Hallowe’en party (yes, the day after the SCHOOL sock hop that you stayed till 10 pm to help clean up after) because they want frigging healthy snacks², and if, say, you’re waiting for the shuttle to pick up your Dad to take him back home and you decide, in all of your infinite wisdom, to cut the fruit up into smaller pieces and skewer them on little pirate sword swizzle sticks since the fruit kabobs went so quickly at the school sock hop canteen you volunteered at last night and, also, PRESENTATION IS IMPORTANT TO YOU³, and if, say, the shuttle ends up being a half hour late because the driver got confused because all the streets parallel to yours have a 5537 too⁴, and if, say, you realize you no longer have time to shower before flying over to your kid’s school to drop off the God-forsaken healthy snacks but, so you don’t look like a complete and utter moron and/or idiot, you drag a comb through the half-can-of-hairspray-teased-and-back-combed-within-an-inch-of-its-life and now slept-on and pulled-out (see note 1) hair and scrub futilely at the cheap Hallowe’en makeup that now looks like dirt and darker-than-usual bags under your eyes, and if, say, your reckless, hasty and sad excuse for hygiene falls woefully, WOEFULLY short of the desired result of not looking like a complete and utter moron and/or idiot, then I can GUARANTEE you, my friends, that you WILL, in fact, run smack-dab, face-first into at least one person⁵ that you really, really, REALLY don’t want to see you looking like a crack-ho after a long hard night without crack.

Not that that would EVER happen to me. No.

If this ever happens to you, however, I beseech you—plunk your parent in front of Murder She Wrote, drop the stupid swizzle sticks and GET THEE INTO THE FRIGGING SHOWER BEFORE YOU LEAVE YOUR HOUSE. 

Love,

Jodi, who appears to be having a passionate affair with the run-on sentence this week. So wrong, but so fun...

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1.  As we drove down from the “wrong” end of Kempt Road, Dad kept saying, “I don’t remember this—when he took me we just turned the corner and it was right there!” Me: “I know Dad, you were coming from the other end.” Dad: “But I can’t remember any of this—he just turned onto the street and it was right there. I don’t remember seeing this when we came before!” Me: “That’s because you came the other way—you DIDN’T see this last time.” Dad: “IT MUST BE THE NEXUS OF THE UNIVERSE!” Me: “DAD—STAY ALIVE! I WILL FIND YOU!” (Luckily, Kempt Road is not long, and, in an effort not to blog myself out of the will, I’ll leave it at that.)

2.  It’s frigging Hallowe’en for frigg’s* sake. I am so much better at gifting with sugar than wholesomeness. Ugh. 

*My Dad says frigg a lot. It takes a few days for me to stop saying it myself and to switch back to the “f” word that my mother and I vastly prefer. (Sorry Mom—I promise I won’t out you on the booze and crack! xo)

3.  And that, Ms. Morissette, is the true meaning of IRONY. (Just keep reading.)

4.  NO JOKE—TRUE! TRUE! TRUE! I SWEAR! Ask my Dad!

5.  Potential employer, ex’s perfect girlfriend, priest, crush, archenemy—pick your poison...

The Monthly Airing of Grievances

So my mood’s been up and down like a whore’s drawers* for the past 48 hours. I just ate barbeque chips for breakfast and had half a tub of PC Loads of Chocolaty Carmel Treats Ice Cream for a 2 am snack. (Yah, I know I spell it differently every time I write it. Got a problem with that?) I have been up for three hours, spent about five minutes with spouse and have allowed the word “divorce” to enter my brainspace approximately 67 times.

Diagnosis?

HA! Like I have to tell you.

In keeping with being a living, breathing cliché for a few days, I will now proceed to rant.

Along with the usual happy days histrionics, I also have the shakes and hallucinations thanks to my Blackberry DTs. Yes, my BB took a Dantean tumble and no longer calls (pun intended) the land of the living home. Bell Aliant has been most helpful in solving the problem. (That particular device is called SARCASM in case you don’t recognize it or have never been a Bell Aliant customer.) I really can’t talk more about it without running the risk of adding many buckles to my fall fashion statement (who says no white after Labour Day?). Suffice it to say, if you have a spare BB you’re not using, please holla.

Now, our old computer is slow. I get that. But I loathe when I get the “This program is not responding, wait or end now?” message, and I press “end now,” and then it runs an hourglass for twenty minutes before shutting down. I’m sorry, but what part of “end NOW” did you not understand, mofo?

I move on to shiny new (less than one-year-old) computer. Start to open things and then get the WHITE SCREEN OF DEATH. WTF? Have I dropped into José Saramago world or something? Who has a white screen of death? Blue, yes. Black, yes. White? NO! Argh.

I restart and pray the new computer hasn’t followed my Blackberry to its final reward. In the meantime, I revisit the old computer, press a button and—just so I know the entire universe has not gone completely pearshaped—BLACK SCREEN OF DEATH. Seriously.

EPIC ELECTRONIC FAIL.

That’s sooo enough for today.

Happy Effin’ Festivus everyone. I’m off to enjoy the PC Loads of Chocolatey Carmel Treats Ice Cream course of my breakfast.
                                                                                      
* Props to my friend’s dad Bill, who used to shout this at us as we pounded up and down the stairs of their house.

Chocolate chip pancakes are absolutely disgusting...

... and it only took me three of them to figure that out, all by myself. I am literally sitting here making gag faces as I choke down the third.

What’s that? Just don’t eat it? Pfft. CLEARLY we haven’t met.

So, I’m dieting. Or rather, trying to get to a weight that is 30‒40 pounds (or even 3‒4) below the biggest I’ve ever been, INCLUDING WHEN I WAS PREGNANT. Yes, I weigh more now than I did while I was pregnant and carrying an excess 30 pounds of amniotic fluid. Seriously.

Those who have had kids, remember that nice round bellyful of baby? I loved that.

Oddly enough, an extra 30 pounds of—oh, I don’t know, let’s take a wild stab here—chocolate chip pancakes, sausage, syrup and PC Loads of Chocolately Caramel Treats Ice Cream (real name, btw) don’t have quite the same effect on the old physique. You still get the itchy underbelly and stretch marks, but it’s all lumpy and disgusting instead of smooth and lifegiving. (If my belly emitted a “Helloooooooooo” in a cartoony English accent, it would look like a chubby Bryan Adams talking. You know what I’m sayin’.)

Back in the day, I was a stick person. I ate like a pothead on a bender and never gained much weight. I was a buck‒oh‒five soaking wet when I headed for university.

Ahhh, Beaver Foods. (Which was the name of our cafeteria food provider, not code for some exciting university-sexuality-experimentation adventure.)

      All-you-care-to-eat three times daily

  +  Obscene amounts of alcohol

  +  Not having to walk three miles to someone else’s house to smoke because you can smoke in  your own room *

  =  The Frosh 15

Now granted, that extra 15 pounds worked well for me as I was relatively scrawny. The extra 20-30-40-50, etc.? Not so pretty.

Now I have engaged my sister in a weight challenge: 20 pounds before Christmas.**

And I’m winning—I’ve gained three already!

What’s that? I’m supposed to lose them? Ah crap.  

What’s a girl who hates exercise and loves food to do? Well, I do have a great idea that should make me skinny AND rich—I’ll fill you in on that later. In the mean time, I’m open to suggestions. (And please, no “Eat less and move more” garbage. I’m fat, not developmentally delayed.)  

I’ll keep you posted on our progress as we head toward the holidays. Weigh-in is tomorrow!

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*     Yes, I’m so old that I predate several “no smoking” policies—at least we couldn’t smoke in class like in my mother’s era. (Sorry Mom, I think my hard-earned #coughdrunkenfiestacough# psychology degree would refer to that as deflection or distraction or transference or “Look over there! Chippendales!” or something.

**    A note about my efforts at weight loss: I think we should all be happy and healthy and comfortable with our bodies. I am not a fanatic dieter (obviously) or even a lukewarm exerciser (shocking). I don’t do unhealthy fad diets. I have done Weight Watchers before with great success (lost 25 pounds). I don’t want to be super skinny. Or even skinny. But the BMI jumped up recently and bitch-slapped me across the mouth with an obese label. Not overweight, mind you—obese. Plus I’m getting old, so I think it’s time to stop dickin’ around here and do something that will help ensure I’ll be here for the major events in my daughter’s life. First goal: Overweight. (How messed up is that?) Second goal: At risk. Final goal: Just a squeak inside the normal BMI limit. I’m not looking for much here people.

Release the hounds!

I promise to have at least one pop culture reference in every blog I post. Pinky swear. Not a day goes by that I don’t think, if not utter aloud, a Seinfeld reference that’s applicable to my current state of affairs. Does that say my life is really about nothing? I don’t know. Does that matter? Not so much.

Is it possible to digress before you even start? I believe I just did!

So, this blog. I used to think it was just me—that I was the only loser doing the Red Green version of life held together with duct tape and fishing line. But the more I talk to my friends, even acquaintances, it becomes apparent pdq that most women feel like this sometimes. (Some of us all the time!)

You just have to ask the right question to trigger an avalanche of laments, which pick up speed as the narrator warms to her topic.

Nine times out of ten it starts with “TELL me about it!” in response to my complaint, followed quickly with her telling me all about her thoughts on the topic. It could be about anything—cleaning, behavioural problems in kids (or husbands), boredom at work, gaining weight, etc. Almost every woman I know has at least one trigger that releases the hounds.

Whilst listening empathetically and nodding till my head threatens to bobble right off my neck, I wait, patiently, for the inevitable intake of breath (damn those synchronized swimmers though) so I can jump in with my own litany of complaints. Then we go back and forth trying to outdo each other with tales of woe and injustice like a real-life Monty Python sketch:

Serve: “The in-laws are descending like locusts this weekend so, of course, my cleaning lady chooses this particular juncture to get appendicitis and, just as I’m elbow deep in toilet cleaner, Missy hands me—at 9:45 pm—the list of materials she needs for her science project, due tomorrow!”

Volley: “Oh yah? Well my in-laws have been here for three weeks feeding Millicent a steady diet of candy and new toys, making backhanded comments about the successes of my husband’s ex-girlfriends, while my barracuda boss—single, of course—wants me to work morning, noon and night on the Stupid Co. campaign that we’ll likely lose anyway because of her incompetence. Oh, and my cleaning lady died three weeks ago—how rude!—so my toilet has been pink for ten days already!”

My wish is to extend the funny, sincere, poignant conversations we have on the playgrounds, at work, at lunch, at Chippendales (do they even still exist?). You get to listen to me bitch (lucky you), but you can complain too. You can even say something obnoxious like, “Well, Jodi, if you got up ten minutes earlier, your entire life would change. You lazy ho’.” (My inner editor is convulsing right now over the correct way to punctuate "ho" inside the quotation marks and all. Shudder.)

This could be our own modern-day red tent. (Without the polygamy, of course. Unless that’s your thing. Who am I to judge?) We can share our woes and frustrations and, hopefully, the odd bit of wisdom and advice. We may only have one worthwhile trick a piece, but hey, if we put them all together, that’s a lot of frikkin’ tips! First and foremost though, let’s have a good laugh. (That’s my special trick...)

Whaddya think?