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?