Workmares

I've been having work dreams lately. While not necessarily nightmarish, they are still intense and laden with anxiety. I hate that.

Isn't it enough that I spend the majority of my waking hours at work? I don't think expecting a little respite as I sleep is unreasonable? Apparently, my overactive psyche feels differently.

Last night, I dreamed that I had landed at the airport only to walk up to the car rental desk and learn that they didn't have my reservation. I felt the familiar twinges in the pit of my belly that come when I slip into "Plan B" mode, which in my line of work, is nearly second nature.

I am overwhelmed with exasperation because the travel industry is full of people who are battered on a daily basis by rude, self-absorbed individuals and thus, at some point the flight attendants, car rental clerks, TSA staff and hotel workers just check out. It's a matter of survival, I think. Customer service for them is an oxymoron. They exist to punch a clock. Of course, there are exceptions but generally, business travel has become a chore.

So, in my dream I look at the guy and ask him to check his computer again as I fumble around in my backpack looking for the reservation email I printed out before leaving home. "You aren't in here," he says and just as my heart starts to kick it up a notch, I find my reservation and hand it to him.

He takes the paper, looks at it, raises his eyebrows and says, "Your reservation is for the Nashville Airport branch."

"Of course it is," I say and not without a measure of sarcasm, "so can you please ring the lot and get my car ready?"

"Ma'am, this is the Memphis Airport," and with that, he hands me back my piece of paper and calls out for the next person in line.

Inside, I FREAK. Badly. I start to sweat and struggle to contain the tears that are threatening to spill over at any second.

Then, I give my head a shake and try to figure out how to fix the situation so I can get to my appointment in time. I don't give a single thought as to how this could have happened. I turn around and the airport has completely disappeared. In it's place is a wheat field. What the hell?

I turn back to the car rental desk and inexplicably, I am at Penn Station trying to figure out which train to take.

I am worried that the ice in my samples will melt before I get to Nashville. From NEW YORK CITY!!! Bizzaro.

That's when I woke up; fuzzy, in a sweat and with a barrel of anxiety-fueled adrenaline coursing through my body. Just a Jim Dandy way to start the day.

I have a big meeting tomorrow morning in Nashville for which I have been preparing all week. It's important that it goes well but clearly, I am not managing my stress. I am grateful, however, that my travel tribulations were all just a bad dream.

I did however, check my reservation for my air tickets, hotel and car. Because I'm a sixth-sense, superstitious, my-mind-is-trying-to-tell-me-something weirdo.

An Empty Office

Being employed by a small, privately-held, company has distinct advantages. At my office, there is a noticeable lack of bureaucratic red tape and I cannot express how much easier it is to operate in this environment versus the slow-churning, multi-layered approval, political minefield that is a large, listed company. My working hours are more flexible, too, which enables me to be an effective wife and mother versus the robot I was in big corporate America. In a smaller company, you get to know your colleagues better because we all wear several hats and often, our projects overlap and mingle. They become like family.

Which makes it especially hard when someone leaves.

Last week, Steph the Magnificent put in her final days with us. I'm still struggling to adjust to her departure. She was my person, you know? She was the one that I would talk with about the weekend's events and kids and husbands and the stress. Steph is the reason I met and married Dallas. She had threatened to create a profile for me on eHarmony without my input if I didn't do it myself. She was the one that I covertly called on my first extended date with Dallas where I squealed with excitement in pitches that only a dog could hear. She was my colleague who evolved into my friend.

I hate that she's gone.

I have distinct memories of driving through the streets of Philly together jamming to "Brick House" or arriving at a shopping network's front doors for a sales call, which was a bit like Mecca for a girl like Steph, who has Martha Stewart blood coursing through her veins. One year, after our corporate Christmas party, we left with our spouses in tow and ended up in a bar playing pool like a couple of drunk sharks. Steph was pretty conservative at work but over the years, I got to see how hysterically funny she was.

This morning, I arrived at the darkened door to her office before I remembered that she wouldn't be there. Instantly, I felt a pang a sadness. Steph the Magnificent left for a better opportunity and I'm thrilled for her.

But I miss her.

It's Not A Diet Damnit

Remember how I said that I would NEVER diet again? Okay, I lied. Sort of.

It's not that I'm a serial diet diva or the poster child for body dysmorphic disorder but I have been leaner and fitter in the not so distant past and I liked how I felt then.

Recently, I had a colleague turn me on to a new book (yes, another new book) and the diet plan detailed within its pages resonated with me. Now, I'm not talking diet as in the filthy, four letter word involving prolonged calorie restriction and weirdisms like colonics. No, I promise you, I am DONE with that shit (no pun intended). I am referring to a lifestyle as in, "Sally had a diet rich in fiber".

I have struggled with my weight since the beginning of time and my relationship with food has been largely dysfunctional.

There is the story my mother tells about the time we were at our cottage in New Brunswick. For some reason, I slipped the notice of those aunts and uncles who were charged with babysitting me while my mum gave birth to my sister. All of the sudden, one of them looks out the back and sees me running on my chubby two year old legs towards the cliffs that precipitated a twenty foot or so drop to the beach below. They panicked, calling my name and running after me but I was too far ahead to be caught. Then one of my aunties used the "c" word.

"Beth," she called, "Would you like a candy?" As the story goes, I stopped in my tracks, made an about face and ran back to them. And sadly, my mentality hasn't changed much in the forty odd years since then.

For me, food is so much more than just sustenance. It is the memory of holiday dinners with my extended family. It is molasses cookies and blueberry pie in my grammy's kitchen where I felt safe and unconditionally loved. Food is medication, which I know is not healthy. Me and Oprah. Two fat peas in a pod.

The new book is called, "Cheat To Lose", which sounded good to me before I had even cracked a page. Basically, it details a plan for carb cycling which has long been used by professional athletes to increase fitness while reducing body fat. Of course there is exercise. Of course there is portion control. Blah, blah, blah. What made my ears perk up was the incorporation of a day where I can eat whatever I please. In fact, the author postulates that it is absolutely critical to cheat once a week in order to overcome our body's biological need to store fat. This is a lifestyle I can embrace, people. Consensual cheating. HELLOOO....

This morning, I was nine pounds less than I was last Tuesday. I know it is mostly water but I don't care. I feel encouraged. And under control. I'm even looking forward to going to the gym after work.

Hell hath frozen over.

Friday Smackdown: Inagural Edition

The weekend is here and I am determined to savour every second of it. In order to do so, I feel it necessary to unburden myself of a few things that are stuck in my craw. This way, I can plow headlong into weekend with a fresh attitude and a peaceful demeanor.

1. Balloon boy fever: Lock the father up with Nurse Ratched and throw away the bloody key. Please, please get this story off the evening news. I just don't care anymore.

2. Sarah Palin as a presidential hopeful for 2012: Really? REALLY? Aren't her 15 minutes of fame up yet?

3. My ex husband: Worst father on the planet. One redeeming quality is that he mostly pays his child support. He is woefully inadequate in every other way. Dallas and I appreciate our time alone but I now question if I am doing the right thing by allowing my children weekend visitation with their father. My son expressed yesterday that he no longer wishes to go over to his dad's house but feels that he would be a crappy brother if he let Olivia fend for herself. I had no words. It's just all kinds of yuck.

4. Rude People We Buy Stuff From: You know as consumers, we have plenty of shopping choices. Being on the receiving end of a churlish clerk or flight attendant or office administrator is never a pleasant experience but during rough economic times, when people are hyper discriminating with their dollars, poor service is stunningly ignorant. I'm talking to YOU Starbucks and YOU optometrist and YOU Sam's Club cashier.

5. I am not crazy. I can still smell the cat pee in the office at home. That is all.

6. Exclamation Marks: They are to be used sparingly. Twittering about having cereal for breakfast, which is beyond mundane, is made all the worse by the excessive use of exclamation marks. They are distracting.
STOP IT!!!!!
See, that is how they are supposed to be employed, Juan Pablo.

7. The ethically bankrupt: You Shifty, cheating, disloyal, greedy wanks. How do you sleep at night?

Whew, I think that's it for today. I feel heaps better. I think the Friday Smackdown might become a weekly thing because God knows, the world is full of stupid and internet, you are most definitely cheaper than a shrink.

The Siren Call of Youth

I must have been living under a rock because until now, I had no idea how popular Botox was. Oh sure, I understood that the Hollywood glitterati were familiar with its charms but I had no idea that it was average America's dirty little secret.

Internet, look around you.

See that forty year old with the smooth brow? Botox.
See the guy with the discreetly plucked brows (notice the plural as in no unibrow) and how he has no lines between those brows? Botox.
See how refreshed and well rested your neighbour looks? Remarkable for nearly fifty years old, right? Botox baby.

I find myself peering into the faces of strangers everywhere I go now looking for signs of a little cosmetic help. And let me tell you, Northwest Arkansas is either full of genetically gifted people or Botox is way more widespread than I would have ever thought.

The other day, I was sitting on our bed after a workout and Dallas commented about how young I looked. I didn't have a lick of make up on. Like a science project, he got up close and scrutinized my face and then shook his head at how well the Botox has worked. I think he said, "remarkable". And it is.

The bad part about trying out Botox is that it is a bit like marijuana. That first high is so new and delicious that you cannot believe how good you feel. "Why didn't I try this stuff ages ago?" you ask. And before you know it, you're rolling your own doobies. Then someone suggests that you might want to consider Juvederm or Restylane to smooth out some of those wrinkles. Or, perhaps a little laser face resurfacing might freshen your look and before you know it, BAM, Botox is routine and you contemplate bolder, more invasive ways to turn back the clock.

I can already see how the pursuit of a more youthful appearance could escalate from a simple dermatologists appointment to researching plastic surgeons. Success with one procedure gets you thinking about another. I'm guilty. I've been looking at that bump in my nose and wondering how much it would cost to have that thing shaved off. I hate the wattle underneath my chin and if I had the funds, I liposuck it right out.

And my arse end. It belonged to my Grammy, was passed along to my mum who then generously bequeathed it to me. Oh God, how I loathe it. There must be something a talented surgeon could do that apparently the elliptical, squats and cellulite cream can't. And see, that's the problem. It is sooo easy to look in the mirror and pick apart every last perceived flaw and it's even easier, if you've got the money, to find a professional who will do whatever your heart desires, which is sort of scary.




A surgeon did this.
















And this.
















And this.




I wonder what Jocelyn and Carrot Top see when they look into the mirror. Are they happy with the mask that gazes back at them? I wonder if they were even cognizant of when they crossed the line from nip/tuck to disfigurement.

It's probably a good thing that I haven't got a few hundred thousand laying around because I suspect that for me, plastic surgery would be a lot like the cocktails at a dinner party. Everything is under control with that first one but if you're not careful, you could find yourself in the backseat of a Chevy, nursing a hangover with your panties in your purse.

To Vaccinate or Not?

Yesterday, my daughter came home with her Tuesday folder and inside, it was crammed full of last week's tests, classwork and this:
This was the front page of a packet of documents which included several permission forms, influenza reporting forms and information sheets on the two vaccines. I just don't know what to do.
My instincts are screaming at me and telling me to keep my children as far away from these vaccines as possible. Then, I watch the evening news and hear about the death of yet another child who was otherwise healthy. And I get scared.

The schools in our district are full of sick children. There are signs everywhere in our town from the orthodontist's office to the restaurants asking people to keep their sick children at home. One salon had this posted on their door: "If your child is too sick to go to school, he shouldn't be getting a haircut." And I agree. I've always thought there was something selfish and stupid about people who drag their infected selves into the workplace to show the boss the level of their dedication or who send their ill children to school with a belly full of ibuprofen to mask the fever.

The simple answer, it would seem, would be to hedge one's bets and get the kids inoculated but honestly, the whole thing feels a bit like drinking the purple Koolaid to me. On one side, there are heaps of health care professionals who have said that they won't vaccinate their own children and I think that is very telling but on the other side is this giant knot of fear in my belly; the what if? What if one of my kids contracted H1N1 and died? I understand the odds of this are very slim in the big scope of things but is any parent willing to roll the dice when it comes to the safety of their child?

So, there is no clear answer and I am still conflicted. I have until October 30th to make the decision.

I just wish I had a clearer sense of the right thing to do.

Blech

There a good days and there are bad days and then there are those days that make you want to stuff your head into an oven (no offense to the relatives of Sylvia Plath).

Today, my day sucked. Large.

One little work issue after another until all of the sudden, my head exploded.

And now, I'm going home.

Rather, I am going home to put on some sweats.

To go to the gym.

To work out hard enough.

To music playing loudly enough.

To make my eyes roll up into the back of my head.

I'll feel better soon.

And then I'm going to buy a fucking lottery ticket.

An Evening With David Sedaris

Yesterday afternoon, as I was slogging away at work, a friend of mine text and said she had an extra ticket to go see David Sedaris that night and would I be interested.

Hell, yes.

I have a copy of just about every book that he's ever published and he is one of the few people on the planet that can make me laugh until I wet my pants. He wrote a book called, "Holidays on Ice", which is a slim compilation of essays about Christmas. If you are ever having a crap day or just need a break from life, pick up this gem, open it right away to "SantaLand Diaries" and be prepared to have soda shooting out your nose. He is that funny.

To see him in person was better than I could have imagined.

When we arrived at the theatre, he was already signing books and mingling with the natives. I was surprised at how small he was and how self deprecating. He claims to love his book tours and appreciates the fact that we come out to see him. He is especially impressed when teenagers show up because he figures that they have been forced to come and he knows that they would rather be doing something else. So when he signs their book, he likes to gives them an "individually wrapped" token of his appreciation. Sometimes, he gifts those little two pill packs of pain reliever that you find in the gas station. Last night, it was condoms.

After the reading, he took questions from the audience and we quickly learned that his humour is just as nimble when he's thinking on his feet as it is when he wields a pen. A woman in the audience volunteered that she is trying to raise her children in much the same way that David's mum reared her kids. Throughout his books, Sharon Sedaris is hilariously depicted as a no nonsense mother who took a sardonic, resigned approach to child rearing. The entire audience laughed in response and David shared that he thought his mother's philosophies were sound. He briefly mentioned that he couldn't stand to watch the mothers on the Upper West Side of Manhattan and how they each dote on their only child, giving him/her the false impression that the world would forever revolve around them.

"Just not practical," he said, "My parents made sure that my siblings and I understood that there was ABSOLUTELY NOTHING SPECIAL about any of us. My mother's attitude was,

"You're a dime a dozen. I can always have more. Now, shut up and eat your brussel sprouts.""

Just before he left the stage, he plugged a few books that he had recently read that were written by other people. One of them was, "Our Dumb World" brought to us by the folks at The Onion. He read a few bits from this book that amused him and recommended that we buy this and a few others that he had mentioned before purchasing anything he'd ever written. I thought that was refreshingly humble.

Maybe you had to be there to appreciate just how funny, warm and real he was but at the end of the night, my face hurt from laughing. This morning, I heard that he stayed after the show for three hours signing books and chatting with his fans.

Amazing.

When Does It Stop Sucking?

For the past couple of weeks, I've been a regular fixture at the gym because I've faced the music and understood that there is just no alternative.

I like food and I need like alcohol. A lot.

And I am genetically challenged. I'm not complaining; I'm just stating fact.

I come from small but hardy stock. The women on my mum's side of the family are short-waisted and big assed. Now, I know that this might be upsetting for them to read but let's face it, we have broad shoulders, wide hips and ginormous boobs. We were designed to play hockey and grow cows and procreate.

And all of these genetic quirks are fine except that I do not live on a farm. I don't have rigorous farm chores involving barns and hay and feed. I don't have a garden. I don't even mow my own yard. If it weren't for the gym, the only regular exercise that I would get would be breathing.

You know what happens to a woman like me without exercise?

Spreadage.

And you know what? I'm just not going to purchase one more freaking set of yoga pants because the truth is, I don't do yoga. While I'm sure there are numerous benefits of being able to lick one's own bottom, I have purchased yoga pants only because they were comfy and implied athleticism and not because I was planning to hook my legs up over my ears anytime soon.

And diets?

Worthless. I have tried every last one of them. South Beach, Cabbage, the Zone, Weight Watcher's, Jenny Craig, HCG, you name it. They all work in the short term, of course, but they're diets, not lifestyles. Who can subsist on 500 calories a day for the rest of their lives? Who can vow never to eat another peach or banana because the carb counts are through the roof? My life has been consumed with trying to make friends with the filthy, lying, whore who inhabits my bathroom scale. I have actually moved the thing around the bathroom in an effort to find a special spot on the floor that will shave one or two ounces off my morning reading. And yes, I know that is insane behaviour. I will never embark on another diet again. EVER.

I'm tired.

Of counting calories. Of obsessing about the Anzac biscuit I can't eat. Of forcing ounce after ounce of water into my body. Of wanting to bitch slap any woman size eight or less who dares to ask, "Do I look fat in this?"

I give up.

It's not rocket science, is it? The basic formula still stands. Eat good food, in reasonable portions and get regular, vigorous exercise.

Period.

So yeah, back to the gym. From now on. Forever and ever. I've been told that one of these days, I will crave my workouts and that exercising will feel like a reward. I'm thinking that the person who came up with that little nugget of horseshit is probably first cousins with the nutter who claimed that orgasms were possible during childbirth.

Autumn

Okay, it is officially fall down here in pseudo Dixie.

The weekend before last, while the hubby was at a Nascar race in Kansas City, I rode out to Eureka Springs to meet some friends for a late lunch. I'd had a pretty busy day and I was anxious to get back on the road and on my way. I threw it into first gear, started down the driveway and then feeling a slight nip in the air, thought I had better turn around and throw my leathers into the saddle bags just in case.

Good thinking because several hours later, when we were riding home in the dark, winding through the foothills of the Ozark Mountains, those body bits that weren't clad in leather were mighty chilly. My teeth chattered.

And I enjoyed every freaking second of it.

I LOVE this time of year. Besides the fresh smell of cold, rosy cheeks, pumpkin and puffs of smoke from the season's first fires, autumn is the season of the tightwad.

No more air conditioning bills. ($300/month)
No more lawn mowing bills. ($140/month)
No more impractical, painful, strappy sandals = no more weekly pedicures. ($140/mth)
No more bikinis. (Priceless)

So now, we've got all this extra bank to spend on things like Botox injections.

Autumn is most definitely my favourite time of year.

Botox is My New BFF

So the BOTOX.

I love it!

After the fiasco of the skin tags, we had to walk over to the other side of the clinic; the spa side. It was glorious and warm over there.

And it had a waterfall.

And the walls were painted in muted earth tones.

And the exam table was large, plush and covered with a flannel type sheet. I could easily have curled up and gone to sleep on it.

I was perfectly relaxed.

I was asked to sign some consent forms and then I got a look at the 32 units of BOTOX that would be shot into my face. I might be reading too much into it but I swear that my husband was looking forward to seeing me on the receiving end of those big ass needles. He seemed to be both horrified and fascinated at the size of them. I was just eager.

Back on the clinic side of the facility, we took a couple of before pictures.
In the first picture, I was asked to frown. See those marks between the eyebrows? They're called "eleven lines". We all have them. They are created when we use those muscles to squint in the sun or when there is something that perplexes us, like say, teenagers, for instance. We use them when we are angry and when we are concentrating. In short, over a lifetime, those babies get LOTS of work.

The second picture obviously shows what happens when we raise our eyebrows in happiness, surprise, fear, worry and disbelief. The beauty of BOTOX is that you treat the muscles by the temples. I'll still be able to raise my eyebrows, enabling expression but the muscles that cause the creases in my forehead won't react.

To get the stuff in the right place, I was asked to frown again. In spite of what it looks like, I am in no pain whatsoever.

There was a tiny prick when the needle first went in but it wasn't painful, just weird. As half an inch is buried into the muscle, you hear a strange crackling sound. For any women out there that pierced their own ears or helped a girlfriend do hers, the sound is similar to when the needle works its way through cartilage in the ear.

This is where the needle goes to immobilize those muscles that cause the forehead creases. This area seemed to be more sensitive but totally bearable. Dallas said, "Doesn't that hurt?" Honestly, it didn't.

See? That is the look of a woman at peace.


As mentioned yesterday, I thought the effects would be immediate so when I was told that it might be as long as a week to immobilize my face, I was a bit deflated. But here I am, two days later and there is definite progress.

Most of the muscles between my eyebrows have ceased to work and that area is smoothing out beautifully. I'm likely to look happy, even when I'm not, which I'm sure will become confusing for my children. Imagine the fun watching them search my face for mood clues only to come up with a big question mark. I get all tingly just thinking about it. I've often been told that I can be read like a book so in addition to freaking out my kids, I can see this whole deal being very helpful in business negotiations and poker games.

Best $270 bucks I've spent in a LONG TIME.

Now, if there was something they could do about these bags under my eyes or the dark circles that shadow them.....

Just kidding.

For now.

Mole Check Gone Awry

Well, the dermatologist appointment was all very anti-climatic. I got the BOTOX which I'll tell you about tomorrow (complete with pics) but in all the research I did, I failed to read about how it takes 4+ days for the effects to kick in. So I can still lift my brows, damnit!

The very, very, best and most unexpected comic relief came courtesy of my husband. Internet, I wish you could have been there.

Dallas deeply fears most of the medical establishment and consequently, he has to be in pain before he will go see a doctor of any sort. I have to force him to make preventative care appointments including the dentist so getting him to this visit was a major victory in spite of the fact that he bitched himself hoarse. We arrived at the doctor's office and had to wait for a few minutes which was not necessarily a good thing because he was as nervous as a cat and he kept eyeballing the door, exasperating me to no end. I explained to him that this was a dermatologist. Beautiful things happen in this office. He was getting a freaking mole check. How could there possibly be any pain associated with that?

They called us back to our exam room and asked us to don one of those hospital gowns where you can't tell which is the front and which is the back and no matter how you choose to wear it, you still look vaguely ridiculous. This did not go over well with the hubby. He rolled his eyes, made a sour face and shook his head at the inconvenience of it all. Then he complained about how frigid the room was. I have to admit it was pretty chilly. The doctor came in to examine us and she was in a PARKA. I am not kidding.

She can best be described as quiet, gentle, focused and lightning fast. While answering questions, she quickly scoured my skin for anything abnormal and I'm pleased to say that all those Brulee Beach burns of my youth have not shown up in anything ominous so far. Then Dallas hopped up on the exam table and she put him at ease right away by chatting about his accent and his tattoo. Everything was going along quite well and at the end of his exam, she had a good look at the skin tags that ring his neck and plague his armpits. Then she was gone.

Woosh.

And then the room filled with nurses, like something out of Robin Cook's "Coma".

We were both confused until they told us they were there to remove those skin tags. The naked panic on Dallas's face was immediately visible. Neither one of us could recall a concrete moment in our brief conversation with our dermy where Dallas had asked to have them removed. It was all a bit surreal.

"Baby, I didn't set this up," I said, worried that he might think I'd ambushed him. In that frigid, meat locker of a room, Dallas began to sweat.

Oh sweet Jesus, then they went to work.

It was awful and great all at the same time. Dallas has no tolerance for pain and he makes absolutely no apologies. First one of the nurses held his hand as he screwed up his face and began to pant. He let out a little peep of pain and the other nurse turned to me showing the needle THAT SHE HADN'T USED YET.

"Honey, she hasn't touched you yet," I said.

"I know," he said through clenched teeth with eyes jammed shut and beads of sweat COURSING off his forehead. I realized then, that I was witnessing true, unadulterated fear. He had completely psyched himself out.

A third and fourth nurse joined in the fray because they could hear the commotion from outside the room and wanted to lend their assistance. The way it finally turned out was Dallas, with one nurse holding a cold compress to his forehead, another nurse waving her hand in front of him like a palm frond to try to keep him from fainting, a third wielding anesthesia-filled syringe and a pair of scissors, a fourth with a cauterizing gun and me holding his hand.

Internet, believe me when I tell you that I couldn't have written a scene like this if I had tried. The five of us, hovering over my husband commented that this was why MEN ARE NOT ABLE TO GIVE BIRTH. They would never survive it. One nurse, noticing his ink on the soft underside of each arm, pointedly asked him how in the world he had managed to get the tattoos done (lots of alcohol apparently).

By the time it was finished, both armpits had been treated and Dallas was the colour of cement. He politely declined to have the tags removed from his neck. After the nurses left, Dallas got up from the table and in doing so, we discovered that he had sweat through his boxers, his hospital gown and the sanitary liner on the exam table. BUCKETS OF MOISTURE. I spent several minutes picking the saturated bits of paper off his back while giggling hysterically.

He swore.

Later, at home, he turned to me stone faced and said, "They may as well have taken a can of gasoline, poured it on my titty warts (his name for skin tags) and thrown a match on the whole mess because my FUCKING ARMPITS ARE ON FIRE!

You know how it is when you take a male dog to the vet to be neutered and after it's all done, you are never again able to drive by the vet's office without him whimpering in the back seat? I think it will be a frosty day in hell before Dallas ever agrees to another mole check.

It's B Day!

My week so far has been a complete mess but at least the PMS beast has been placated for a couple of weeks. My poor, poor husband.

Anyway, this week so far has been like a kick in the head and I would not be coping well if it weren't for the gym. It's amazing how well I sleep at night when I get regular exercise and as a bonus, my bathroom scale has been kind, relatively speaking.

Today is going to be a freaking fabulous day.

Pourquoi?

Because today, I'm going to fill my forehead full of Botox until it is as smooth as a baby's arse.

I cannot wait.

Depending on the cost, I might even inject a few bits into the crow's feet surrounding my eyes.

I'm positively giddy with anticipation.

I have never been to a dermatologist before so this is all new to me. I have no idea what to expect. Am I scared? Not a chance. I have given birth. I have my lip waxed every six weeks. Could it be worse than those two things? I think not.

When booking the appointment, the receptionist asked me the reason for the visit. I said, "mole check". I have no idea why I said that. Instead, I should have told her that I could grow vegetables in the furrows that line my forehead. It's kind of like walking into the drug store when I was in university, grabbing bandaids and nail polish remover and then quietly asking for the condoms behind the counter in an offhand way like, "Oh yeah, better get some of those...FOR MY ROOMATE". I don't know why I was self conscious with the receptionist regarding my desire for Botox. I mean, for weeks, I've been asking everyone I know about it. I haven't been the slightest bit shy about vocalizing my desire to try it and since making the appointment, I've been marking the days off like a child uses an Advent calendar at Christmastime. There has been an extra special skip in my step these last couple of days.

"Why are you smiling," people ask.

"Because I still can," I answer.

I certainly do want a mole check because I'm forty two and there were several years of my youth where baby oil was slathered on in an attempt to create significant tan lines but my real goal, MY LIFE'S PURPOSE, is to walk out of that doctor's office having been stripped of my ability to look surprised.

If my dermy is okay with it, I'll have Dallas take pictures. Because I know you girls (and guys) out there who haven't tried it are as curious as I am. Right?

Don't lie now. It makes you look old.

Rant for a Friday

This has been the longest week in the history of mankind.

Epic.

I have come to the following conclusions:

1. I need to be more careful when making future hair appointments. They must never occur during my PMS week. On Wednesday, I was having an especially bad hair day. Every time I went to the bathroom, I saw my father staring back at me which is terribly disconnected because he never went through the long haired sixties rock dude and I have no idea why I was associating my singularly shitty hairstyle with him. But I did. When I arrived at the salon that night, I told my girl to cut it all off. She obliged.


Two things of note here. First of all, see those lines on my forehead? I'm taking care of those babies this month. I am so not kidding.
Second, what you can't see is the pile of Starburst Fruit Chews directly in front of me that helped me manage my day, which brings me to my next point.

2. I can eat all of the Starburst, chocolate, bread and KFC that I want and not gain an ounce. I've proven it this week. The only catch is that I must get on an elliptical for at least forty minutes every day. And I must exercise until I vomit my spleen. Then I must waddle over to the free weights and pump iron until I hallucinate. Whatever. It works for me.

3. My ex husband shall now be known as FMS or formal spousal unit. I love the way that sounds because years ago in Canada, if you called someone a "unit", it would imply that they were a tool and not in the good, "love machine" kind of way but more in a derogatory, "dull and worthless until properly manipulated" kind of way. In any case, it seems more polite and vastly more convenient to call him FSU instead of GIANT WASTE OF CARBON.

And now for my take on stuff I heard this week:

4. The coroner has stated that the 136 pounds that Michael Jackson weighed at the time of his death was within the normal range for a fifty year old, 5'9" man. Excuse me? Oh yes, and his nose looked perfectly normal too.

5. Roman Polanski. Ick. No matter how hard his attorneys try to get the charges dismissed on misconduct, technicalities and judicial impropriety, it still boils down to the fact that there is nothing consensual about a forty-something man having sex with a thirteen year old child. Period.

6. Two quakes in Indonesia and another in Samoa in a single week. You have got to wonder how well the people in California are sleeping. Do they hear that clock ticking?

Okay, that's it. I promise to come back next week with a much better attitude. As long as I don't have to listen to sweet, talented, Taylor Swift sing, "You Belong With Me" ONE MORE TIME.