Are You There God? It’s Me, Emilie

I did some organizing about a month ago and found some of my old journals from when I was between the ages of 10 and 13. I’ve been home sick for 3 days so I have some extra time on my hands; I’ve been reading my entries and dying laughing.  As an adult I am not one for flowery emotions and drama – I am pretty practical and nonchalant.  It seems I was that way as a kid too. One of my favorite books growing up was ‘Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret’: a book that details the thoughts and emotions of a 6th grade girl.  Boys, bras, periods, family disputes and everyday emotions. I wasn’t so much like Margaret as I didn’t really ‘journal’ so much,  I more ‘documented’ the daily going ons in our house.

Below is one of the entries from my journal.  To give you a better understanding here a few additional details:

I grew up on a hobby farm.  We had a few horses, a few cows, pigs and some chickens.  We only had female cows.  If Dad wanted one of the heifers to get pregnant he would need to call Joe Van De Valk and ask him to come over when she was in heat. Joe Van De Valk is not a bull from a local farm, he is an Artificial Inseminator. Joe was somewhat deaf so he spoke in a not typical manner (which was great as I love to do impersonations of people and I can do a humdinger impersonation of Joe).  Once we got older we had a great nickname for him ‘The County Cow F*&cker’

Saturday, October 5th, 1991 (I was 11)

“Joe Van de Valk came over today. I woke Dad up because he was taking a nap when I saw his van pull in the driveway.  Dad and I went up to the barn.  When we got there Joe pulled out a catalogue with pictures of bulls in it.  He said ‘Jesus Christ Leonel I got some real nice stuff today.  That fella there (pointing at a picture of a bull from Ontario) he has some beauty calves.  Throws big ones.’  (insert – just like a modern day sperm bank Dad would choose the sperm from the most suitable bull).  Joe then put on a glove that went up to his arm pit.  After that he pulled a long rod from what looked like a bucket with dry ice in it.  He then took his arm with the rod in his hand and put it up the cows bum.  Ginger bawled.  After some poking and prodding he took his arm out.  The glove was full of hot steamy manure.  After Joe left Dad and I went into town and picked David up at basketball. When we got back it was lunchtime and Dad made us cream peas on toast (like he always does when Mom is working).’

End of entry.

I Like Big Underwear and I Cannot Lie

I grew up in a small town where there was a store called the 5 cent to a $1.  An old fashioned department store where you can get anything from film and baby gifts to material for sewing.  You can also buy great big underwear there.  When we were kids we would sneak into that section and put the biggest pair over our heads or pretend to wear them – my mother was likely mortified by our behavior.  Now these underwear weren’t just big in style they were big in size.  Like, really big.  In fact, I always wondered who could fill those puppies out in Antigonish.  The Sears catalog was also a terrific source of laughter.  Pointing out the most pointy bra or the biggest undies.  Well folks, I am going to tell you – I like big underwear.  Not the big in size variety, but the big in shape style.  One of my best friends says one of her favorite things to do is pull on a brand new pair of white athletic socks.  I am chuckling thinking of the day she confessed her secret love for tube socks.   One of my favorite things these days is pulling on a big old pair of undies that aren’t going to ride up, fall down or lose the elastic in the band.

In the past I purchased every type of underwear – thong, boy short, full back – low front and for quite sometime I boycotted wearing any at all.   Ever since I was a kid I hated things being low around my waist.  I remember having a full blown freak out in grade 2 about having to wear a pair of green pants with an elastic waist band that I could feel (I also hated the fact that Mom hemmed them too short – not only were they green but they were flood like and I always have been particular about what I want to wear).  When it comes down to it I love the big, cover it all, come up to at least my belly button variety.   I remember the only time I ever got spanked was because I was doing cartwheels in a nightgown in front of my brothers friends… I wasn’t wearing any undies.  Mom said “You knew what you were doing”.  Over the years I have spent hundreds of dollars on pretty bras that part of my boob didn’t fit into and my boobs fell out of  when I leaned over (cart wheels were difficult in this type). Oh no, I am all done with that folks!  I have embraced what my boobies need – a full cup, a wide strap and at least 3 buckles on the back.   So there you have it… under my leopard print dress I am wearing big undies and a substantial bra.

Spanx – I love them. They trick you into thinking you are skinnier than you actually are, however, they come with some challenges.  In order to avoid having lines the best ones are shorts.  If you are wearing a short dress your dirty little secret often gets exposed when you cross your legs.  On the red carpet this week Jennifer Garners purse pulled up her wrap dress and exposed her big old Spanxs to the world.  I am sure she wasn’t proud of that moment considering 100 photographers snapped her unmentionables.   And they are hot as they cover about 50% of your body and are made of thick spandex!  So, recently I saw a pair of thong Spanxs – they still suck you in,  but they have a thong to limit lines.  What a novel idea!  Let me tell you the utter discomfort I felt far exceeded the lack of lines on my butt.  I could barely focus in conversation as these underwear ride up and slide forward as they do so.   Since they are tight they ride up in a very unique way.  If anyone paid attention to my movements that night they either thought I had a bad case of the trots or had been diagnosed with A.D.D. – I was distracted and went to the bathroom about 5 times to adjust.

My grandma always told me I was crazy when I was younger… well look at me just getting practical.  I am still doing all the same things I did when she accused me of being wild, the only difference is I am wearing big undies and a lock ’em in bra while doing cartwheels.

 

Mile High Club Failure

I am usually a very positive person. It takes quite a lot to ruffle my feathers. I usually wake up feeling happy, motivated, and ready to take on the day. This winter has positively gotten the positive side of me.  I have tried everything to be optimistic about this winter – took a trip thinking it would be close to being done when we got back.  Nope.  I have terrific winter apparel (North Face parka, Sorel winter boots, hats, gloves) but even that can’t help me any more. Every morning I look at getting dressed with the same enthusiasm as going for a root canal. I spent $32 on tights the other day; on wear one both ripped. My boots are salt stained. Last night ‘Steady Eddie Maurice’ lost his cool. He came home to find our garage drain had decided to back up and in turn filled the garage floor with water.  The water soaked boxes which were on the floor and their collapse caused all of the boxes on top of them to fall over and spill, resulting in sopping wet papers.  I shed my ‘Debbie Downer Winter Attitude’ and talked him off the “I AM DONE WITH WINTER” ledge.

This morning I woke up and read something that made me feel much better.  A few months ago there was a story in the Chronicle Herald about a man and woman (not a couple) who engaged in sexual acts while on a flight from Toronto.  Upon arriving in Halifax the pair were arrested and charged with plane sex charges, mischief and causing a disturbance. The police would not confirm whether or not the man and women previously knew each other, but they did confirm that the “act” was not intercourse. RCMP stated that “the people involved were not naked though the clothing was partially open.”  In an interview he broke his stone cold face when he said this with a smirk on his face  “Others around the area knew what was happening.”   I have always wondered about The Mile High Club and the impracticality of it, but this story really got me thinking.  The flight from Toronto is only 2 hour and this flight landed at 5 pm which means it wasn’t night time. Now, I don’t know about you but in the MANY flights I have taken out of or arriving in Halifax, the most I have ever wanted to do with a seatmate is talk as it is typically someone from NFLD who is afraid of flying or an oil rig worker heading west.  There are TV screens on most Air Canada planes which cause people to be completely disengaged with their seatmates.  This mornings article had another piece of information which wasn’t in the previous writings: the wife of the man involved in this “situation” was waiting for him at the gate!  How is that for a “Honey I’m home surprise”?!  I am sure he said “I was just watching a movie and all of the sudden this chick started on me” or “I was asleep, woke up and the woman in 4D was undoing my pants” or “I took medication before flying and I blacked out. I don’t remember anything.”  The length of this flight is what really has me baffled. So, let’s say they met on the flight and by the time the captain turned off the seat belt sign things were happening.  Maybe turbulence caused his zipper to come down?  All the bumping might have done it.

So, when I think about how cruddy the weather is I think about these two airplane lovers – they need to deal with the weather, criminal charges and an enraged wife. Later today I am boarding a flight bound for Toronto… hopefully I won’t get escorted out by RCMP.

Idea: Better Beach Attire Revolution

I always marvel at what I see when I hit the beach.  I am a huge believer in the fact that any body type/size can look great… with the right clothes.  I am also a believer in the fact that you don’t need deep pockets to get clothing that emphasizes your good bits instead of your not-so-good bits.  Our society is all about liberation, but liberation doesn’t mean you need to look trashy while doing so.   Fashion don’ts seem to be more prevalent at the beach. I love people watching; the beach is a breeding ground for sights that just sink my battle ship.

Yesterday, we hit the beach and within minutes I was amazed at what I saw.  Right off the bat there is a guy that is so tanned his skin looked like  a leather jacket I had in high school wearing tightie short shorts and a rocking a metal detector and giant headphones. I guess he was seeking his fortune on the shores of Poipu.  Not even a minute later I saw something that amazed me.  There was a woman who was (hmmmm what is the best way to describe her) “VERY rotund” wearing a bikini bent over with legs spread apart trying to put on flippers. Poor Maurice was stunned and shocked.  It literally stopped me in my tracks. I am still scarred by that one.  Around the bend there was a woman on the rocks wearing a hat that was literally the size of an umbrella. I have no idea where she got this hat.  The only thing I could figure it is good at is keeping people away because it had a 4 foot circumference.   It was quite a windy day yesterday so it kind of looked like Dumbo trying to take flight – she was holding onto it trying to not fly away.

A few years ago I hit Spain with 2 of my girlfriends where there are nude beaches.  In an effort to get away from the all the solicitors (massages, beer, coconuts, etc) at the “non nude” beaches we hit the nude beach… clothed.  There we were 3 non tanned conservative (in comparison) Canadian girls wearing bathing suits on a nude beach.  We couldn’t have stood out anymore.  I honestly thought we were going to die laughing.  Lara inconspicously zoomed in on body parts of others on the beach and snapped some doozies.  Saggy asses, saggy boobs, huge fake boobs, saggy man parts… you get the picture. There was a short portly woman who didn’t have a top on who was wearing a thong bikini bottom… backwards.  Oddly the nude beach was better because there is no “style” to being naked. There is no “bad fit” when you are naked.  

As much as I would love to start a “better beach attire revolution” I kind of don’t want  things to change because it gives me great material.  Once I post this I am going to go put on my bathing suit as I am going to hit the beach… a nice one piecer that covers up my not-so-good bits and holds my not-so-small boobs in place. 

An ode to my father…

Guess what, my Dad apparently got online and read my blog. Mom told me that he actually thought it was funny – I can’t believe it. He isn’t one to flow over with compliments. I mean you really have to work for it. I guess in some ways you never need to question where you stand with him – he will usually tell you straight up how he feels. My mother is not a chef by school training but she is a chef by life training. I have heard Dad yell out at the end of a meal “Janice, that was some powerful stuff” and I have also heard him say “Janice, you have done a lot better.” A few months back Dad told me my lasagna was perhaps the best he has ever had. That was a big deal. In thinking about Dad and a few funny stories come to mind:

1. Many years ago my mother had a pair of floral leggings which my father detested – he still hates leggings. One day we came home from running errands to find Dad standing in the kitchen wearing the leggings while making bread. I remember laughing out loud at the site. Mom said “Leonel, what are you doing?” Dad replied “How do they look?” Mom replied “Terrible.” He replied “Well they don’t look any better on you.” I don’t think I saw the leggings again.
2. One year we were getting ready to go on vacation when Dad out of the blue announced he needed to get his hair cut before leaving. My mother would have been organizing, cooking, packing, planning so this would have been a huge annoyance. In fact I have heard my mother say the “F word” twice in my entire life and one of the times was during the planning of this trip. We drove into town and dropped Dad at the barber shop before leaving. My father returned with his hair completely shaved off. As in shiny bald head shaved off. He normally had something like Einstein hair, so the shave was rather shocking. Rumors of cancer quickly flew around our town. Not sure why he took this notion, but it made for an interesting start to our vacation.
3. He often uses the car keys to clean his ears. It looks like he is trying to start his head instead of the car.
4. A few years ago he thought he needed a change before retiring so he decided to move to Calgary to work. We now call him the 2 week cowboy – that is how long he lasted.
5. For the grade ten semi-formal I made a hair appointment in town to get an “up do”. After waiting an extra hour for my appointment the stylist just bombed my hair. I am very particular about style so this was a big deal for me. I walked out of the salon totally emotional. Guess who was there to pick me up? Dad. I got in the car and in a grade 10 girl way started to cry and said “I hate my hair! She ruined it! I don’t want to go to the dance!” Now most fathers would say “Oh honey you are beautiful, what can I do for you?” Not my Dad. He said “Emilie, why don’t you get out of the car and get back in when you grow up.” Talk about feeling like an idiot because it is true.

For most of my early life I was often thinking “why does Dad do that?” As in he didn’t behave like most people I knew. We recycled years before others people did. He had all kinds of side gigs – he made yogurt for the health food store in town, sold milk to various families in the area and he sharpened blades for local businesses. He used the pockets from the back of his jeans to cover up holes in the knees. He had crazy hair. Most every single time someone came to our house and a geographic location was mentioned he would pull out his magnifying glass and world atlas. At some point I stopped trying to understand him and instead I just accept that he is different from anyone I know. In fact the older I get the more I absolutely appreciate his individualism in a world where most people are vanilla ice cream.

So Dad in case you read this – I think you are weird, but I also think you are cool.

I climbed a mountain and I looked around… part 1

The climax of the story is that I made it to the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro, 5800m. The lead up and aftermath makes for much of the story.

I arrived in Tanzania after traveling for over 24 hours! After getting my Visa I made my way to customs and immigration where the female agent looked at me and said “Oh you shine as bright as a star – beautiful. Welcome to Tanzania!!” I don’t know about you, but this was a very different customs experience than home. Normally they make you feel like you are bringing a body in your luggage and have cocaine shoved up your bum. It was as easy as that! I said good-bye to my seat-mate John and wished him the best of luck at shooting an African buffalo. I walked out to little guy with a big smile and a sign with my name on it. He brought me to a bus with a few other people on it and we peeled out of the parking lot. We arrived at a hotel different than the one I was expecting – they told me my hotel was overbooked and they would bring me to the original one in the morning. Oh, and that I would have a roommate for the night. I made my way to a common area where a little Japanese guy was near to hyperventilating. I noticed that his hand was bandaged up and that he had a lot of dry blood on his hands. I asked him if he was okay – he explained (in very broken English) to me that he had fallen on the street and ripped his hand up and in order to see the doctor he had to use all of the schillings he had and now he didn’t have any cash left as Japanese Yen isn’t accepted in Tanzania. I then acted as a meditator between him, hotel staff, a cook and a German. English, Swahili, German and Japanese. He told me I made him feel much better. I went cross eyed to my room and slept for 12 hours. I woke up to roosters, goats, motorcycles, singing and traffic sounds outside my window. Someone came and picked me up around lunchtime and we made our way to Springlands Hotel. The next morning we departed for Kilimanjaro. I learned about “African Time” – we were told we would depart at 8:30, I think we left around 10:30. We are so schedule based that it took a few days to let go of the need to be “on time” – what the hell does time matter when you are waiting to climb a 5800m mountain? So off we go all jammed into a bus shared with porters who let’s just say don’t wear deodorant. We drove 4 hours to the Kenyan side of the mountain. Conveniently there was a terrorist attack in Nairobi the day of my arrival. I kept thinking about my dear mother who was nervous about my trip in the first place turning on the TV only to see the news cover the story of violence in Kenya. To her the “Kenyan side of the mountain” was near to that mall and so she didn’t sleep all week.
We arrive at the entrance to the park. For 15 of us to go up the mountain we needed 50 support people! At the entrance the porters take all of our luggage, supplies, tents, food and bring it to a weigh station. It was quite the scene but somehow or another they get everything sorted, weighed and divided up among the porters to be carried up the mountain. This is where I really started to respect these people. Each porter carries 50 pounds on their head/back up the mountain for $5 a day. I could write about the people for hours and hours, but for the purpose of this post I will focus on the funny bits of the climb. Due to congestion at the weigh station the porters didn’t get to the campsite before us, so we found ourselves in the dark in the middle of the woods waiting for them to arrive. One by one they made their way to the site, but it was already pitch black, freezing and we were starved! Within an hour they whipped up for us this amazing African stew of sorts. I climbed into my tent and what happened for the rest of the week happened. I couldn’t sleep. For the following reasons: I wasn’t tired due to jetlag, my tent seemed to always be on a downward angle so I found myself sliding down my pad, it was freezing in and out of my tent and I was convinced I could hear wildlife outside of my tent. Over the course of the week I read 3 books, made new playlists and did a lot of thinking. You can’t possibly imagine the thoughts and scenarios that went through my head.
The next day was pretty status quo – 5 hours of hiking. So now I’ve been on the mountain for 2 days and up until now I’ve been whizzing in the bushes and no number two’s have hit yet. We got the next site. The “bathroom” was a tent that had in the middle of it a bucket with a toilet seat on the top. I wasn’t strategic in that I didn’t stand by the tent when it was being set up. By the time I made it there I went inside, flipped open the top and was shocked to see the bucket was full to the top with other peoples “stuff”. It sunk my battle ship. I couldn’t do it. I started to gag, my eyes watered and I got shivers. I quickly made my way out of the “bathroom”, put on my headlamp and made my way into the bushes. It must have been a combination of travel, altitude, change in food, but I think bowel movements (or lack thereof) was the number one topic of conversation. We cheered when Darren announced he had his first, we gave a standing ovation when Tristin finally “went”, high five’s were given as each person made it happen. I, however, didn’t get any high fives. For an otherwise “regular” girl, going 1,2,3,4 days without pooping is problematic. As I mentioned I had a lot of time to think about things in my tent… this continued until day number 5. I was coming back down the mountain with one of our guides Robert. We had a lot of hours together so we were doing a lot of talking when all of the sudden it hit me. It kind of felt like the same amount of force that the tidal bore comes into the Shubenacadie River. I started to sweat and clench my butt cheeks as I thought I was going to shit my pants. At this stage I am above the clouds so there are no trees or bushes anywhere. I said to Robert “Ummmm, Robert I really need to pee, can you walk ahead a little bit?” He did so. I took refuge behind a boulder. Behind that boulder a very dramatic scene occurred. It was a very low moment in my life.

Part 2 will come soon…

Leaving the leopard at home…

So today I am flying to Tanzania to climb Mt Kilimanjaro.  When I first signed up for this expedition I thought climbing the mountain was going to be my biggest challenge.  6 days in total – 4.5 going up and 1.5 of coming down.  Over the past few months I’ve put in MANY miles of walking, climbed numerous hills, done hundreds of Burpees, too many sit ups… you get the picture.  The fundraising end of things wasn’t a big challenge either – so many people generously donated.  I honestly think the biggest challenge has been buying all of the supplies/clothes/equipment.

I have never been one to be overly “technical” in my attire.  In fact, I have been known to walk miles in heels and wear rhinestones while putting in wood.  Kilimanjaro lists have called for pants, shorts, boots, socks all to suit the variety of weather conditions we will encounter. Off I go to MEC and a few other stores to get my goods.  What I quickly realized is this stuff is expensive!  Expensive and BORING looking.  I am naturally drawn to bright colors and I am kind of like a crow – I like sparkly things. Well in order to be “Hiker” it seems I need to be a natural woman and wear tan, taupe, and at the wildest maybe plum.  Putting me into these clothes feels as awkward as bringing my Grandma to see Miley Cyrus twerk and stick her long disgusting tongue out.  Oh and let’s talk about the boots.  They are comfortable, absolutely, however I feel like a dog when its owner puts a jacket on it.  It is like my body reacts to them and wants to take them off.  I was able to find a few “not-typical but still do the job of wicking sweat from my body” – snake skin leggings and bright tops.  I needed to get a sun hat, however, everything I found made me feel like a huge dork.  In the end I found a bright blue number that fits my XL noggin.  I always laugh when people comment on things: a few weeks ago I had a ballgame after work.  I rushed home to drop the dog, grab a bite and get changed for the game.  Maurice got home after me and when he saw me he said “oh you are wearing red lipstick to play ball are you?” To which I replied “oh that is right I need to go wipe the lipstick off which I’ve been wearing all day in order to play ball because that will really change the outcome of the game.”  

The next challenge was the immunizations. Lord, I got pumped with so many vaccines – Hepatitis A and B, Typhoid Fever, Yellow Fever, booster shots and pills for Malaria, diarrhea, and altitude sickness.  I am so paranoid that I am afraid to drink, eat, touch, breath or sleep.  Watch out for the water… watch out for the food… watch out for mosquitoes… watch out for wild dogs… watch out for the sun… watch out for locals.

I honestly think the easiest part of the whole trip will be climbing the mountain.  I remember my brother Dave was studying at Queen’s and he didn’t have a lot of extra money.  He liked to bike but his bike hadn’t made its way to Kingston yet so someone gave him a mountain bike. He heard about a bike group that met and biked to various places in the area.  He decided to join them.  Unfortunately, he didn’t have a helmet either so he popped on his hockey helmet and went to meet the group. He said everyone else had road bikes, spandex, water belts – he had his mountain bike, hockey helmet and some kind of random clothing.  He said “I came there to bike.  I did. And I beat them all.”   I wish I could just wear what I had in drawers/closets, however,  I guess I am forced to only see leopard while on safari.

Away I go!

 

Double double – as in DD’s

I have never been a girl who is insecure about my looks or body.  Even though I know I am not a 10/10 I am a-okay with how I look.  Lord knows there are enough things to worry about other than pieces of my body.  I could harbor resentment towards my two grandmothers for passing down their large breasts.  I could point a finger at my mother for graciously giving me her crazy thick and corse hair.  I could call my father names for giving me the mole gene.  Instead I will roll with the fact that I have big boobs, crazy hair and a lot of moles.  In fact I used to have a mole which was record setting on my face.  Great placement.  My Grandpa used to call it my “Beauty Mark” and he told me it made me different than any other girl, but after he died the only names it had came from my brothers – rat shit, shit, dirt, hairy beast, etc.  Mmmm hmmm, that is right my brothers didn’t treat me like a princess instead they played head games with me, daily. In grade 7 (at the advice from my dermatologist) I had actually had plastic surgery to have it removed.  Imagine that I’ve had plastic surgery.  So now the only body problems I really have are DD boobs (and a muffin top).

I remember when I got my first bra.  Mom got it at Sears in New Glasgow and when she came home said “Emilie there is a bag for you on the table.”  I remember opening it up and freezing kind of like my dog does when she sees a squirrel.  I was in Grade 4.   I wore it to school the next day under a few layers of clothing and as per usual the “don’t tell anyone but…” was told to everyone.  I remember the boys chanting around me “Emilie got something new, Emilie got something new.”  My classmate Allan already had armpit hair and an Adam’s Apple so it seems we were early developers in Maryvale.

Every year around this time the DD’s seem to become problematic – wedding season. The problem is that they do not fit in most any structured dress without having to buy 4 sizes up.  I can’t just throw on any dress – I usually need to spend a pretty penny to get something that suits me.  I’ve been in quite a few weddings over the years and every time the seamstress has to pull out wondrous ways of fitting my rack into the dress.  I’ve had panels added to the sides and stitches added to the v-neck in order to avoid having DEEP Dolly Parton-ish cleavage.  For one wedding the seamstress was an old Greek lady who could have been on The Golden Girls.  When I came out in my dress they were wedged in there like sausages and because of that they were sticking up out of the dress.  She looked at me and said “Lord lord lord look at the big boobies on you.  What am I gonna do with those?” So on top of the price of the dress I normally need to spend at least $50 in alterations.  On top of the price of the dress and the alterations I usually need to spend some coin on a bra which holds the sisters in place.  So weddings end up costing me far more than the average guest.  In fact I am far more high maintenance than I think – plastic surgery and custom clothing.  I do drink beer from a bottle and put in wood while wearing leopard to make up for this.

Doing exercise is a whole other story.  If any bouncing is going to take place I need to wear at least 2 bras.  I have the Ta-Ta Tamer from Lululemon.  This bra kind of locks and loads my ta-ta’s into place, however, I need to wear another bra over top of it as mine seem to creep out with every jumping jack I do.  Oh and baby powder. Lots of baby powder.  The area under the boobs which never sees the light of day needs extra attention.

I guess breast size is something relative – when you don’t have them you want them – when you have them you don’t want them.  I am not saying I don’t want them I just decided to give you an educational lesson in the costs of having DD boobs as today I got a dress in the mail which fits me everywhere else… other than the chest.   If I added up all that I have spent on those suckers over the years I think I could have flown to around the world with that money.  

 

It is all about timing…

This morning I had to run to the post office down the street from my office.  This particular post office is inside of a Lawton’s Drugs on the busiest street in Halifax.  Seeing as there is a lot of traffic on Spring Garden there are a lot random people floating around asking for change and doing a lot of scheming.  Anne (I only know her name because I heard someone say it) was walking into Lawton’s in front of me.  I am not sure if she was in a rush this morning, but she forgot to put on a bra.  She was also wearing sling pant style leggings which emphasized every lump and bump on her, crocs and she was slurping on a large pop.  She was walking to the cash in front of me when she bent down and picked up some pennies off the floor.  She looked at me and said “wow I found these on the floor – man I got bad gas.”  It seems that the two topics went together for her.  I couldn’t make the connection, but the timing was impeccable for me.  It made my post office visit much more interesting.  A few months ago I had two events happen at bank machines; normally this activity is very predictable and not funny, however, good timing spiced up my bank machine encounter.  The first encounter happened when a couple got in a huge financial fight in front of me.  She was a portly girl and he wasn’t terribly ambitious looking.  He went to take money out of his account and got denied or his balance shocked him because he said “did you take money out of my account?”  She says in a hostile tone “yeah I did for smokes – you owed me money” to which he replied “owe you money?  you owe me money, 20 bucks from march”.  Now I know women get accused of bringing up things from the past, but this was really digging deep.  20 bucks from months before. They continued to stand there and fight with each other not really minding the fact that I was standing there awkwardly witnessing their domestic dispute.  Eventually she says “fine then fine then, I am just gonna go” to which he said “go, I don’t care” she then said “take your 20 bucks and suck you “beep” with it.”  Not sure how a guy would do that.    He walked away acted as if he didn’t care, but I saw him hide behind a pole and poke his head out to see if she had really left.  It made me feel really good about my balance. 

The second encounter: now bank machine areas are kind of like elevators – usually quiet.  You can normally sense if someone is standing behind you.  When I walked in there was a man using the bank machine so I stood waiting for my turn.  He was tapping away on the machine when he looked over his left shoulder.  Seeing as we were at a bank you might think he was ensuring there were no robbers around, but what happened next will verify that is not what he was checking for.   After looking over his shoulder the man leaned a little to the left slightly lifting his leg and let our an enormous fart.  Now, I am not tall but I am 5″2 and had heels on.  I wasn’t using my superpowers to make myself invisible that day. I was also wearing a bright green jacket.  How did he not see me?  This fart was long enough for him to take his money and pivot around while still blasting.  He got a real blast when he saw me standing there.  He knew.  I knew.  It was terribly awkward.  He kind of filled his cheeks up with air and lifted his eyebrows up.  It wasn’t a proud moment for him; I am willing to bet he didn’t tell anyone about his bank machine blow out.

Maurice and I had a party a few weeks ago and we had a fair amount of extra food.  I decided to bring it to Sister Jovita to distribute at her street outreach program.  Outside of the church there was a woman (I think) in a wheelchair.  She said to me “what do you got in there?”  I said “Pie, I am dropping it inside so you can likely have some when lunch starts.” She goes “pie, what kind?” I told her.  She let our an enormous belch and burned away in her electric chair.

I guess I could look at the mentioned incidents as bad timing seeing as they exposed me to belches and blasts, instead I looked at it as awesome timing. I am thankful that I was were I was at that exact moment.

In case you get hit by a bus…

We have all heard the saying “make sure you wear clean underwear in case you get hit by a bus, right?  Well today I didn’t get hit by a bus, but I had an incident with a bus and it does involve underwear. 

Halifax is a windy city.  Barrington Street in particular is a bloody wind tunnel.  If you ever want your hair to remain looking gorgeous I would advise you to not walk down Barrington Street.  If ever you want to wear a dress and not have it blown up, I would advise you to not walk down Barrington Street.

I just moved offices and I needed a few frames, so I planned to run down to Des Serres on (yes) Barrington Street.  Today is one of the first nice days we’ve had in Halifax in what seems like weeks, so I of course pulled on a super cute dress which happens to have a full bottom (not form fitting – not a good dress to wear in wind).  In addition, the Halifax Mooseheads won the Memorial Cup so there was a big celebration downtown.  You get the picture – the streets are full.  I take my oh so adorable dog Millie to work with me and she loves getting out of the office, however, on our way to Des Serres we pass by a street where she went to a groomer about 2 years ago. They say elephants have good memories, well this little Westie remembers every incident that has ever happened to her.  She pulls hard in the opposite direction when we walk within 2 blocks of the groomer (which isn’t even there anymore). So today the streets were full, Millie was pulling, I had a big purse on my shoulder and of course it is windy.  On the way down to Des Serres I was able to use my one free arm to hold down my dress.  After making my purchase I came out the door and stepped out onto Barrington.  Right away my dress started to blow up – I caught it with my kind of free hand.  I arranged my bag, purse, and stressed out Westie as best I could and held one arm close in an effort to hold my dress down.  All went well for about 100 paces when I hit the corner of Spring Garden and Barrington.  A bus came along and created an abnormally large gust of wind from behind me.  That is when the entire back of my dress flipped up and didn’t come down.  Under my dress I had on a pair of big ugly Spanx type underwear which ALWAYS ride up my butt. I couldn’t get it back down due to the purse, large bag and pulling dog.  Seeing as it is so nice out today a lot of people are eating outside on Spring Garden. 3 guys who were munching on Bud The Spud fries saw a lot more than the Memorial Cup on their lunch hour.  I had on great shoes, a cute dress, have my hair done in a nice bun and none of that matters to those men because all they saw was a chick with big ugly underwear on with her dress up to her ears. Shit.