tmi tuesday: don't snort your wellbutrin up your nose.

Wednesday Burrito Lunch Date

After two visits with a psychiatrist, he was able to determine that I am not bipolar, and I am not schizophrenic. In fact, he found me to be a bit of a conundrum. I don't have ADD or ADHD, and yet I am still extremely depressed. I don't fit into a pretty little diagnosis which would mean a clear cut path on what medications I should be taking.

The conclusion he came to, is I have a lot of stress, a harder life than most, and I have a legitimate reason to feel sad. Medications are helping to keep my head above water and manage my anxiety. And I will probably always need them to manage. But I don't need more medication to help me feel better. I need therapy.

So, after agreeing to commit to attending weekly therapy, he filled out my prescriptions and told me that after this session, I didn't really need to see him anymore. One of my prescriptions is Wellbutrin, and he reminded me not to crush it and snort it up my nose. Say what? I guess his patients at the prison take their meds in a different way than me. I like to wash mine down with a nice pinot gris. I'm sure if he reads my blog he'll be horrified by my candour, but as I told him, I write as part of my therapy and also to help break the stigma that mental health is a dirty little secret to be ashamed of. Every time I write about my journey with depression, I receive many emails from people who are also struggling. So, word to the wise, don't crush up your Wellbutrin and snort it up your nose. But if you do, email me and let me know what happens as I am a little curious!

did you fear the state of "lady town" after childbirth?

Confession: the thing I was most worried about when it came to giving birth wasn’t the pain (bring on the drugs!) it was what it would do to my...err...ladytown. Having heard horror stories about sex after childbirth feeling like -- and I quote -- “throwing a hotdog down a hallway”, I was desperate to find a way to avoid what I thought was the inevitable destruction of my vagina.

 ...Read more on iVillage.ca

tmi tuesday: like a virgin.

My parents will be pleased to know that I arrived at college with my virginity intact. Not that this is something to be proud of or to wave over my head as some sort of moral standard, but you know, I like to over share. At some point between my first day of college and the birth of my first child, I clearly lost my virginity.

When I look at this picture, I feel a whole bunch of emotions. Mostly sad (and not because I was still as pure as the driven snow). I look really happy in this picture. I’ve always been good at turning on the smile for a photo op. The truth is, that even back then I was suffering from severe depression and anxiety. Studying music made me hypercritical of myself. Nothing I ever produced was good enough, for me anyway. I also got incredibly nervous whenever I had to perform. That probably should have made some bells and whistles go off somewhere, but I had decided I wanted to study music. Music was the only thing I found challenging at that point in my young life. In my mind, it was clearly the thing I should be attempting to conquer. Yeah, in retrospect it makes no sense to me either.

I want to take that young woman by the shoulders and shake her and say:

• You are awesome.
• You are beautiful.
• You are smart.
• You are going to do important things in your life.
• You should probably be studying carpentry – you would enjoy it a lot more than music.

also...

• Your roommate (the one with the big boobs and the fake smile) is a jerk, don’t pay any attention to her.
• Don’t fall for that cute guy just because he’s an incredible musician – he doesn’t like girls and he doesn’t know it yet and he’s going to give you a complex.
• You should pay more attention to that Jewish guy who is quirky and quiet – he’s going to turn out to be an incredible man.
• One day you are going to be tight with that guy who keeps sleeping with all your friends – so, don’t hate the player.
• The young women you are friends with now will still matter to you in 15+ years. Even the one who chased you down the street because she thought you were trying to steal her man!

one last thing...

• Don’t spend so much time self-obsessing and feeling bad.
• Run more and don't eat so much dairy queen (you're lactose intolerant dummy).
• Get on some medication to help you feel better.
• Enjoy getting to make music everyday and don’t take it for granted.
• What’s with the plaid shirt?

Of course, even if there had been someone to say all of that to me, (and I’m guessing there was and they did) I would have ignored their words of wisdom. Because that is what being young and foolish and needing to fall on your own ass is all about, right?  Damn I was a cute kid.

tmi tuesday: saggy tits are the bomb.

Henri Matisse - study for "pink nude"
charcoal on paper,  34 x 48 cm, private collection - 1935

As part of the WonderBra "Rediscover Your Wonder" project, I’m attending my first ever life drawing class tonight. If you aren’t familiar with what life drawing is, it’s a class that usually takes place in an art studio with a single model, who holds poses on a broad stand or platform. Students sit around the platform and practice drawing the human figure, which is considered essential to honing one’s drawing skills. Also, the model is nude. That’s “nude”, not “naked”. While the two words are similar, they have very different meanings when applied to art.

“Naked” implies a position of weakness. Bare, stripped, without adequate clothing. “Nude” is a choice – a position of power. An unclothed human figure.

Since I’ve never been to a life drawing class, I had my friend Alana (artist, musician, teacher, soul sister) give me the run down on what to expect and how to not make an ass of myself. She told me as long as I remember the following things, I’d be just fine:

1. don’t be intimidated about being a beginner – nobody cares what you are drawing, they are too busy drawing
2. the model will hold a variety of poses over the course of the class – a series of short poses (lasting no more than a few minutes) are held as a warm-up. Longer poses follow (lasting 10 to 20 minutes).
3. don’t talk to or distract the model while he or she is holding a pose
4. don’t talk with other students or move to another seat (you get the view you get, so deal with it)
5. any requests for specific poses are made to the class instructor beforehand
6. during breaks the model will put on a robe and relax – if the model shows a willingness to socialize you may speak with the model but keep it professional
7. don’t be picky about the age, sex or other physical characteristics of artists’ models – a good instructor will hire a wide range of models to give participants the most experience in figure drawing
8. “saggy tits are the bomb” (that’s a direct quote from Alana) – drawing the perky little breasts of an 18 year old gets boring fast, while the breasts of a woman who has breastfed her babies, have stretch marks, and have a story to tell are much more interesting and beautiful to draw

This conversation led to a very interesting discussion between Alana and me. I asked her if she thought she could model and she said she thought so, in the right conditions with the right people. If you had asked me that question before I had kids, I would have said absolutely not (which is interesting, because back then my body was in much better shape than it is now). But if you asked me that today, I’d say “probably”. I am so much more comfortable with my body now, even though my nipples don’t point to the sun, I have stretch marks here and there, and my tummy is not as flat as it once was. When you give birth, everyone and the janitor sees you at your most vulnerable, with all your business out there for the world to see. You are in so much pain you really don’t care; you are focused on getting the job done and getting that baby out of you – now!

Anyone who has breastfed gets over being shy about someone getting a peak at your nipples in a hurry. I can’t even count the number of times one of my babies decided to pop off or that he was done eating and I flashed a family member or complete stranger. It really isn’t a big deal and I absolutely refused to go and hide to feed my baby or wear one of those tent get ups to cover something that is completely natural and beautiful.

I’ve got my pencils and papers and I’m ready to go appreciate the beautiful human form. I hope the model is female. I’m in the mood to draw some saggy tits.

Check out WonderBra.ca to see what the other Women of Wonder are up to!

tmi tuesday: your nipples are supposed to be how high?

When women get drunk, we talk about all sorts of things.  Like, crazy stuff that would blow your mind if you were a fly on the wall.  For instance - did you know that your nipples are supposed to be located exactly half way between your shoulder and your elbow?  I know right?  I too, have longer than average upper arms.  That's the only way I can explain the fact that my nipples don't point at the sun.

Also - there is a place in Toronto where you can get a boob lift AND a tummy tuck at the same time for only $6,000.  And the doctor is legit - comes with recommendations and everything.  We spend that in a single month on Max's therapy.  You think Max would mind if we just skipped his treatment next month?  I mean, his mommy would be so much perkier as a result - win-win for everyone in my mind.  And, the general consensus was that La Senza has the most comfortable and flattering thongs...gotta get to La Senza in the very near future.  I love the fact that the majority of my women friends wear thongs.  That's hot.  Also, 3 of 5 of these women snuck away during the wedding reception with their husbands.  I won't say who, except one of these ladies isn't married and the other one's husband wasn't at the wedding.  Blondes and red heads really DO have more fun.  

My mind is still blown about the whole nipple thing.  

tmi tuesday: five lists of five.

First things first, I stole this from schmutzie.

Things That I Don't Do Anymore:

1. Mud wrestle.
2. Take long luxurious baths until my fingers prune up and the water gets cold (post mud wrestling).
3. Lift my skirt up over my head so the world can see my underwear (at least not in public).
4. Go to the bathroom without having an ongoing dialogue about what the outcome will be (and how awesome I am for doing whatever it is I'm doing in the potty).
5. Scream “NO” every time I don’t like something and throw myself on the floor (tempting!).

The Most Disgusting Things I Ever Ate:
1. Pistachio pudding (see "no hard things in soft things manifesto")
2. Mayonnaise (call it miracle whip or whatever you want, the shit is disgusting)
3. Clamato (clam juice mixed with tomato juice…super yuck and a Canadian invention to boot!)
4. Turkish “Delight” (I blame Lulu)
5. “Tea” Scott made for me one morning where he mistakenly poured coffee over the tea bag, dumped the coffee out and then poured water in the same cup (using the coffee soaked teabag!)

Favourite Words With Double Vowels In Them Such As AA, OO, or UU:
bazaar
muumuu
shiitake
laager
safariing

Things Which Are Clear Indications That Your Boss Is a Freak and You Should Seek New Employment:
1. You fantasize about dumping your coffee in her lap. A lot.
2. Your boss comes to work with the security tag attached to her new suit jacket and asks you to take it back to the store and have the tag removed – with no receipt (this really happened).
3. Your boss asks you to write “thanks but no thanks” letters to all of the nannies she interviewed for her kids and then sign and mail them for her (same boss as #2).
4. Your boss informs you that when you are eventually let go, they will use the money they are saving by not paying you to buy new office equipment (this happened to Scott by a very well known direct marketer).
5. Your boss openly mocks employees for being upset that a team member has been laid off because the person “only” worked in Q&A and who really cares anyway (this happened to me by another well known direct marketer).

People of the Internet Who Never Fail to Make Me Feel Good:
Julie Cole
Natalie Dee
Allie Brosh
Deb Rox
Jenny Lawson

emotional eating.

At the age of 35 I should know better. Or at least, I feel like I should know better. I seem to have two patterns when life gets stressful – either not eating enough, or eating even when I’m not hungry. Granted, not eating enough does have its benefits – that “surprise I’ve lost 5 pounds and my clothes are fitting a little looser” will always be a good thing in my books (even if those 5 pounds weren’t lost the “right” way through healthy eating and exercise). More often than not though the scale moves in the other direction and voilà – I step on the scale and get a “you think you can just feed your face non-stop and not gain weight? Really? Did you think you shrunk your pants in the dryer?”. Oof.

So, here we go yet again – time to clean up my act and start counting calories and upping my activity level. It isn’t even about counting calories – it’s about asking myself if I am actually hungry or if I just “feel” like eating. I really don’t like answering that question either. It makes me terribly cranky. Who wants to examine what makes them “feel” like eating? Where’s the fun in that? I could say that I’m bored, or it just feels comforting, but the reality of the situation is that I want to fill myself up so that I don’t feel empty. I want to push the sad feelings down for a momentary blip of sweet sugary happiness. But it never works, and all I end up being successful in is packing on the pounds.

It gets better: this past weekend I realized that I couldn’t remember the last time I actually felt hungry. I have been avoiding letting my tank get to empty.  The feeling of growling hunger has become completely foreign to me. I decided to try something crazy and not eat until my stomach announced it required sustenance. It took a long time to get there and when I actually let myself “feel” hungry, I realized it wasn’t so bad. Add to that when I eat I’m only eating until I no longer feel hungry. I’m doing my best not to stuff myself until I feel unbearably full. I know – this isn’t rocket surgery – it’s the basics. Funny how easy it is to forget these things. As Cathy says "wake me up when I'm a size 5" (if only it were that easy).

please look at my vagina.

Okay fellas, I have a secret to tell you.

You may think that my breasts are this perky, my ass that perfectly rounded and my legs this shapely. And for certain they are. With the help of an ironclad brassiere, a pair of underwear that took 5 minutes of humiliation to wiggle into, and of course 3 inch heels that kill my back and feet. Har har to you - it is all a ruse. There is a lot of work going on under this dress to fulfill your fantasy that a) my 35-year-old, mother of 2 body can defy gravity and b) all I’m wearing under this dress is a low cut bra and a thong.

Whoa. How did we get here from there?

It was a scene right out of the Bridget Jones' Diary movie (the original, I think). You know the one, where Hugh Grant is putting the moves on Rene Zellweger on her bedroom floor and he discovers (much to his amusement and her horror) that she is wearing grannie panties. So yeah, it was exactly like that, except instead of Hugh Grant putting the moves on me, it was my doctor rotating my knee into very uncomfortable positions and instead of grannie panties I was wearing spanx.How, you ask, did I get myself into this predicament?

Well, I cleverly thought that while I was at my check-up appointment to discuss certain medications, along with Cam who needed to get a booster shot, that it would be a good time to mention that my knee was killing me and ask what was going on and had I seriously effed it up or was it okay and I’m just a big baby who has a low pain tolerance? And yes, I did ask it exactly like that, and all in one single breath. That’s when things went sideways.

“Hop up on the table and let me take a look” he said. (And for all you ladies out there with doctor fantasies, rest assured, my doctor is super easy on the eyes.) Instead of hopping I wobbled, and I sat facing him with my legs hanging over the edge of the table. Cue music, dim lights. I look at him quizzically as he pulls out a sheet (the one you cover your bottom half with when you are wearing one of those gowns that ties up in the back). “Lay back so I can take a look” he says, and I turn bright red thinking he hasn’t heard me correctly. I mean I said "my knee is killing me”. Perhaps he heard “please look at my vagina”. Hey, you laugh, but how else do you explain it?

So I, (who am always game for a little fun), lay back on the table, draping the sheet over my torso. He takes my left leg by the ankle and starts bending my leg at the knee while he pushes on my knee cap. “How does that feel?” he asks, and I flash back to all those Three’s Company episodes with Jack and Chrissy, full of sexual innuendo, as Janet eavesdrops through the kitchen door. “That’s okay, but OUCH that hurts!” I yelp as he pushes on the side of my knee while turning it in an angle it has never seen. “What about this?” he asks as he pushes on the bottom of my knee cap. “That actually feels pretty good,” I respond, winking. That’s when HE blushed. Hey, I figured it was a fair reply given the situation. I should point out that while all of this was going on, Cameron was standing on the foot stool next to the exam table, poking me with her fingers saying “good job mom-mee, good job!!”. Kind of a mood killer. Next time I’ll leave her in the waiting room.

It wasn’t until it was all over that I realized the entire purpose of the sheet was meant to protect my modesty. I mean, imagine if all I had been wearing under my dress was a thong?! I definitely would have had all my business exposed. Sadly, I was wearing the equivalent of biking shorts empowered with the strength of Genghis Khan, holding all of my stuff up and in and flat and round in all the right places. A miracle come to fruition in a simple article of clothing.

The good news is that I can resume my exercise program so that one day I will be able to only wear a thong under my dress and look this good (I can dream). The bad news is that I don’t have another doctor’s appointment for 2 entire months.

10 Reasons Every Woman Should Wear Crotchless Panties.

Somewhere between my first and second dose of cough syrup with codeine this afternoon, it came to me. Every woman should wear crotchless panties. Perhaps not all the time mind you. But for sure there should be at least one pair in every lady's lingerie drawer. It wasn't a fleeting thought either, I'll have you know. Even in my foggy state, I came up with what I consider to be ten solid reasons.

10 Reasons Every Woman Should Wear Crotchless Panties:

1. We're all looking to add a little spice in the boudoir. Trust me, crotchless panties = plenty o' spice.

2. You will never hear "that's nice, take it off" (no need, really...)

3. I dare you to not get turned on while wearing crotchless panties. Seriously.

4. They will absolutely lead to steamy, hot, mind blowing sex. Who doesn't need a little of that?

5. Your lady town will get a lot of fresh air. A good thing, no?

6. From a functionality perspective, this attire offers a lot of options (namely flexibility regarding geographical location of the getting down...Starbucks washroom anyone?).

7. There are crotchless panties for every shape and size (even us curvy ladies).

8. Even spanx come crotchless (though, I personally believe this is meant 100% for going to the washroom as it is really hard to get in and out of this body shaping garment).

9. Men have been rocking easy access openings for years, why shouldn't we?

10. You can order them online and be discrete about your purchase. No need to go into one of those "adult" type shops if you're worried about bumping into someone you know.

Can you think of any other reasons? I'm sure there are tonnes...

TMI Tuesday: My Best *Ass*ets.

As my birthday looms closer and closer, I find myself trying to figure out how in some ways it feels like I blinked and this year was over and in other ways it feels like it lasted a decade. I started going over pictures from the last 12 months when I found this picture and I thought - holy crap look at those **Awesome German Milkmaid Titties**!!Then I looked down at my reality. No longer breastfeeding, my breasts are no longer worthy of hoots and hollers on the streets. They now fall into the category of "more than a handful is too much". I'm totally okay with that, in fact, I actually prefer them at this more manageable/handful size. But damn...those ta-tas were pretty f*cking spectacular if I do say so myself.

This leads me to the main point of this post: What do you consider to be your best physical asset(s)? I used to think mine was my breasts, but now...now I think it's probably my butt. Yeah, definitely my butt. I'd post a picture here, but it's hard to do it justice without dropping my pants, so you'll just have to trust me - I have a great ass.

TMI Tuesday: No More Babies.

We had been playing Russian roulette with my uterus for months. It's true. And while infrequency might be said to be a form of birth control, it is a less than full proof method. I tried to get Scott to get the snip-snip, but no dice. That left me with some decisions to make. I am a forgetful pill taker and barrier methods leave me cold. After much consideration and va-jay-jay discussions with my girlfriends, I settled on an IUD. Here in lies the TMI Tuesday Tale of what happened next:

As usual, I was running late. I needed to be at the office (a 45 minute drive) in a half hour. But instead of cruising along on the highway sipping my coffee and entertaining other drivers with my car-dancing, I was standing in line at the pharmacy waiting to pick up my IUD which would be inserted the following day. That's when the saga began.

I gave the woman at the counter my name and off she went to get my prescription. She returned with a package the size of a shoe box. I started shaking my head even before I leaned forward and whispered "I think there's been a mistake, I'm here to fill a prescription for an IUD". She looked down at the box, nodded, and pushed it across the counter towards me.

"This is your IUD" she said, not even attempting to be discrete. I didn't understand. I had been told an IUD was tiny, the size of a paperclip! I had given birth to children smaller than this box!

"I, uh, thought it would be smaller" I mumbled, wondering to myself "what the hell am I getting into here?". She smiled at me, finally understanding.

"The actual device is small. The box includes the applicator, and has packaging to keep everything sterile" she explained. "Plus, they need a big box to fit all this marketing stuff on it" she winked.

"Hmmm..." I said. "I'm on my way to work. I can leave this in my car, right?" My brain went into fast forward mode as I pictured myself trying to hide this massive box under my coat as I greeted people in the office. Yikes. She shook her head at me.

"It has to remain at room temperature". For a brief second, I contemplated throwing in the towel on the whole procedure. Maybe a third child wouldn't be that bad. I mean, Scott and I make cute babies...right? Alas, I took the massive box and tucked it under my arm. As I walked out of the pharmacy, I just felt like everyone was staring at me, knowing that the box I was trying to hide was a FORM OF BIRTH CONTROL THAT WOULD SOON BE PLACED SEMI-PERMANENTLY IN MY VA-JAY-JAY.

As I drove to work, I eyed the dreaded box, taunting me from the passenger seat. The only bag I had with me was my laptop bag, already jam packed. I decided to take my laptop out, so that I could keep my precious IUD warm. Again I suspected that everyone was staring at me as I tried to stroll into the office like it was normal to carry one's laptop under your arm while your laptop bag was stuffed with massive birth control devices meant to enable my clearly overactive sex life. But I digress, because it only gets better from here on out.

After settling in, IUD tucked under my desk, I got a suspicious call from my boss to meet him at a restaurant to "talk". Oh boy. That didn't sound any good to me. I packed my stuff, jammed my laptop into my now bulging laptop bag and left the office. As I parked my car, I realized I had to bring all my gear into the restaurant, lest my IUD freeze and lose its efficacy. I tried to look calm and collected as I strolled into the restaurant, saddled with enough bags to make a camel proud.

I sat down at the table, and as he launched into his shpeel, all I could think about was the IUD pulsing in my laptop bag like a glowing orb. He motioned towards the bag, saying something about the need to return equipment. My gawd. What do I do? Open up the bag, put the IUD on the table as I fish out my laptop? Quick thinking saved the day and I coolly informed him I had photos I needed to remove and that I would return it in a few days. I saddled up my gear and left, my IUD peaking out of the corner of my laptop bag, likely pleased with itself for creating such a ruckus.

That evening, after perhaps a few glasses of wine (okay, I drank the whole bottle), I went to bed, forgetting to insert the medication into my va-jay-jay that would soften my cervix up so that it didn't feel like the doctor was trying to kill me when he inserted my shoebox sized IUD. I realized my error upon waking and sheepishly called my doctor's office to reschedule my appointment. I was beginning to think I was not meant to get this IUD put in...

Fast forward a week later, pills inserted as instructed, cervix prepped, I cart my IUD off to the doctor's office for the big show. Hell, I even did some grooming to make sure ladytown was ready for her moment in lights. The doctor walked me through the procedure, told me to undress, and that he would return momentarily. I pondered whether or not to keep my socks on, and decided that yes, they could stay. I mean, I went to the effort of providing a clean workspace, there was no need for my doctor to know I had also gotten a pedicure (blush).

He knocked on the door, and entered. His nurse followed behind him and they got the IUD out and prepared for the procedure. He complemented me for leaving my socks on. I knew that was the right call. He did not complement me on the clean work space, but I am absolutely sure as he cranked me open, he appreciated my efforts. But wait. Just as I started to relax a bit, thinking this embarassing experience was about to be over, my doctor says "Huh, that's interesting."

Let's be clear. These are not the words you want to hear when your feet are in the stirrups, your va-jay-jay is under a spot light, and your doctor has his back to you.

"Everything okay over there?" I asked.

"Yes, I think so. It's just that the IUD came already in the applicator and I can't get it to retract". He consulted with the nurse, who looked quite concerned. They huddled over my now smirking IUD and tried to make it do whatever it is that it should be doing. I heard her whisper something about calling the pharmacy in their building to get another one. She left the room and returned a few minutes later looking grim. They continued to try to bend this IUD to their wills. And all this time, I lay there, my butt cheeks kissing the edge of the exam table, legs spread, va-jay-jay seeing more action in one day than she had seen in the past year.

"Okay," he said. "I think I've got it". I think. Again, n0t something you want to hear when someone is about to pierce your cervix with a foreign object. Having already told him about the entertaining moments leading up to my appointment, I commented dryly "well, let's hope it all works out because this story really is a let down if we don't go all the way".

"This is going to pinch a bit," he said as he stabbed me. I looked over at the nurse incredulously, as if to say, "can you believe him? As if he has ANY IDEA what this feels like". I did those quick short breaths you always see pregnant ladies do in Lamaze classes on tv shows, thinking it would help the "mild discomfort" I was "experiencing". No such luck, so I opted to turn white as a sheet and grip the side of the table instead.

And then it was over. Just like that. I was told no sexy time for a few days, that there would be some cramping and spotting. And I was free to go. Really a let down, all things considered. I got dressed, walked around the room to see if I felt any different (which I did) and left the office, trying not to walk like a cowboy.

Two months later, me and my IUD, we're alright. And I've stopped carrying that big box around in my laptop bag (turns out that isn't necessary once the IUD is inserted). Go figure.

Hooray For Titties!

In an effort to lighten the f*ck up, I thought I'd write about one of my favourite topics: boobs. What's not to like about boobs? They are beautiful, soft, curvy, multi-purpose, and fun! Scott hipped me to a new site this week - Why Mommy Drinks Rum (very funny), where I was directed toward my new favourite site, Boob Emancipation. All I can say is "thanks for sharing ladies!". Scott thinks that Why Mommy Drinks Rum looks like Gianna Michaels (an adult film star), except with smaller breasts. This led to all sorts of interesting google searches, conversations and looks of shocked amazement (me not him). I highly recommend you do any internet research regarding Ms.Michaels after your kiddos go to bed, and certainly from home. You can thank me later.

Not Tonight Honey.

I learned a song when I was in college called "How Do You Keep the Music Playing". I was 19 and that was 15 full years ago (damn...). I remember thinking that it was a sweet song, and thinking that when I found the person I was meant to spend my life with, none of the things this song spoke of would apply. Because you know, true love conquers all and all that jazz.
I'm often blamed of over-sharing and making it weird, so forgive me if this makes you uncomfortable. But I had great plans for tonight. All week, I thought to myself, it's been a tough slog lately, I was out of town last weekend, toilet training is no fun, and it's time to reconnect with the hubby and remind him why he married me. Fast forward to our week, and we have one very stressed out little boy who as I write this is shrieking his head off in his room because he does not want to go to sleep. You have one super exhausted Fickle Feline downing a very stiff drink because I just spent the last 3.5 hours locked in a bathroom with my 3 year old Autistic son trying to get him to do his business in the potty, and you have one husband reading his book on the back deck in hopes of getting a break from his first born who is screaming blue murder.  Very sexy, I know.  

Having a child with special needs, or who is "heavily involved" as we like to say in the industry of paediatric health care can really, really take its toll on a marriage.  You work so hard to keep it together, to make sure your child is getting everything he needs.  Then there are you other children - are they getting enough of you?  Are they resentful that so much focus is placed on their sibling?  And your spouse... how is he coping in all of this?  And after you've taken care of everyone else, how you doin' mom??  You feeling like putting on something slinky, touching up your makeup and slipping on your f*ck me shoes?  Right.  Me too.  

It's work.  It's work I want to do.  I'm lucky that I'm married to my best friend.  I love him and I respect him and I find him very interesting and sexy.  And when I have my child's poop running down my arm and I'm holding his wailing body tight to me, sh!t and all, I have to remember that it's me this time, but last time it was Scott.  He is my partner in this.  He is one of the strongest men I know.  He laughs with me on the hard days.  Takes shifts with me on the nights when our kids tag team us, and happily orders take out when he sees that I have nothing left.  And if I say "Not tonight honey" he understands and just tries again tomorrow.

TMI Tuesday: I Love to Curse.

I have a mouth like a sailor. I know it isn't "ladylike" to swear/curse/use expletives, but my dog, I LOVE doing it. Mind you, I can clean up my language when I need to, like at work, or at the daycare (though I said a few choice words in the parking lot this morning after being informed that my sweet daughter Cameron has been biting the other babies). Now that Max knows how to say the word "duck" I especially need to be careful around the kids. But you have to admit, sometimes there is no getting around dropping a big ol' F-BOMB. Or muttering a few words you can't say on television under your breath. Swearing feels good. Curse words stick around because they have power and make an impact. They cut through when being polite has stopped working. There are a lot of people who don't approve of swearing. It makes them uncomfortable. Or they think it is a sign of lower intelligence, or uncouth. But some of the smartest people I know have the worst potty mouths out there, so that doesn't hold water with me - f*ck that!

When are the best times to swear?

In the car: "You ASS HAT! Look before you change lanes - sh!t for brains!"
When you accidentally hurt yourself: "Mother f*cker! Son of a whore! Jebus F*cking Christ"
After getting off the phone with a particularly annoying person: "What the f*ck?!"
Lock your keys in the car: "Dog Damnit! Argh! For f*ck sake!"
Lose your wallet: "F*CK F*CK F*CK F*CK F********************CK!!!!"
When you are playing poker: "You ain't got sh!t you lying ass mother f*cker"
When you are drinking: "Listen you daft c*nt, if I've told you once, I've told you a million times, he's no f*cking good for you but you never f*cking learn!"

I guess what I'm saying is that if you drive with me, see me trip, overhear me ordering pizza, witness me lock my keys in my car or lose my wallet, or have the pleasure of playing poker with me (which typically involves drinking), you will more than likely hear some off-colour language coming out of my mouth. But not on my blog. Nope, here I'm all about the *!&$# and the @!*&.

TMI Thursday: I Get to See a Va-jay-jay (Besides My Own).

A few months ago, I wrote about how I wanted to see someone's va-jay-jay. Now before you get all up in arms thinking I'm a horrible pervert, go read the post. Yes, the title is titillating (snicker…), but really, all I want is to see one of my friends give birth.

Well, it looks like I might actually have a taker! If all goes according to plan, I will be in attendance when my friend Jennifer (aka Maya and Hannah's mom) gives birth to baby #3 (a boy!). My specific role will be to shoot the whole event on video (I KNOW! How awesome is that?). The one caveat? Jen says I'm not allowed to post the va-jay-jay footage on the internet. Geez…I know I have a rep as an over-sharer, but even I know where to draw the line. Note to self, find out if I can share the part in the whirlpool or epidural...kidding.

Not everyone is as into the whole child birth experience as I am. When I mentioned that I would be at the hospital, in the labour room, to a coworker, she was absolutely horrified and commented that she would never in a million years want to do that! She didn't even let her husband leave her shoulder when she had her baby. I figure life is messy. It starts that way and it ends that way, so why not embrace it? My friend Jennifer once dumped a guy because he refused to carve a pumpkin with her for Halloween because he didn't want to get sticky. I think the same rule applies here, except we're not talking about pumpkin seeds…

Anyway, the phone is turned on in my bedroom, car is gassed up, boss put on notice, flip and camera are packed in my purse with backup batteries (just in case) and all we need now is for baby boy to decide he ready to introduce himself. I wonder if this is how Scott felt when I was about ready to pop?

TMI Tuesday: Making It Weird.

I am an expert at making "it" weird. What is "it", you ask? "It" can be anything, really - like calling something like I see it, or saying what's on my mind, (even it is unpopular or makes for the other person feeling awkward). Example - MY GOODNESS! NOBODY TOLD ME HOW STRONG A WOMAN'S SEX DRIVE GETS IN HER MID THIRTIES!!! See…weird, right? It is also a high level of comfort in having the tough conversations that many people prefer to avoid. It is going there, instead of just inferring something. Getting into gory specifics instead of glossing over the icky stuff with euphemisms.

Scott is not always a fan of my candor. I probably hear "just don't make it weird" from him a few times a month. He underestimates me. I can have tact in situations that require it. For instance, if we have a relationship where I need you more than you need me, (like my doctor, for instance), I will be oh-so-careful. But my old friend from college? I will think nothing of giving you a hard time for sleeping with THAT girl, way back when. And if I'm unhappy with something, you can bet your ass I'll tell you. Example - after spending 2 hours in the Bell Mobility store to get my BlackBerry fixed, I told the guy who was "helping" me that if he didn't hurry up and finish getting me my new BlackBerry, I was officially going to lose my mind, and that wouldn't be a pretty sight. My making it weird worked like a charm. My only regret was not going there right off the bat.

I like to think that my making it weird is a good thing. I try to have a sense of humour in life. Walk a day in my shoes and you'll see that being able to laugh at the crazy sh!t I deal with is a requirement, not an option. I try to be transparent , honest, and to the point. Sometimes life is ugly, awkward, and you got it, weird. Why pretend? Why pussy foot around so we can all think the same thing but not have the guts to say it out loud? Make it weird! Go there! Call it like you see it! Lay it on the line! Once you start, you won't want to go back.

TMI Tuesday: I Love Redheads.

Ever since I can remember, I have had a thing for redheads. I had a sweet spot for Archie (Reggie was such an ass!), thought Boris Becker was a complete babe, would pick Prince Harry over Prince William any day of the week, and my love of Eric Stoltz was (and still is) the stuff of legends. My first big high school crush? A redhead (a dorky one at that!), but he could do no wrong in my eyes.

I have no idea where this preference for redheads came from. Tragically, I've never actually dated a redhead. Well, there was that one short lived romance with a guy I fondly refer to as "Mr.Virginia", but I'd say he was more auburn than red. If you go by my dating record, I'd define my type as tall, dark and handsome, like my husband. In fact, for someone who proclaims to dig the gingers, I really don't have a leg to stand on! Maybe in my next life I'll come back as a freckly Scottish girl who will have a sea of redheads to choose from. The only problem with that is I'm not a fan of haggis - I guess there's always a trade off, eh?

TMI Tuesday: My Wicked Thoughts.

A few years ago, I had a marketing job working for a credit card company. I won't name it specifically, but it is the one that starts with the name of the country directly south of Canada. This was one of those jobs where you sit down on your first day and immediately know you have made a very bad mistake and you are in the wrong place. I had been hired to do online marketing, but I didn't have access to the internet or an email account for the first month. My "manager", and I use the term loosely, (she was never around and never gave me any direction or support) was one of those people that always smiled. No matter what. She never said a bad word about anyone. Always saw the positive side of the worst situations, to the point that I secretly nicknamed her "MFP" (Mary F*cking Poppins).

Don't get me wrong, I like glass-is-half-full/solution-oriented type people, but this woman was just ridiculous. I swear to dog, you could literally serve her up a sh!t sandwich and she would eat it with a smile, all the while telling you what an excellent chef you were. I tried to like her, but because she was never real, I didn't trust her. Plus, she was a horrible manager and left her team to wade through the muck of an organization that requires a lot of escalating, maneuvering and sweet talking to get anything done. The worst thing was that upper management LOVED her, so there was no escaping.

Every 2 weeks, MFP had a status meeting with me. I dreaded these meetings because they were a complete waste of time and I always left them more confused about what I was supposed to be doing than I had been before the meeting. I started daydreaming during these meetings, tuning MFP out as she droned on. I started imagining what her face would look like if I just reached over and ever so casually tipped my coffee over into her lap. Would the Cheshire cat smile leave her face even for a moment? Would the facade crack and give me a peak into her happy-happy-joy-joy soul? Maybe my dumping coffee on her would be the straw that broke the camel's back, and she would jump over the table and beat the tar out of me. One can always hope.

It got to the point that every time I met with her, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to pour my coffee on her. I was obsessed. At first it was amusing, but I started to worry. What if I actually did it? The devil on my shoulder had my ear, and I was concerned that he was going to talk me into doing something that I really shouldn't do. I really didn't trust myself to behave so I did the unthinkable. I stopped drinking coffee, or any kind of beverage, at our 9am meetings. That was the only way I could absolutely guarantee that I wouldn't dump anything into MFP's lap.

I knew I had to quit when my thoughts ventured over to her coffee, and I realized all I would have to do is stretch my arm out a little further and...well, you get the idea. Needless to say, I got over the fixation of wanting to dump coffee on my manager's lap. But if you are ever out with me, and I decide to skip my usual cup of java, you've been given fair warning, and I suggest you keep a tight hold on your own beverage.

TMI Tuesday: A Surprise Visitor.

I thought I was done talking about va-jay-jays and ladytown. Colour me surprised, there is still more to say. Imagine my shock when I got a visit from someone I haven't seen since July 2007 - my dear Aunt Florenza. Some people refer to her as the hag, AF, the witch, the curse, the list of insulting nicknames seems endless. I am not going on record as saying I welcomed dear Aunt Florenza back with open arms, but in a sense, it seems like her return is a sign that things are starting to get back to normal. I've always thought that if Aunt Florenza were a a real woman, she would look like the Oracle from The Matrix. Wise, all knowing, cards on the table, no bullshit, and certainly my kind of lady.

I am one of the "lucky" ladies that doesn't get monthly visits while breastfeeding. While I have been actively trying to wean Cameron (she no longer gets the boob during the day, only at night), I hadn't realized that I had weaned her that much. With Max, I had him completely weaned before dear Aunt Florenza decided it was time to reunite. This time, she decided it was time to catch up a little sooner.

It seems that everything is gradually coming back into alignment. My figure is returning to its lovely curvy self, my time is becoming more my own, my brain is starting to sharpen, my creative juices are flowing, and most of all, my body is being returned to me. I think the only thing that bothered me about Aunt Florenza's return was this meant I had ovulated, and with that, comes the risk of getting pregnant again which I find extremely undesirable. We are still debating what the best solution is to avoid baby #3. Because of this, I have defaulted to the pill, which I didn't want to do. But it seems a lot better than getting knocked up again...so while we continue "discussing" best next steps, I get to remember one more thing, the penalty of forgetting being pretty steep.

TMI Tuesday: I Want To See Your Va-jay-jay.

There is no easy way to broach this subject, it's downright awkward. Since I seem incapable of discussing this face-to-face with you, I thought I'd just put it out there on the Internet and if you'd like to fulfill my dreams, you'll let me know. Yes, I want to see your va-jay-jay. Specifically, I want to see you give birth, be part of the experience, witness a little life coming into the world.

Is that asking so much? I know it seems like a lot to ask, and kind of...personal? But once you've had a baby, you'll know what I mean. Once half of the hospital staff (nurses, doctors, students!) have seen your va-jay-jay, checked how dialated you are, and reached inside you to feel your baby's head, you won't feel like it is such a big deal for me see it too.

Where is this coming from, you ask? Well, my friend Jennifer got to be there when Max was born. My friend Christine was there when Cameron was born. They have both seen my va-jay-jay, so I figure turnabout is fair play. The problem is that neither of these ladies are pregnant. While it is likely that they will both eventually bear fruit from their loins (and hopefully invite me to be there), I'm tired of waiting.

I have made a list of women I know who are due to give birth in the coming months:

Coworker - due this month (but probably unprofessional for me to ask her, eh?)
Julie - c-section (and I think they only let one person in the operating room - bummer!)
Jen M. - due in June
Stace - in British Columbia, but did share her 1st child's birth in a beautiful slide show
Stephanie - due in August, possible c-section
Nicole - due in August

I know it's a big request, and not something one asks to be included in, so after this post I'll drop it. But ladies, if you need someone to feed you ice chips, hold your barf bowl, and chase down the anesthesiologist for your epidural, I'm your gal.