Thursday, April 29, 2010


There is nothing like a stint of rewinter to make a beautiful, warm, sunny day especially great. We had gotten lulled into a false sense of spring, expecting the days to keep being lovely even though the same thing happens to us Montrealers every year. One last dump of snow to humble us and torture the tulips. This morning it is one of those post snowpocalyptic, melty, warm mornings that I want to spend all day in, just me, the dogs, the cat, the sunshine, and my ratty bathrobe which is getting ceremoniously chucked when the baby's born...maybe I'll plant it in honour of spring.

I realized over the last few days of bombardment with weather that we are very much animals. Watching the behaviour of all my people shift from "lalala spring, everyone is slightly under-dressed for the chill, smiley, gooey, optimism" to "ugh, groan, hunch my back and wear a f***ing parka, winter blues" was kind of like watching a flock of birds swoop and change course as one unit (I am afraid of large numbers of birds swooping, so I have only witnessed this phenomenon on the National Geographic Channel). Now here we creatures of Montreal are on this beautiful morning, in our various warrens and dens (yes, mixing animal metaphors is okay) not yet aware of one another, but already back to the "lalala spring" bit swooshing 180 degrees towards "spring-it's-almost-summer-I-can-taste-the-barbecue-already", soggy boots and slush a distant memory.

Soon enough we fickle citizens will be complaining about how hot it is, how buggy it is, how burnt we got over the weekend, and we will have forgotten the sweet early spring days where the flowers and new tree leaves struggled to get through the last snows. Where everything kind of smells like poo, but not in such a bad way, and especially the feeling that the long sleepy winter is really really over, for real this time...probably.

Happy spring.

Monday, April 26, 2010

Undies from Zellers (a silly song to the tune of "Tears in Heaven")

Should I feel the shame
when I buy undies from Zellers?
do they fit the same
if I bought them at Zellers?
It might be wrong, to write a song
but at least it's not a thong
bought at Zellers.

They came in packs of six
assorted colours in cotton.
I needed a knicker fix;
for under ten bucks I got one.
Now I should say, I usually pay
quite a bit more, in a fancy store.
Not at Zellers.

I should have tried them on,
should have taken one out.
Then I couldn't be wrong
There'd be no room for doubt
room for doubt.


How I fret the fit
I shouldn't give a shit,
but I know that I must sit
on briefs from Zellers.

Should I feel the shame
when I buy undies from Zellers?
do they fit the same
if I bought them at Zellers?
It might be wrong, to write a song
but at least it's not a thong
bought at Zellers.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Dr. Strange Glove or How I Let Off Steam and More

I am mad. Mad mad mad MAD! I went to see my obstetrician for the first time since I was 11 weeks pregnant. So Dr. Arsehole starts off the appointment saying "Wow, how the fuck did you get so fat?!?!?"

I chuckled figuring this was a joke. "Well," I say "I'm pretty pregnant."

"Yeah," proceeds Arsehole "but you're like one of those unrecognizable ones, in the face, you know?" At this point every insecurity I have, in fact every insecurity ever, came welling up to the surface of my mind. I actually think I have several new complexes now. While I started to visualize my face morphing into a gelatinous blob, I concentrated on not changing my expression. I am, after all, a cool customer. Why else would he launch into a stand-up routine about my size, right?

Before I go on I should tell you about Dr. Arsehole. He is in fact very funny. This is one of the reasons I liked him when he was just my gyno. He always got me laughing and managed to assuage any fears I had. He also has a massive ego and thinks he's God's gift to women's health. He probably has a small penis, but that's neither here nor there. The following is about how he crossed the line and went from funny to a weird and kind of dark place.

What happened during my check-up, besides the medical part (which I grudgingly have to admit he is very good at) was a stream of fat jokes. I am a lot larger than I was when I got pregnant, but up until I had my appointment I had been hearing that I looked radiant, beautiful, "in bloom" (which means fat, but in a really nice way) and other supportive and positive adjectives. Occasionally a well-meaning person would mention that they thought there might be more than one baby in there, but over all not a lot of negative comments came from the peanut gallery. I won't bother to repeat all of the fat jokes and comments that were said but here's a goody:

"Well, you have a generously sized baby. Not huge, you're huge [Dr. A laughs at own joke], just generous."

I managed to keep it together during the internal exam by imagining smothering him to death with my giant thighs or braining him with my bestirruped foot. I was so stunned by his calorific comedy stylings that I appeared to find his jokes at my expense funny.

I left in a seemingly good mood and it wasn't until I got down to the parking lot that the red mist descended and I was MAD. Unfortunately the cocktail of hormones in my body has totally ruined mad for me. I basically just cry. Even when in my head I am grandstanding righteously I look like a kid whose ice cream fell off the cone or who just buried her pet budgie.

This traumatically unfunny doctor's appointment happened two days ago and it has taken me this entire time to find my sense of humour about it. I am still mad, but I refuse to feel fat and sorry for myself, so no self-pity party for me! I am big, blond, and beautiful and I am not going to let a vagina doctor with a God complex spoil this for me. I am still trying to figure out how to give him the piece of my mind he deserves but not potentially ruin my baby's birthday. Soon come, as they say.

I'll leave you with this bit of wisdom: Do not ever tell a woman she looks fat. Ever. EVER! the end.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

blissed out geriatric shih tzu takes a walk

So today started out pretty much like yesterday did. By 7 am workmen were kicking porch-repair ass and by 8 the electrician was chopping walls and fishing cords hither and thither and the alarm guy was back for round two of the installation of my laser beam-shooting, siren-blaring, smoke, carbon monoxide, intruder, heat, flood, gas-leak and glass-break detecting, zillion dollar home security system. Bang bang, beep beep, weeeeeeeooooooooweeeeeeeeooooooo, merde, bzzzzzzzz hours later I found my self unpacking yet more kitchen stuff and praying for a power failure just to have a break from the noise. That combined with the smell of a weeks worth of uncollected garbage sitting out in this totally mild weather wafting through the open windows (city of Montreal, get it together and pick up the damned trash) was getting me a little unhinged. I did what any good citizen would do; I made a strongly worded phone call to the city and expressed my displeasure at their shoddy infrastructure. I was told the garbage would be picked up today. So far it has not been. At 6:17 pm I am not getting my hopes up.

What's with the shih tzu in the title you ask? Well I am getting to that. Finally, a quiet calm descended over the house. The workmen had all left, the dishwasher was clean, the laundry was done, and but for the weird smell coming from the fridge (the cause of which is a detective job I'll save for tomorrow) and the half-unpacked box I had abandoned, my day was officially coming to an end. I let my two dogs, a speckled dachshund mix named Fanny and a geriatric shih tzu named Cocoa out in the yard to play. I was watching the gap in the back fence where a 2x4 rotted and hasn't been replaced (lots to do around here) when my little rascal of a cat slipped out. No matter, thought I, I'll just slip on his collar and he can go too. I turned my back to fit the stylish neck-wear on Oscar and when I looked up, Cocoa was half-way through the gap in the fence. "No!" I yelled. Too late. I scuttled across the yard yelling "Cocoa, no! Cocoa no!" to no avail. I reached the fence that leads to the alley and peered through the gap. Cocoa was the picture of happiness (and deafness as her ears don't even budge when I continued to call frantically after her) wandering down the alley towards the street. Shit shit shit, I thought. My only access to the alley is by going out the front door and all the way up and around the street. By then she could have been run-over! I don't know how I managed, I really don't because I am no small thing these days at nearly 9 months pregnant, but I somehow shimmied through the very small gap in the fence. I was a shocked as you are when I found myself on the other side.

I caught up with miss Cocoa two houses down the alley and when I grabbed her she looked genuinely surprised to see me! I plopped her back through the fence, contemplating how I got through such a small space. I shrugged and figured I'd try it again. After all, if I got stuck at least the dogs wouldn't get out again. Miracle of miracles I fit! That is it. I am quitting while I'm ahead. No more squeezing my bulk through narrow passes for me (although I now have a new perspective on what my baby will experience). So that was my day, I hope tomorrow is truly boring.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

A Fine Whine

Movin' On Up
My little family and I have moved in to our new home. I have two happy dogs, a very happy cat, and mostly happy husband (at least that is what he tells me, but I suspect the stress of the last few months as well as the upcoming end-of-pregnancy is taking a little of the wind out of his sails). I also have TONS of unpacking to do. This should be fun and invigorating but who am I kidding? I am lazy! I do not feel like beautifying my surroundings, I am tired and huge and I just want to go to the beach (preferably one where nobody can see me either because they are blind or I am's only fair that if I can't see my thighs and bum, neither should they).

House Arrest
There is supposedly a nesting impulse that happens at the end of pregnancy. I am still waiting for that to kick in. So in the meantime I will watch the handymen in my yard fixing my deck, and listen to the intermittent alarm noises coming from the installation of my Fort-Knox-esque home security system. I am under a strange form of house arrest - I can't leave the house in case the electrician, the handymen, the alarm company, the carpet company, and or the ups truck shows up. I am literally honour-bound to wait between the hours of 8am and 6pm so as not to miss the 45 minutes they will actually be here. Obviously someone has to occupy the throne and give audience to this court of characters and now that I am not working I am the regent in charge of reception.

Complaining As An Art
As you've more or less guessed I have made complaining a large part of my day. I don't take it too seriously, but at the risk of boasting, I have really become rather talented in this department. Being hugely pregnant cuts a sympathetic figure which, i have discovered, enables me to get away with more kvetching than I should be allowed to. In fact, I have even learned how to parlay the inconvenience of my baleen form and pre-maternal glow (created by the constellations of shiny red pimples on my face) into discounts and favours from otherwise tough types. It adds up too! I challenge any lady to stuff a pillow in her shirt before going to buy something at Ikea. Try signing up with a service provider while looking equal parts teary, nauseated, bloated, and grateful...kaching! In fact, just a taxi ride becomes an uncommon luxury as doors are opened for you and bags carried to the door. So there are perks (but shhh, I am still playing the sympathetically encumbered preggo).

I feel good. Writing this little bit got my juices flowing again, so I expect you'll have more rantings to read soon. Now I am going to go do not very much (hey at least I'm honest).

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Hobo Lust

Okay folks, I have a crush to confess. His name is m0851 hobo knot and I love him. I was at a friend's place for dinner and Lost, and this mutual friend of ours was there with him...hobo. At first I didn't see him, all slouchy and demure in the corner next to the sofa. It would be a fateful cell phone ring that would make my eyes cast down to the supple black form near my foot. As I wrapped my hand around the butter-soft leather strap to hand her the bag, my heart skipped and for a moment I felt what it would be like to own him. I watched as she easily withdrew the ringing phone from one of the cleverly concealed compartments, and wondered what treasures and essentials I would stow in him if he were mine.

The evening wore on, and though my attention was captured for the most part by the antics of Jack, Hurley, Kate, Benjamin, Sayed, and the rest of the Lost gang, I found myself periodically glancing at the hobo in the corner. Then, as we were leaving, I couldn't contain my affection and exclaimed to my friend with great taste, "I love your bag!"

"Really? Thanks. Me too," she gushed. "Honestly I don't even use another purse. It just holds everything!" And with that, I smiled at him one last time and we parted. By then he was slung familiarly over her shoulder, casually advertising his virtue as that "must-have" piece.

All through the next day, I thought about the hobo. I felt like a high school girl who sat on the bus for three extra stops so that she could watch the cute boy a little longer before he got off. It is possible to become infatuated with a bag the way one does with their first crush. I google-stalked my little hobo and upon discovering his price tag ($485 CAD) I was momentarily stunned, but undeterred. Of course my love wasn't cheap! Of course he would make me work for it. Isn't that the way of true love? It takes work! I did a quick calculation, 4.75 months until my birthday. No holidays in between. Last night I actually dreamt of m0851 hobo knot bag. That's it. This is lust verging on obsession. I have to leave you dear readers now, so that I can ogle pictures while reliving my brief encounter. A l'amour.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

My Very Own Olympics...of Moving

This has been a crazy week and Matt and I have moved in with my parents. Luckily we will only be spending one month here instead of four. Don't think that I am not grateful to my family for putting us up, I am! I do however miss those little things that I will probably appreciate more than I ever did before, like privacy, my own bathroom (that isn't carpeted), my own groceries (I had no idea how unsettling it would be to switch yogurt brands), and general being in chargeness. That last one is hardest for me I think. I also go on record saying this entry has taken me three days to get through writing. Interruptions are apparently how my family shows affection.

I spent the weekend in various stages of sleep, recovering from the moving marathon that was last week. Packing, watching hired guys pack, being pregnant without sitting down for 2 days, that was my version of the Olympics. I won a gold in creative perching, and at least a bronze in artistic melt-down (sort of like the emotional love-child of ice dancing and luge with more crying). I don't think I even watched the best parts of Canada's gold streak. I did see Canada beat the US at hockey though, and I cried through the Tim Horton's commercial about an immigrant family reuniting at the airport. Needless to say emotions were running high. Oh Canada, you really know how to pluck a heart string.

Now that I am here at the big house, my me time seems to have dwindled. My dad said it well when he told me over the weekend that "[he is] so glad we're here...for a finite time". Don't worry, I couldn't agree more! I am glad to be here for now though, even in spite of the changes I have to make (I am a cancer, I don't like change). After all, every meal is mommy food...or pizza, and every night feels like camp...if your parents never left.