Bucket List Fail

Courtesy of www.buzzfeed.com

The kids are back at school. This marks the end of my hiatus from the working world. My first extensive break since I was fifteen, (unless you count maternity leave, in which case…OH MY GOD, don’t get me started…).

When this summer began I was all determined to put my dreams on turbo-charge and get my life working like a well oiled machine by Labour Day.

It’s cute how I start out all optimistic.

I’m a bit of a list maker. Every night before bed I write down all the things I want to get done.  It makes me feel like I have a plan. By mid afternoon I’ve added so much all I can do is look at it and eat chips. Repeat cycle.

You would think having this knowledge of myself would stop me from creating projects like a Summer Bucket List. I know you’re laughing, but I did it anyway.

Bucket List – Summer Edition

1. Get Published – Didn’t happen, but my nasty letter to the editor almost made it into the local paper, but they went with some “feel good” story instead. Cowards.

2. Write Another Book– In February I had an idea for a plot. So I went to Staples(because every successful project starts with shopping) where I indulged in my obsession with school supplies. I laid out the story line. It looked fantastic. All bright and everything. Very motivating. This is what it looks like now. I haven’t written a single sentence.

See the pink board? That’s it. Behind it is my Vision Board.

3. Brachioplasty – What you say? It’s plastic surgery for the back of the arms. My Nana had big saggy triceps…so naturally I inherited them. No amount of triceps’ kickbacks help. But the truth is, I’m a coward and cheap and neither of these things are qualities to have if you want plastic surgery.

4. Organize and De-clutter The Entire House – HAHAHAHAHA. Not one drawer.

5. Lose Twenty Pounds – In a fit of defiance I threw my scale and shattered it on the garage floor.

What was I thinking? Clearly my expectations are too high. And holy shit, I was home with children not at a secluded country club with maid service. As far as I’m concerned the bucket, can fuck it. In fairness though I thought this list was tame considering my five year plan:

  1. Cottage – I have no money
  2. Italy – I have no money
  3. Mercedes – I have no money
  4. Brachioplasty – See?
  5. Horse – What the hell? Really?

Someone (okay, my therapist) suggested taking baby steps towards the bigger goals. In fairness to him, he hasn’t known me long. I’ve never taken a baby step in my life. I prefer instant gratification. But I decided to give it a try. So considering how I like to overshoot the mark, I created a less intimidating list of goals just for this week. It may not help me in reaching my five year plan (wish is under evaluation) but I have to start somewhere and it has to be doable. So, without further ado:

Doable Things I Didn’t Get Done Over the Summer List

1. Eyebrow Shaping – I have good intentions to keep up with them, but before I know it there are two dead caterpillars on my forehead and from then on whenever anyone looks at me, all I can hear is, “They’re totally looking at your hideous eyebrows and will unfriend you on Facebook.”

2. Eat Breakfast Alone – All summer no matter how many times I asked the kids if they wanted anything, as soon as I sat down with food someone would be there to announce they were starving.

3. Watch Adult Television – I’m tired of Zeke & Luther and having to censor my shows because the kids are still up. Is it too much to ask to watch a heroin addict shoot up in peace?

4. Publish a Blog – Done! Here it is. I didn’t say it had to be a good one.

5. Look for a Job – It’s time. I’m not exactly making millions off this blog. I know, it’s shocking. I’m just not good at time management. I need a pay cheque and a boss breathing down my neck to motivate me. I have good intentions at the start of the day, you know, with the list and all and then before I know it, “Hey, Judge Judy’s on…”

So that’s my scaled back fuck-it list. Hopefully by next week I’ll be a bit more willing to put forth more effort, but for now this is all I can manage. Plus, I started this blog last week so…

Vagina Is A Real Word.

My friend posted this on Facebook the other day. It made me smile. It also evoked some thought. There seems to be a lot of nonsense recently over the word Vagina. In June Lisa Brown, the Democratic state representative for West Bloomfield in Michigan – was gagged (figuratively) after house Republicans took exception to her using the word.

Really?  What was she supposed to call it, her Suzy?

And what about the new Carefree commercial that’s received numerous complaints over the words “vagina” and “discharge” being used.  Really? I’ve seen commercials for pharmaceuticals describing side effects a lot more horrifying. Hello? Oily rectal discharge?

In the words of my twelve year old daughter, “Ew, just ew.”

Who are these objectionable people? It makes me want to seek them out, hide and then jump out at them yelling, “VAGINA!”

Even Anastasia Steel (aka, Fifty Shades of Grey) calls it her “sex.”  You would think someone who allows pretty much anything done to her vagina would at least call it by name.

I can understand having personal pet names for it but when it comes to describing it for public purposes could we all just agree to stick to what it is? It would save everyone a lot of confusion. But really who am I kidding, there’s no way we would all agree on a new one. The list is endless.

Vajayjay, Suzy, Muffin, Ms Pussykins, Juice Box,  Snatch, Beaver, Cookie,  Foof, Muff, Coo-Kah, Honeycup, Twat, Woo-Who and my personal favourite “Vajazzle.”

Be grateful, I could go on for days…

I admit vagina, isn’t the best sounding word. It could’ve been sweeter, softer, gentler, but I doubt women had any say back when they were naming body parts. So we all know where it came from and let’s face it, it could’ve been worse. Besides there’s nothing gentle about the vagina. I don’t know about yours, but mine has taken a beating. I mean menstrual cycles, child birth, sex, not to mention the time I fell riding a guys ten speed or more recently when I was bitten square on by a gigantic black fly.

My vagina is tough. So I don’t think it needs a prissy name.

If you own one be proud. Because as I told a male friend of mine during a friendly argument, “Vagina trumps everything.”

And it does. It always wins. Think about it.

Public Pool Princess – An Open Letter

Credit: pattersonpool.com

Dear Public Pool Princess:

The next time you decide to confront total strangers and accuse them of raising children who are “mean” because they won’t play with your overbearing, obnoxious son please make sure you have your facts straight.

For forty-five minutes while you napped in your lounger, my children and the children of my friend included and put up with your son. While you baked in the sun, my friend and I watched over your son making sure he was safe; talking about how we felt bad because he seemed so desperate for attention. We tried to avoid the rolling eyes of our children, telling them to be nice and they were, going beyond the call of duty, but after a while enough was enough.

When you finally sat up and he went to you, you didn’t move, choosing to play with your iPhone instead. So he came back to us once again to jump in the middle of a ball game already in progress. We said no to him and he went to you to complain. When you realized you were going to have to get your ass up and pay him some attention, you got angry and felt the need to confront us in public and insult our children.

Not up in here, Princess.

Shit was about to get real.

We were a bit taken a back with your nerve, but not shocked enough to neglect letting you know exactly what you missed while you dreamed in your lounger of a life sans kids.

I hate when I’m being judgy. I don’t think Mom’s need to pick at other Mom’s. Isn’t it bad enough we’re at a public pool? Which is why before you opened your mouth I tried (though not very successfully, I’ll admit) not to pass judgement on you. Perhaps you had a rough night, I told myself. You never know the personal hell people are going through.

But since you felt the need to attack us and our children, we got judgy real fast.

I can tell we unnerved you and even though you continued to verbally spew crap while you moved away, it was clear it was out of embarrassment. The next time you try a stunt like that make sure the sleep marks from your towel are gone from your face.

You. Looked. Like. An. Ass.

You got in the pool. I guess to prove a point? But you sat in a tube with a bitter look on your face and still didn’t play with your son. And when he tried to be playful you yelled at him not to touch you, which is completely understandable since you probably needed a break from all the napping and self righteousness.

I see we got through to you.

We feel sorry for your boy.

Also, fuck you.

Dieting Sucks.. Friendship Doesn’t

I’ve been dumped.

I didn’t even get an, “It’s me not you,” speech. Mainly because I’m pretty sure it’s me.

Since January I’ve had a food sponsor. A friend and I decided we were going to shame ourselves into weight loss by weighing in every Friday then call each other with our results. The first call was hard to do. Disclosing the “number” we’ve been taught to keep locked in the vault is against all the rules as a woman.

Am I right, ladies?

For the first few weeks we were very positive, real peppy cheerleaders but when the weight didn’t just fall off like it did a decade ago, things began to go sour. Our brains still lived in the world where a healthy weight loss was 1 to 2 pounds a week. HA. Not in your 40’s sunshine!

The first thing I did was give up alcohol. Did you hear me? I’ve had no wine since January. NO WINE. You know how much I lost in the first two months? Two pounds. TWO! I drank way more than two pounds worth of wine. In fact, maybe I should look into a different kind of sponsor.

My poor friend tried her best with me. She started out as a great sponsor, very knowledgeable and encouraging. Too bad I sucked at being a sponsee.

Why is this so hard?

Do you really want an answer?


We’re forty, our metabolism has slowed and blah blah blah (she really said shit here..I just tuned her out).

I said I didn’t want an answer. How the hell could I have gained? I’ve been working out like mad.

Remember muscle weights more than fat.

Seriously? That saying drives me bat ass crazy. Who wants to hear that when you’ve been sweating your tits off?

I’ve really sweated my tits off. The little weight I’ve lost came right from my boobs.

Eventually I wore her down and she became as cynical as me. And when she needed me I was there to bring her even lower into the deeps of hell.

Fuck this, I gained again.

This sucks.

My husband can just drop weight like a contestant on Survivor.

Mine too. Fuck them. They suck.

Is this ever going to get any better?

You know what? We should just eat what we want and enjoy it. We’re getting old anyway. As long as we’re healthy, ya know?

You’re probably right.

I know, I deserved to be fired. But be reasonable, who’s going to call someone before they eat a piece of cake? We don’t want to be talked out of it. If the shame of having to disclose our weight GAIN every week doesn’t inspire us, nothing will.

Besides our calls weren’t really about our weight we called each other to rally, as women do. We purged our emotions from the week, discussed our plans and goals for other things, bitched about our tweens and then hung up feeling not so alone in the demon world of forty.

So along with being fired, I’m quitting. Not the calls, but the weighing. Fuck that number. Maybe I’ll check in once a month so I don’t get out of hand, but I refuse to let a number rule my life anymore.

However, I still need my mental check-ins. To have a partner in crime.  I hope she picks up.

My Dad is Better Than Your Dad

Image from father2navy.com

One of my first memories of my Dad is of him yelling at me after I picked up a red hot bolt while trying to “help” sweep up his garage. He owned a Shell gas and service station in our small town and he had just gotten finished working on a car. Of course I screamed scaring him half to death. I would like to tell you he ran over and cradled me in his arms, but that would be to Leave It to Beaver-ish. I remember the smell of his work clothes, a combo of grease and gasoline, which I still love to this day. He plastered thick jelly onto my burn and continually asked me what the heck I was thinking? He wasn’t exactly a patient man.

We laugh about it now.

At 35 he had a heart attack which resulted in a triple bypass. He had a scar that ran from his throat to his ankle and every time I saw it I was reminded of how easily he could be taken from us.

The surgeon told my Mom the bypass could give him a maximum of 10 years. A secret she kept to herself until he died 23 years later, four months after I was married.  I can’t imagine the stress she was under counting down the years with two young girls to care for.

My Dad taught me how to ride a lawn mower and a mini bike both of which I always somehow jammed into the neighbours chain link fence. I can still picture him coming out the back door shaking his head. Or through the snow on the coldest days because I stalled the Ski-doo half way across the field.

Yes, maybe there was a reason he was impatient…

Lucky for me I got three traits from him;  my patience, deep forehead wrinkles and a freakishly long back with a hint of a butt attached.

Thanks Dad.

He was honest, humble, hardworking and kind. Everything a straight up man should be. He had the kindest eyes I’ve ever known and the most genuine smile. He whistled when he did chores, watched The Guiding Light (he’s gone now so I can tell you), ate chicken wings against doctors orders, loved Archie Bunker, stole smokes behind the shed and spent many hours in his “workshop” where he made tables, shelves and drank beer with his BFF.

Everyone in town knew him and liked him. He made no enemies.

He also snored like a freight train, wiggled his foot back and forth the entire time he watched TV and crunched chips incredibly loud. He built a pontoon boat with my uncle that almost sunk half way across the river. He smelled like Icy Hot, chewed Rolaids, always had dirt under his nails, took forever to BBQ anything, swore like a sailor when he thought I couldn’t hear, taught me how to whittle with a pocket knife, probably wished I was a boy and said he hated the dog but secretly loved him.

He hardly ever raised his voice but when he did shit was about to get real and whatever it was my sister or I had done you could be sure would never happen again.

He was an astounding Grandfather and had all the time in the world for my sister’s kids. Suddenly patience wasn’t an issue. I wish he could’ve met mine. What an incredible loss for them.

The moment my son was born I saw my Dad in his eyes. Now, when I watch him play ball and he sits all hunched over on the bench, the way I’ve seen my Dad sit a million times, I feel him there.

It’s been 13 years since I held his hand when he lost his last battle and I’m grateful to have been there, to have been able to say my goodbyes, to have had the extra years I didn’t know was borrowed time. What an incredible gift.

When we made the procession from church to cemetery, bells tolled and policemen came out of the station to salute him in the street as his body was driven past. I’ll never forget it.

My Dad was a man of honour, a master of duck tape, a trusted friend, and an incredible soul with a stubborn streak. No, he wasn’t perfect.

But I miss him every damn day.

Sex: Then and Now

Picture from www.sodahead.com

Its been said when a woman reaches her forties her sex drive increases. Without getting into details I’ve found it to be true, but I don’t know if it’s a biological thing or a psychological shift.

Sex just wasn’t fun for me when I was younger. It was serious business. I had extraordinarily high moral expectations. It was all about love and feelings. It was supposed to be magical and mean something.


In reality it was all awkward and embarrassing. I was a chubby girl with an insane fascination for bad boy musicians. Do you see the conflict here? Instead of settling for the math geeks who wanted to date me, I stood my ground insisting on a bad boy with long hair, preferably in a band with a sexy snarl who wrote music that would sing to my soul.

You can stop laughing now.

I was deep. A fat girl with standards. A rare breed.

I spent all my high school years waiting for them to realize the skinny, easy girls couldn’t satisfy them emotionally like I could. You can see how my judgement was a bit flawed.

My second year of college I lost weight. Suddenly bad boys were everywhere including one I’d had a crush on for months. I gave it the old college try but found my heart just wasn’t in it. I was still caught up in feelings and it bugged me to know he was only dating me because I was skinnier.

And that’s how I pretty much looked at every guy from then on. The problem was my judgment still didn’t match my morals. I was still attracted to the wrong guys; the difference was now they were attracted to me. Be careful what you wish for.

Somehow I always thought I was going to find that diamond in the rough, but time after time I would always end up thinking, “Would this guy be with me if I was thirty pounds heavier?”

The answer of course was a firm no. And that’s why I was never good at the one night stand. Which probably pleases my mother to pieces, but DAMN why did I have to think so much? I didn’t want to be that way. I wanted to let loose and have lots of sexual experiences but somehow my standards always got in the way of all the fun I was sure I was missing.

Of course the guys didn’t make it any easier. One time I ran into a guy I’d actually met the year before but because of circumstances our “alone time” had been interrupted. This time when alone again, he looked at me all sweet and sexy and delivered the same EXACT line he had said to me the year before. WORD FOR WORD. Of course, being who I was I had to point it out to him…this led to him making a big girly scene, which totally proved I was right and single-handedly set my head straight. I met Homer not long after.

Now I’m so grateful to be older, wiser and not so intense. My body issues are still there, but they’re my issues and have nothing to do with my relationship, except when I eat something bad and then complain for hours. So not sexy.

I’m at ease in my relationship and that makes sex better. I still have high expectations, but Homer ignores me and it all works out.

I have my regrets about not being more promiscuous, but not enough to tell my daughter to have at it when she’s ready. Sex is for the experienced, not for immature heads filled with deceptive fairy tales of what a relationship should be.

Did I mention Homer’s a drummer? Just sayin.

Book Review: Between You and Me

By: Emma McLaughlin & Nicola Kraus
Release Date: June 12, 2012

What happens when you are followed by millions . . . and loved by none?

Twenty-seven-year-old Logan Wade is trying to build a life for herself far from her unhappy childhood in Oklahoma. Until she gets the call that her famous cousin needs a new assistant— an offer she can’t refuse.

Logan hasn’t seen Kelsey in person since their parents separated them as kids; in the meantime, Kelsey Wade has grown into Fortune Magazine’s most powerful celebrity. But their reunion is quickly overshadowed by the toxic dynamic between Kelsey and her parents as Logan discovers that, beneath the glossy façade, the wounds that caused them to be wrenched apart so many years ago have insidiously warped into a show-stopping family business.

As Kelsey tries desperately to break away and grasp at a “real” life, beyond the influence of her parents and managers, she makes one catastrophic misstep after another, and Logan must question if their childhood has left them both too broken to succeed. Logan risks everything to hold on, but when Kelsey unravels in the most horribly public way, Logan finds that she will ultimately have to choose between rescuing the girl she has always protected . . . and saving herself. (courtesy of Simon and Schuster)

After spending the last few months engrossed in non-fiction, I was looking forward to a witty, light, non-thinking story. I wasn’t looking for much but I was hoping for more than this.

My biggest issue was with the main character, Logan Wade. She’s extremely one dimensional, but there was something else that bothered me I couldn’t put my finger on. Early on when she reunites with her cousin Kelsey I thought the problem was they lacked a connection. Kelsey outwardly ignores her until all of a sudden she falls asleep with her head in Logan’s lap…

Okay wait.  I’m sorry, but who does this? I have a cousin I haven’t see in what seems like forever. I would risk my life for her but the only time my head would land in her lap is if I tripped and fell on her…carrying on.

Then I thought maybe it was the way she came across like a doormat, taking direction from anyone willing to take charge. I kept hoping she would snap out of it. There is a moment at her turning point when she finally stands up for herself and for Kelsey, but it’s quickly dismissed and she once again simply follows orders. Sigh.

Even her love interest is yawn-worthy. But, that wasn’t it either.

As I skimmed through a second time it became clear what my issue was with her. She wasn’t the heroine . From the moment Kelsey comes into the picture she steals the show. Albeit a show we’ve seen before. Her story being a rip off the Brittany Spears meltdown. A seemingly sweet pop star gone over the edge, a diagnose of Bi-Polar Disorder, a strange drugged out appearance on TV, right down to the turning point where Brittany Kelsey barricades herself in the bathroom with her baby.

I didn’t want to like Kelsey either. I wanted play bored with the whole “child star losing it” story, but I have to admit there was something about her that made me think of her when I wasn’t reading.

Don’t tell anyone.

But let’s be honest, it’s exactly the reason the book might do well. We’re addicted to celebrity train wrecks. And yes, I’m guilty of it too as long as it doesn’t involve a Kardashian. I draw the line….it’s a faint line, but it’s there…

All was not lost however, highlights can be found in sporadic bits of witty dialogue, like when a roadie is addressed by Logan about the stench in the air.

“It smells like I’m trapped in a foot.”

He pauses and says, “Just wait til we drive through Parma. It’s like a yeast infection in the ass of a pig.”


Too bad the roadie didn’t have more appearances.

Between You and Me will be released June 12, 2012


My daughter grew up overnight. Suddenly she’s less about asking millions of questions and more about being in her room tuning me out with the help of her iTouch. On occasion I steal little peeks into her Tweendom and scan through her texts.

Yes, I invade her privacy. Why?

A wise woman once said, “Do you know how you can tell when a teenager is lying?

Answer: Their lips are moving.”

Okay, it was Judge Judy but still…she’s wise-ish.

It’s mostly innocent girl babble, however this past Saturday I had a bit of a surprise. There was a conversation with a friend that seemed harmless until I followed it all the way to the end where my daughter had written, “F**K!”

My first thought? Obviously from her use of asterisks she’s not fully committed so I still have time until the real language is unleashed. It was however my first, OMG my daughter is not a little girl moment. I’m not naive. I know she says it when I’m not around but this was my first confirmation.

The rose covered glasses have been officially removed.

Since Grade four when she announced a boy in her class had said a bad word I knew it was in her vocabulary. She wanted so badly to tell me the word. There was so much excitement on her face I couldn’t help myself and let her say it.

Her eyes got huge.

“Can I really?”

“Really. Once,” I clarified.


I tried not to laugh. It sounded so funny coming out in her little voice.

But once wasn’t enough, she’d felt the power because she went on to tell me the context in which he had used it. I can’t remember exactly but it was an awkward sentence and used just to display his intellect of curse words.

I told her she shouldn’t admire him because he wasn’t even grammatically correct. And that was really saying something since fuck is a hard word to get wrong. There are so many ways to use it. Noun. Verb. Adjective. It really is the best and most versitile word ever.

Personally I don’t believe in bad words, just indecent people using them. There’s a time and a place for all of it, especially in a work of fiction when bad language is necessary to convey a certain character. And I can’t very well take the high and mighty road when I’ve been known to slip in various driving incidents.

I do recall telling her fuck shouldn’t be over-used or it loses its power.

I lied, it totally doesn’t. Fuck just feels good to say.

And now she knows too. Now I guess I should have the conversation about how crude it sounds coming out of a young person’s mouth and when she chooses to express herself over texts or whatever she should always assume there’s another snooping Mother (beside her own) creeping on the receiving end who very well could label her as “trouble.”

Just today when I thought I’d cleared the cursing hurdle, my 8 year old boy who was scanning iTunes said, “I like this song but it has a swear in it.”

Here we go again. I sigh. “What word is it?”


May his innocence last forever.

Stop The Lindsanity

Someone needs to save Lindsay Lohan because Hollywood isn’t going to do it. Over the last couple weeks she’s been accused of two separate altercations. They happened on different nights but both at the same LA hotspot Smoke and Mirrors. For at least one of the nights she flat out denies being at the club. A blatant lie considering the surveillance video clearly shows her arriving and leaving the evening in question. Add this to her rap sheet: jail time, probation, rehab, two DUI’s, drug possession (twice) and you have one redheaded girl screaming for help. Yet, she continues to get work. In fact, she’s scheduled to play Elizabeth Taylor in a movie set to begin filming in Canada this month.

You would think she’d get it by now, but sadly most addicts never do, not as long as someone is enabling them and Lindsay doesn’t just have someone she has a whole town! As a mother I want to smack her hard in her freckled little face and then hold her and tell her everything will be okay.

She’s so sick and in so deep change must seem impossible. It’s classic addict behaviour but what’s a girl to do when she has no one standing up to her. It’s scary enough she’s still clubbing but what’s absolutely insane is her parents are with her, claiming to be watching her. How on earth does that make sense? As long as everyone is kissing her butt and she’s free to walk around, go to clubs and offered movie roles she’s not going to get better.


She needs her power taken away to save her life.

Unlike Britney Spears she doesn’t have a father willing or healthy enough to take over her responsibilities. Because Mr. Spears took on the care of his mentally ill daughter, Britney was left with nothing else to do but focus on her recovery. Now she’s healthy, staying away from press & clubs yet still has her supportive fans. Plus, rumour has it she’s signing on as the new X Factor judge. We all want good things for her because she’s trying.

I can’t help but think of my own daughter. I feel the need to protect her from idolizing someone like Lindsay, to point out what a sick woman she is. Bad things happen when we bottle our feelings especially when we live in a society where asking for help is considered weak. A stigma some people can’t afford. I’m confident she’s smart enough to recognize a hot mess when she sees one, but power, money and being desired are powerful forces and we can’t always trust young kids to see the big picture.

I like to point out stories of hope and recovery to her like Demi Lovato (Bulimia, cutting, depression) & Danielle Radcliffe (alcoholism) and let her know it’s better to ask for help then go down a road of destruction you may never come back from.

I truly hope Lindsay does.

Fashion Senseless

I have the worst fashion sense. My closet is a sea of black, brown or if I’m feeling adventurous, tan. Ever since I left my job in August all I wear are yoga pants. Sexy, I know.  In the summer I’m sure to break out some khaki shorts, but not short-shorts; the dimplage on my legs makes me throw up in my mouth and as I found out recently in a shared dressing room experience with my 12 year old daughter..”it’s quite disturbing.”

My Mom (Sally) is a great dresser. She can throw outfits together like nobody’s business. In fact, when I have events back home I don’t bother to pack much because I know she’s got my back, right down to the shoes and accessories. I simple pull out what I’m going to wear, she takes one look at me and we’re off to her closet.

That’s why to this day I can’t understand what went wrong at my Grade 8 graduation. I obviously needed a dress and as always Sally was going shopping with me because she loved to be in charge involved in the decision. It wasn’t an easy job buying clothes for me. I wasn’t a willing participant. I was chunky and hated how clothes clung to my stomach rolls. It made me very uncomfortable and self conscious. So needless to say I was always in baggy, frumpy  clothes.

Thank God for Parachute pants. Barf.

Every dress I tried on was too poofy, frilly, lacy or tight. Probably because they actually touched my skin. Plus I was 13,  grumpy, listened to heavy metal and just wanted to shuffle home in my high tops and concert shirt and wallow in my room.

As I recall we didn’t come to an agreement, which I’m sure was frustrating for Sally but equally painful for me, after all I was the one who had to wear a dress. Finally one day she just brought home a dress. I didn’t question. It fit. Decision made.

Notice my radiant smile…and that I’m cutting cake…

On the night of the graduation I stuffed myself into this foreign material feeling shy and awkward. All the other girls seemed to be doing just fine in their pretty little frilly things. I hunched my shoulders and went to my seat, passing some late people coming up the aisle. Since my glance was downward I spied the dress first. We were side by side. Just me and the person wearing the same dress as me.

Horror.  It couldn’t get worse.

I slowly lifted my gaze.

It was somebody’s Mother…

I died a little inside. Sally did too.

I hadn’t thought about it for years until Facebook (the nasty prick) came along and someone tagged me in a picture for the entire world to see.

Thanks Izzy! Love you!

Once again I was forced to erase my memory of this event and had successfully done so until a few weeks ago when I had to buy something with bright colours to wear to see Oprah. It took forever. Since I still carry the same body image as my 13 year old self nothing I found looked good on me and Sally was miles away. Finally I just made a decision out of exhaustion and went with a bright orangey pink blouse.

(Side note: Do we still say blouse?)

After the show I saw these two cute old ladies coming our way and I turned to my firend to remark about seeing our future, but has I did something drew my eye back to them.

One walked with a cane, wore polyester pants and (drum roll) was sporting the same blouse as me.

This memory will never ever die.

And the blouse (?) will never be seen again.

On a positive note, I totally would’ve kicked her ass in a Who Wore It Best competition.