Ah remember all your new years resolutions? Do people still do that? Well I did and I’ve only this week started thinking about actually doing it. My pants suck my will to live, I perma wear bulky sweaters to hide my beer belly and my awesome guns, which I brought out at every first date I went on, are extremely mediocre and hang, like the opposite of popeye on “spinach” or meth as it probably actually was. Canned green meth, bought by the ultimate enabler, Olive Oil. All my cute Value Village dresses make me look like a sack of can’t put the chips down with a chocolate ring around my mouth. For the first time, since pre-Christmas eating coma, I went to the gym 4 times this week. It feels good. I feel like I’m getting back to my usual self. I promise, universe, I am sticking to it and going to lose my festive 20 lbs. Of course I was totally denying it mentally until a co-worker grabbed my arm and said what’s wrong, you’ve gained weight. As an extremely sensible and well filtered human (ha!) I replied, well fuck right off buddy?! You think I’m not fucking aware that my elastic leggings are hard to harness myself into in the AM?! That I am not wearing my sultry t-shirts because I look like a striped, slutty sausage in them?! Like thaaaaanks for the fucking info tips! I am very, very aware! And then I left work early and went to the gym for an hour. And maybe cried a little, but that is none of your god damn business. The main gym I go to is the Women’s Goodlife, located in a Loblaws. The way I measure if I have worked hard enough is if I feel like my legs are going to collapse as I go down the stairs into the Loblaws. The fear that my legs are going give way and I am going to face plant into some raw fish in the sushi assembly area at the bottom of the stairs is my pat on the back for working myself hard enough in a workout. One of these days the ultimate reward will be when I turn that area into a seaweed apocalypse with my limp, bruised and toned as fuck body.

I recently discovered what driving the speed limit on Baseline feels like. It was a cold, blustery, snowy night when driving home from work in my feather light, clown car with 3 year old bald tires it occurred to me that it took all these terrifying extenuating circumstances for me to to actually drive the posted speed limit. I felt like how could anyone humanely ever drive that slow…well the same people that make me weave through traffic while swearing and losing my mind on the way home from work…yeah those people.

I went to Toronto a few weeks back, stayed in a painfully dodgy hotel attached to a Persian nightclub in between sushi restaurants. It was awesome. The main reason I went was to make sure I was still young enough to NOT REQUIRE SLEEP AND PARTY FOR 3 DAYS STRAIGHT!! It turns out I CAN DO IT!! But then it takes me two weeks to recover. Because, in fact, I am way too old to be doing shit like that. But I did enjoy the challenge. Dancing, drinking, after hours clubs, old friends, new friends, tooo much funnnnnn!!

I have developed a bit of a crush on my mechanic. He looks like a cartoon. He even has the name of a Looney Tune, Leo Wagorn. I don’t know what it is, perhaps it’s the fact that there is no end to his mutton chops, they just continue flawlessly into his hair, beard and nose. I once told someone I really felt like I could trust him because he reminded me of a human goat. If you can;t trust a goat, who can you trust? These are the things that make you trust your mechanic.

We went to Montreal to celebrate Rachelle’s birthday. We were going to drop in on my Grandma once in Montreal but we could not remember the address. We were driving Rachelle’s car, so right after leaving ottawa, we started playing with the bluetooth and calling my family for the info we needed. I have no idea why my parents have cell phones because they never have them on them or they don’t know how to answer them, who knows. I ended up calling my brother. We were chatting with him and getting the required info we needed. We got the address and thanked him for being the only family member that day to pick up their cell. Right after the call we passed the exit for St. Albert. We debated stopping. We weighed up the pros and cons of eating a pound of cheese and how it may end badly. I said I think I would rather be happy with cheese in my mouth and deal with shitting my pants later. This discussion continued until we heard a voice come from the car that said “I am still on the phone here.” Fucking hilarious. Sorry Ben. I am sure you were fascinated by the contemplations of people with stomachs that are not to be trusted. Of course, when we got to the hotel we were blown away that there were two bathrooms in the room!! It was at the Fairmont and we had a junior suite. And thank god for that. The whole evening of us preparing ourselves to go out, we were playing dueling toilets. Welcome to the world of IBS, celiacs, lactose intolerance etc. It’s hard to have fun in the world these days without crapping your pants. When we finally went out that night, we were offered free passes to an obviously exclusive dance club. Finding drinks that wouldn’t ruin our stomachs was like playing a game of twenty questions with the bartender. Jamaican rum? Non wheat vodka? Decent white wine? Sapporo? Oh god, ok I’ll take regular vodka and an adult diaper. We had a great time dancing and drinking and celebrating and then out of nowhere they cut the music and a man came up and gave a pro-Israeli speech. Whaaaa? The girl next to us started looking uncomfortable and asked what was going on. I said I wasn’t sure but would find out. It turned out all the posters that surrounded us that said I ❤ TLV was I love Tel Aviv and their punch line was “size doesn’t matter.” We were at a party for the Israeli diplomat. But my main concern was that their tag line written all over everything was size doesn’t matter…really? Who came up with that one….