Friday, 5 October 2012

Oh hello, "Jeremy"

The other day while the kids and I were walking home from the park, I noticed that the family who had just moved in across the street were out talking with their neighbour. Of course, based on the assumption that this young family would become friends of ours, I had every intention of introducing myself and making a great first impression.

Sounds feasible enough; unless you consider that I'm actually the queen of awkward and what should be simple social transactions usually transform themselves into 'shudder worthy' memories in an astoundingly short amount of time.

Since my soon-to-be new friends were involved in a discussion, butting in might have come off as a bit rude. So naturally I chose the awkward approach and instead stood on the sidewalk, staring and waiting for a significant pause in which I would offer a quick introduction. After all, if I had just kept walking then they probably would have thought of me as the bitch who lives in the red house and doesn't introduce herself. Or maybe I just overthink things.

So I as stood waiting, and presumably mouth-breathing, Roxy (my otherwise obedient Boxer) decided she should introduce herself to this family's dog. Taking full advantage of the design flaws which were evident in the dollar-store cat leash I used to tether her to my stroller (bought by mistake), she made her grand debut by barrelling towards the terrified new neighbour-dog, pulling the stroller containing Sam with her.

Instead of a quick, friendly "how do you do; mind if I smell your ass?" kind of dog interaction, my neighbours were instead given a front row seat to the chaos of me unsuccessfully trying to wrangle my suddenly feral animal.

Of course, despite one's efforts, a dollar store cat-leash will likely fail when it's needed most. In this instance it became stuck at full length rather than retracting, thus allowing Roxy 12 feet of material in which to entangle herself, the stroller, and me. Within seconds we were bound to the tree in the centre of my new neighbour's lawn.


As I apologized several dozen times for the erratic behaviour of my dog, and for interrupting the conversation taking place before my arrival, I managed to break out of the web of leash. I thought I should probably just get on with it and introduce myself so they didn't think I was a complete lunatic.

As I tried my best to regain what little composure I could muster, I referenced my house number and name. I was just about to introduce my kids when I noticed, with absolute horror, that Isla had begun to crawl around under the enormous 20 TON truck parked in the driveway next-door. Like, are you f'ing kidding me?

As a paramedic, the fact that my daughter thought it was acceptable to crawl under anything parked in a driveway, let alone a massive truck, was unfathomable. Let's just say this behaviour was not met with patience or understanding. I'm fairly certain everyone in the city heard me scream my child's name. Not only that, I wouldn't be surprised if in the place I was standing was large puff of white cartoon-smoke (Road-runner style).

Before my audience of strangers could process what had just happened, I was on the other side of the truck trying my hardest to keep my shit together while conveying to Isla the dangers of playing under trucks. I guess this isn't something one is born knowing.

Where was Sam you ask? Oh, I left him in the stroller - still tethered to Feral-Roxy - on the other side of the truck. Don't judge me; it was a chaotic moment.

Steve, the new neighbour's neighbour, brought Sam and Roxy around to where I was and, bless his heart, did not make me feel like the mess-in-a-dress I clearly was. How nice of Steve. Although, after thanking him and calling him Steve, I had a brief, concealed panic attack. Was his name even Steve? I had only really chatted with him a few times. Have I done it again? I mean, what were the chances of there being another Steve (coincidentally the name of my neighbour to the left) in the vicinity of our home ? The odds were against me.

Am I so ridiculous in my case of self-diagnosed baby-brain that I assigned one neighbour the name of another? The answer is yes. Yes I am.

You see, after re-telling this story to Mike, I was informed through gasps of laughter that "Steve" is actually Bill (not even close).

I'm still figuring out how to handle myself the next time I see him. Maybe if I act like I've known all along that his name is Bill, and go out of my way to say it as much as possible without it getting weird, he'll think he just imagined the whole "Steve" thing. Yes, that's what I'll do.

At least this time it was only me calling a neighbour by the wrong name. Last time I, for whatever reason, decided that the guy across the street was definitely "Jeremy". Since I met him first, I took the liberty of informing Mike of his name.

Every time we would see him (which was often) we would make sure to say "hello, Jeremy", "how are you, Jeremy?", etc. It wasn't until one day while chatting with his lovely wife that I began to wonder, who was this "Rob" she kept referring to and, more importantly, does Jeremy know about him?

Eventually I pieced the puzzle together and was mortified. Mike wasn't impressed as he recalled the several dozen times he addressed our new friend by the wrong name. I apologized, died about a thousand deaths of embarrassment (for both of us), and vowed to never let such a thing happen again.

And yet here we are.

Perhaps I should consider introducing myself from now on as the awkward-lunatic who lives in the red house. At least then my neighbours will have a bit of heads up. Really it's the least I could do.

Sunday, 23 September 2012

Can you immmmmagine?

I have to start by apologizing for my hiatus. I decided, without warning or really any planning, to treat myself to a summer a holiday away from my blog posts and really anything resembling intelligible thought.

Instead, thanks to the outrageously affordable cases of Heineken found at the Quebec Costco, Mike and I basically drank our faces off this summer and managed to renovate the kitchen (my dream come-true). I realize that sounds like a bad judgment call on our part but, let me assure you, one is never to attempt a renovation of that magnitude without the glorious aid of alcohol. That and marriage counseling both before and after said renovation.
Now in case you’ve assumed that Mike and I have separated (which would be entirely IKEA’s fault), I should let you know that we’re still going strong. Admittedly I’m half surprised at the truth of my latter statement because having two small children and no kitchen for six weeks took its toll on our family. Come to think of it, the alcohol is likely what saved us. I won’t get into too much detail about the emotional rollercoaster that was our renovation, but 7500 tiny boxes covered in Swedish jargon stacked on every available surface in my home was, without a doubt, a middle-class nightmare.

I probably should expand on that and what became the theme of our summer. Based on an SNL skit I watched a few years ago, Mike and I have lately been referring to the aforementioned problems as “first world problems”. I know how that must sound, but it’s done wonders at keeping things in perspective. It helps to follow the stated complaint by saying (with an exaggerated, pretentious, slightly obnoxious british-inflection) “Can you immmmmmmagine?” Not only is it ridiculous, it takes the edge off and, like I said earlier, keeps things in a healthy perspective. I recommend you try it the next time you catch yourself complaining about something silly. Like a renovation. Why not just complain about having too much money? “Can you immmmmmmagine? We just don’t know what to do with all of our money!”  See what I mean? Thank you, SNL.

Anyway, in keeping with the theme of my writing, I digress. The kitchen is nearly complete and Sam is eating significantly less drywall than he was a few months ago. So at least that’s something.

The point of this post was to let you know that I haven’t abandoned my blog; I just needed a break. Unfortunately the break lasted longer than I had anticipated and I developed an interesting complex in place of inspiration. It was as if insecurity and anxiety had deciced to raise their ugly love-child in my brain. Obviously inhabiting the area where wit and confidence had been unexpectedly evicted from. How you ask? I have no idea. So in this sad little self-deprecating state, I decided that I’m a terrible writer and everyone hates my blog. How’s that for honesty?

Before you begin to feel sorry for me (or agree with me), I assure you today is the day I’ve conquered my ridiculousness. EVERYONE, at one time or another, finds themselves riddled with insecurity. I think it might be what makes us normal. If you’re not, well good for f’ing you! (Yikes, that came out of nowhere). Seriously though, send me your secret so that I may share it with the rest of the world.

Again, I digress. A lot has happened over the last few months but I’ll have to save it for the next post because I feel like this is already a novel. Speaking of which I’m struggling through the last book of the Fifty Shades of Grey triology and I literally want to cause physical harm to the “inner goddess” and “subconscious” whom have managed to find a way to annoy me at least three times on each page (which is a lot). Should the writer of these books be reading this, which I imagine is not the case  because she’s likely instead enjoying a money-shower, I’d just like to say SERIOUSLY? SERIOUSLY??? Mike and I have been together nine years, but he has never “cupped my sex” nor do I want him to. I think I speak for everyone when I say WHAT?

 I won’t go into great detail of the long list of issues I have with those books but, my goodness, they are terrible. Also I’m reading them. So basically you win, E.L. James. Well played.

Sunday, 24 June 2012

Oh, like you don't have irrational fears.

Well it happened. Just as I had assured you it would in the blog entry entitled 'The Meatball'; someone asked me if the mole on my cleavage was spilled chocolate. I could barely keep it together long enough to insist she read my blog only to then immediately succumb to the deadly combination of hilarity and embarrassment.

To the kind lady who nearly wiped away the suspect ball of chocolate – thank you for the laugh and introduction to my latest post.

Although, with that said, I have no intention of writing in depth about my two unsightly moles today. I feel their 15 minutes of fame has run out, which is why I’ve decided to book their “laser eviction” for July 9th.

Same price; no scar. In your face, Dermatologist! HA!

Also the friendly staff promised me, because I had to ask, that the wait time is usually about five minutes. Again to the Dermatologist – HA-HA! 

I win. 
While anything involving a laser usually coincides with awesomeness, I have to admit that the appointment sounds a bit terrifying. On their website the procedure was described as “painless” but then after a bit more reading there was mention of a “rubber band snapping sensation”. Why on earth would they describe it as painless only to later mention the scary truth? Did they think that I wouldn’t read on? Call me crazy but last I checked being snapped by a rubber band sucks immensely. Hence my life-long phobia of rubber bands, particularly regarding those that are pointed at me.

I wondered if there was a name for such a thing, so I googled it. Turns out I suffer from ‘astihophobia’. Sounds serious, I know.

I’m also terrified of dead bugs and dead fish. The bug thing isn’t too much of a burden because, instead of the killing option, I trap them in a plastic cup to be released into the backyard. The fish thing is less than ideal because I have a huge aquarium and sometimes I spot, with terror, a dead fish. It’s even worse when said fish is stuck to the filter (*shudder*).  I then have to avoid the living room until Mike gets rid of it.

At least within the last couple of years he’s taking me a bit more seriously and now actually deals with the situation. For the longest time he would declare it as the “circle of life” and leave the disgusting, slimy thing in the tank for the other fish to dispose of….always starting with the eyes (do you now see why I’m so petrified?).

I think “circle of life” actually translated to “I’m super-lazy and also an A-hole for not properly acknowledging the gravity of your phobia”.

It’s called ‘ichthyophobia’, by the way. It’s very serious and I suffer from it. The only thing worse than my random, irrational fears, would be to not have such impressively grave sounding diagnoses to accompany them. A fear of dead fish sounds ridiculous but to say that I am a victim of ichthyophobia somehow validates my anguish.

So thank you for that, Wikipedia.

Monday, 11 June 2012

If it makes you feel better, you can picture me having sex

I remember telling people I was trying to get pregnant and thinking nothing of it. It wasn’t until people started mentioning that they were “trying” that I began to, despite my efforts not to, picture them having sex. Those who know this about me have suggested I’m a pervert. Maybe they’re right, but I suspect that I’m actually just like everyone else.

You can’t tell me that when you hear someone announce that they are “trying”, you don’t picture them having sex. If you haven’t, after reading this post you will certainly start. To that I say I’m sorry, and also you’re welcome (ha!).

I wish I could control the images that cycle through my imagination (trust me, I really wish I could). Instead I have to try my best to conceal a grimace as I imagine, against both my will and better judgement, the bedroom dynamics that ensue between certain individuals. It’s not my fault; they’re the ones who offered up information about their sex lives, essentially forcing me to picture them doing it.

Basically saying that you’re trying to get pregnant is a discreet way of saying “yes, (insert name here) and I are having sex all the time. And, as I’m sure you’re currently imagining, by all the time, I mean quite literally ALL THE TIME.”

It goes without saying; there are some people who you really just don’t want to picture naked, let alone doing it. Sometimes when I’m at the gym I accidentally imagine that the red, panting, sweaty people around me probably look and sound exactly like they do when they’re having sex. It’s an awful thing. I usually have to leave at that point.

So I guess that definitely means I’m some variation of pervert. Don’t judge though, because you probably are too. Let’s be real.

If you disagree with that, why do you suppose that literally all I’ve been hearing from my female friends is how I MUST read Fifty Shades of Grey? Obviously sex is what’s on everyone’s mind.

Hence the mental images I’m left trying desperately to push out of the way with something (anything) else. So what am I left with? Fifty F**king Shades of Grey. I have no choice but to read it. Either that or I'll have to fake my way through discussions about said novel, just to avoid feeling left out. It's everywhere!

It’s become the book that unsuspecting young men have been buying for their Moms on Mother's Day only later to realize, with horror, that it’s actually a raunchy book of delicious lady-porn. To the mothers who answered with that book title when asked what they’d like for Mother's Day (I know you’re out there), I applaud you. Hilarious! If you ask me, the looks on their faces when they discovered what they actually bought for their mothers would be the best gift ever. Again, I realize that my humour is a bit left of centre but you have to admit that would be a great anecdote at the next dinner party. And really, what’s a comedic anecdote without someone dying of embarrassment?

Anyway I had to see what all the fuss was regarding this book. So I went to Coles and skimmed the shelves as inconspicuously as possible in hopes of acquiring my very own copy. Obviously I couldn’t find it. I was then directed to the obnoxiously large display with what I’m guessing harboured about ten thousand copies. Who would have thought to check the entrance of the store? What a stupid place to put a display you want people to notice (Clearly ineffective advertising).

So I picked up a copy, flipped it over, immediately decided that seventeen dollars was way too much to spend on a paperback, and shelved it.

I left the store. Then left the mall. Got in my van, and drove home.

Later that evening I was once again filled with deep regret (you’ll recall the first time was when I was too frugal to justify the removal of two moles). I’m starting to think I might have a problem.

When I explained to Mike why I came home empty-handed, we agreed that my rationale made absolutely no sense. I would have happily paid twelve dollars, but not a damn cent more. Seventeen dollars was just out of the question. I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s probably best to delve into the depths of my brand of crazy another time. For now I’ll just vow to myself and whoever might be reading that in the future I will definitely spend the extra cash on porn. Sorry, I mean “erotica”. You know, should the opportunity present itself.

On a side note, to all the couples out there trying to conceive: while I can’t promise that I’ll stop picturing you having sex when you talk about how hard you’ve been “trying” (etc.), what I can tell you is that you might want to consider being a part of the “fifty shades of grey baby-boom”. Oh yes, apparently this is something. According to the Mommies that I drink afternoon wine with while our kids play, uteruses everywhere have hung their little glowing “no vacancy” signs, and it’s all thanks to Mr. Grey.

I don’t care how many times I hear people insist that despite the ovulation kits, thermometer, and “remember to have sex tonight” written on the calendar, trying to conceive is still a romantic and enjoyable experience; I’m just not buying it. At least this book has officially, in the words of Justin Timberlake, brought sexy back.

So there you go; it’s worth the extra five bucks.

Tuesday, 29 May 2012

Dance like everyone's watching

A little while ago, well actually a long while ago, I went out dancing with a good friend from “back in the day”. Every once in a while she and I re-enact the good old times shared when we were twenty. For the sake of this post, I should probably mention that I’m now thirty and obviously living a very different life. 

I don’t often go out because finding a 'sitter is nearly impossible, as is ‘hangover parenting’ the next morning (truly a horrible experience). I hate to admit it, and it probably speaks to my age; but it’s just not worth it. Speaking of which, has anyone else noticed that hangovers get ridiculously awful with age? I don’t recall them lasting three days and feel like I should have been warned.  

Anyway, the point of all this was my friend saying with a big smile “oh I remember your dancing” after I had enjoyed a few drinks and was subsequently comfortable enough to make my debut on the dance floor.

The next morning in addition to my pounding headache was the memory of her saying that. What did she mean? Were my dance-moves THAT good? Or was it the opposite? Most likely it was the latter. I’m sure it’s not just me who feels slightly (ok, very) insecure about dancing, so I decided that I should probably see what I look like when I dance.

I then did something I wouldn't recommend to anyone else: I watched a video clip from a wedding of some friends and I dancing. I’m not going to lie, it was an uncomfortable experience. There was far too much happening with my hips, my shoulders and hands were operating as two separate entities that seemed to be at war with each other, and on my face was a cross between ‘duck-lips’ and Bell's Palsy (I’m really sorry if that offends anyone – it’s not my intention as Bell's Palsy is no laughing matter...I'm just not sure how else to describe it). I suppose at the time I thought I looked sexy and alluring, but alcohol works in mysterious ways. The only thing that made the experience enjoyable was re-watching it in slow motion. In order to really appreciate the hilarity of watching yourself dance in slow-motion you would have to also try it. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard.

The disappointing realization that I dance like I have a neurological disorder surprisingly hasn't been a deterrent from further embarrassing myself. I figured it was a challenge that I could overcome with practice. That’s where having a toddler comes in handy – every day is dance-party day! So Isla and I would put on some reggae tunes and get our dance on in front of the mirror. She’s been doing what we’ll call her ‘signature move’ since she first turned two. I don’t know where she learned it (I swear it wasn’t me) but if anyone witnessed it first hand I would probably get a few raised eyebrows. Basically she puts her hands on the floor in front of her and shakes her bum back and forth in the air. Oh, it’s something. In addition to that questionable move, there is no doubt that the kid has rhythm. It’s clear from a very young age that she won’t have to worry about whether or not she can dance. Apparently for her it’s innate (much like her Dad).

Then there’s me. All I’m missing when I dance are little guns that I’ve made my hands into, pointed sporadically at the floor on the off-beat. While you’re trying to shake that image from your head, I can confirm that regardless of how hard one tries to learn new and improved dance moves, one will not change. Maybe with the help of a professional, but that might even be pushing it.

This got me thinking, where did I pick up these pseudo skills? Was I born with them? It’s basically the age old question: Nature or Nurture? Since dance is clearly something you’re born with (I know this after watching both of my kids bop their fat little legs to the beat before they were able to stand on their own), I was probably just destined to be awkward on the dance floor.


With the unrelenting hope that I might one day improve, I find myself trying to mimic other moves that I see first hand, or on tv (which usually doesn’t bode well). The problem is even if I find a new dance that feels and/or potentially looks OK; I would only do it for about 10 seconds before automatically and subconsciously going back to what I presume is my instinctive way of dancing. It’s obviously something I can’t control.

So if you’re reading this and worrying to yourself that if you and I go out one night, I may steal your moves; fear not, as I am apparently incapable. With that said I feel like I should mention that I probably will try, only to then promptly fail. Colour me persistent.

At the very least I know I’m not alone in my admittedly embarrassing insecurities. I always make sure to take heed to the audience at a televised concert. In one word I can sum up the crowd: awkward. No one knows whether to sway, jump, sing along, or just stand there; it’s actually really funny…and also comforting. Clearly if the entire audience were heavily intoxicated (like, for instance, at a wedding reception) then everyone would be on top of the world and showcasing their best moves.

It seems though, alcohol aside, that the only categories of people who are comfortable enough to dance like no one’s watching are the supremely confident (whom I envy), and kids. If there’s one thing I wish I hadn’t grown out of, it would be that. Also the pants I wore in high school, come to think of it.

Wednesday, 16 May 2012

Do I look like a potato in this?

Apparently, according to facebook, thin is no longer “in”. Instead society has once again embraced the curvaceous beauty of Marilyn Monroe, for example. This is especially good news for me because I wasn’t about to trade in my curves for protruding clavicles and bony arms. I’ve always maintained this notion in spite of the magazines constantly reinforcing, via anorexic looking models, that everyone should look like they need a sandwich. I know, I know; there's a difference between skinny and fit. "Skinny", for the record, applies to those who eat barely enough to stay alive. Hence the apparent need for a sandwich.

 The problem is while people are saying one thing, and Marilyn’s picture is being posted and re-posted all over the internet; those who are designing the clothes I’m buying don’t seem to be in agreement.

After spending an eternity shopping for a summer wardrobe, it was obvious that the majority of my options were designed with the ‘stick insect’ body type in mind. Hence most things I tried on looked horrifying in the mirror, causing me to leave the store feeling somewhat defeated. Though it sounds like a sad situation (relatively speaking), it could have been worse. Like when I’m tricked with flattering lights and tilted mirrors (sneaky bastards), and buy said items only to realize much too late that the pale, lumpy stranger in the pictures uploaded to my laptop, is me. Yes, time and again, I experience buyer’s remorse when I’ve already worn an article of clothing long enough to be photographed in. Oh the camera adds ten pounds, you say? Please someone explain that philosophy to me because I think it was actually the Costco size box of drumsticks I bought on sale (they’re bastards too) which might instead be responsible. Trust me, blaming the camera is my first instinct as well; but let’s be real.

Back to the clothing options for "normal" (we'll call them) looking women. On a brief tangent I just have to point out that by normal I don't mean curvy, thin, tall or short; I just mean those who don't look like they walked off the cover of Vogue. Regarding the small percentage of women who actually fit the description of 'supermodel' it has to be said, in their defence, that they can't help that they were born insanely gorgeous. My issue is the fact that unless women fit into the aformentioned mould, they don't consider themselves beautiful and instead spend their lives trying to be something different. It's not fair or realistic.  

Anyway, back to what I was saying earlier. I happen to love dresses and tend to be girly at every opportunity. Maybe it’s because I wear steel toe boots and a frumpy black uniform to work; who knows. Finding a dress to compliment my curvy self (with the extra ten pounds I’m not trying hard enough to get rid of) in my postpartum state has become an issue.

So what have sparked this entry are the photos I’ve deleted of myself from yesterday’s outing on our beautiful city’s lakeshore. Mike stepped out of his comfort zone and took a few pictures of me holding Sam. Later that evening as I perused the pictures, he found himself in the hot-seat, so to speak, as to how he could possibly have let me out of the house in horizontal stripes. Everyone knows horizontal stripes are a huge no-no. Poor Mike, standing there like a deer in the headlights, didn't know what to say when faced with my questions. After all, if he’s not going to tell me something looks awful, who will?

 I’m sure this happens all the time to unsuspecting husbands, and also that it’s not just Mike who stammers through an explanation of how “it looked good” or, more commonly, just assumes a blank stare until the subject changes. In their defence, I have absolutely no idea what I would do if the situation were reversed. It’s a lose-lose trap that husbands everywhere are falling into and, I can’t believe I’m admitting this, it’s really not fair to them. If Mike had told me prior to leaving the house that maybe horizontal stripes weren’t the best wardrobe option, I might have had a different reaction than the rational one which took place in my imagination. It’s likely that I would have suffered some type of pathetic, self-loathing, extremely exaggerated meltdown about how my husband thinks I’m fat.

So instead we had a lovely day as I unassumingly frumped around in my stripy sundress. Do I regret wearing it? A bit. But why??? Was it really ten stupid pounds that ruined the dress, or was I worried about what people would have thought about me? So many questions as I try to unlock the mysteries of self esteem and women. It forces me to remember a time when I was in the best shape of my life and still somehow felt self conscious about my hip-bones, or my sausage-fingers, or my squirrel-tail eyebrows, or something completely and utterly ridiculous. The real question is why do women do this to themselves? Is it society that puts pressure on us, or is it ourselves? Did Marilyn think she was fat when the rest of the world worshipped the ground she walked on? It’s a shame we can’t ask her.

Regardless, I feel like I’m over it. I do not, and will not, diet. I eat real food like butter, and the non-light yogurt. I eat food not only to stay alive but because it’s delicious (Sooooo delicious). I do not subscribe to “challenges” of weight loss and tend to stay away from marketed products. Though, as a disclaimer, it must be said that the people who do are absolutely fine in my books. To each their own. I exercise, but not obsessively. In fact I started lunging with the stroller on a little trail behind my house. I now take advantage of the seclusion the trail offers since lunging down an empty soccer field and being made fun of by a group A-hole kids. I'm ashamed to admit this caused a tad bit of lady-rage and made me to want to fight them (hormones?). It was like high school all over again, except with a twin-stroller.

I think, at the risk of getting too deep, the world sees you how you see yourself. If you find yourself with a particularly stubborn brand of crazy; consider therapy (no shame in that). If you want to lose that ten pounds, hop on the old treadmill and you’ll feel better. Basically, if you don’t like something; change it. Sounds easy right? I’ll let you know in 6 weeks if my lunging, and 20 minutes a night on the exercise bike, paid off and that stripy devil-dress actually looks good on me. No more brow-beating of the husband though; it’s not his job to crush my self-esteem each day as I go out into public and face the world potentially resembling a potato. Some people like potatoes. Love them, actually.

So at least there’s that.

Tuesday, 1 May 2012

The Meatball

This entry will embarrass me, but I guess that’s part of exposing yourself via blog to your friends, family, and really anyone with access to the internet. So I’ll cut right to the chase: I have a mole. Well actually, I have two moles. One is under my arm and unfortunately resembles an area that may have been overlooked at my last waxing appointment. I like to pretend that it has a mind of its own and in addition to its Italian accent, has an ‘only child complex’ and desperately seeks attention. I feel like it calls to people when I lift my arm “HEY EVERYONE! LOOK AT ME!” Obviously this has bothered me since I was a kid. In an attempt to make light of it because, incidentally, I make jokes when I’m uncomfortable, I started referring to it as “the meatball”. Gross right? It seemed like an appropriate thing to call it, especially considering it spoke with an Italian accent. If I were more clever and original I would have given it a name like “Marcelo” or “Angelo”, but I was seven and had apparently settled on meatball. And so it was.
This particular meatball doesn't come out very often because I tend to avoid sleeveless shirts, unless I’m at the gym. When I’m there it becomes especially obnoxious and screams at everyone around me for the entirety of my upper body workout. I know this because I often find myself noticing people notice it. I really wish it would shut the hell up while I’m trying to exercise. It’s like I have to choose between arm-dangle (as a result of not working out) or a front row seat at the Meatball show. It’s really not fair.
The other meatball, also obnoxious, lives on my cleavage. Awesome place right? This meatball likes to scream, mostly in Italian, ALL the time and not just when I’m working out. If you recall from an earlier post, I have really big boobs. So this means that no matter what, everywhere I go, I hear its little voice screaming for everyone to look at it. I’m actually really self conscious about it. What’s worse is that my friends encourage its behaviour. It’s like they go out of their way to reassure it by saying with their eyes “yes, you’re hilarious and always welcome to join our discussion”. You would think that they’d clue in and realize that I’ve readjusted my shirt 700 times in an hour in an attempt to prevent these rude interruptions. Nope, instead they pause every so often and glance down at it so that it may contribute its bullshit to the conversation. I suppose from the meatball’s perspective, it’s rather polite and accepting of them. From mine however, it’s annoying. Like when you were a kid and your Mom would make you include your super-irriating younger sibling when your friends were over.
I know what you’re thinking; if these two are causing me this much grief, why not have them removed? Well I went to the dermatologist which was an experience in itself. In my particular city apparently there is a “shortage” of specialists and there are only two doctors equipped to handle meatball evictions. Incidentally these two doctors share an office, and have hired A-holes to answer the phones. When they aren’t putting people on hold for no reason, they are sneering at their meatball-clad patients and explaining that a 2:00 appointment will likely take place up to three hours later because they are “overbooked”. Well, I’m ashamed to say, when it was my turn to converse with these jerks, I lost it. My mind, that is. You should know that sometimes I make scenes (Mike hates and loves this about me). It doesn’t happen often, but when it does it’s quite a spectacle. So the three of us (myself and the two meatballs) actually managed to get the whole waiting room in an uproar over the audacity of this office, and blatant disregard of our collective plans for the day. “WELL” I announced loudly enough for everyone to hear, “I’m not going to sit around here for three hours, I have better things to do!”. I think I may have even flailed my arms a bit allowing the underarm meatball to have its say as well. After a small argument ensued with the A-hole behind the desk, and some threats of taking me to “collections” for the $50 fee I was refusing to pay should I actually miss my appointment; I decided to wait it out at another location and go to my appointment after all. So I went shopping, and had a coffee in Vanessa (my van). Surprisingly it turned out to be a lovely afternoon.
Later, when finally in my appointment, I was told by this dermatologist that yes, she could remove my moles for THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS! Sorry for screaming that – but seriously, three hundred dollars for a procedure that she explained would take “minutes”?

I. Don’t. Think. So.

Damn you, OHIP. Damn you.
 It wasn’t until after I left when I reflected on my saying “thanks, but no thanks” that I was filled with deep regret. That was my chance, and I blew it. And for what? Three hundred dollars? What is my problem?

So, as it sit here typing, my cleavage mole is peeking out over my shirt and obnoxiously crowding my periphery.  My only options at this point are to go back to the dermatologist, where I imagine I’ve been blacklisted, or continue explaining to people that no, there is not a fly on my chest, it’s actually a mole. If I choose the route of acceptance and not remove said mole, I suppose I’ll have to also come to terms with the horrifying inevitability of someone confusing it for spilled food and trying to wipe it off.

Apparently life is full of difficult choices.

By the way, this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever written. I hope that, if anything, it's brought you solace should you have an unsightly feature that you’re too cheap to do something about. After all, if we can’t laugh at ourselves than what the hell are we doing here?