Gone in a blink...

The morning alarm went off as usual and I found myself sitting on the edge of my bed scratching my head and catching my fingers in that matted mass I call my hair. Another day of work, I thought.  Time to get going and stop putting off the inevitable. And with an old heave ho, I launched my rather large bottom off my rather high bed and landed on the floor with a thunderous thump as I started what would be the last eleven days of 2011.  

Stumbling into the wall, tripping over my slippers, I lethargically dragged myself to the glaring light coming from my bathroom. I stood staring in the bathroom vanity mirror for several moments surveying the rather large pimple that was flashing it's white neon head at me from the inside of one of my flaring nostrils.  With tweezers in hand I tried to get at the little bugger, but eventually gave up when I realized it was on an angle in my nose that I and the tweezers could not quite comprehend.

With a resounding sigh, I jumped into the shower and turned on the soft warm heat of the soothing water and closed my eyes and thought.... "where did this year go?"

Moments of this year flashed furiously by like a movie in fast motion. And there, in a blink, it seemed to me that the year had disappeared as quickly as it came.  Things had changed drastically in my life in twelve short months.  I have watched my mother's little pooch go from being spry to being geriatric, I have seen my older niece turn into a vivacious confident woman, my younger niece turn into an Audrey Hepburn beauty with the lady-like manners to match, my grandmother revert back to child-like senses and my sister-in-law struggle over the possibility of not living till the end of the year.  I have put my house up for sale, and have taken it down, I have struggled with my own health, bad news and moments of despair.  I have shut down my blog, opened it back up and taken time to reflect on the things that became important.  I have cleansed my poor body and learned to work with it as oppose to against it. I have put some things into play and sat idly by while I let more important things pass me by.

All in all, it's been a year of learning. 

Ironically, I can remember that 2011 was to be the year about me.  And while a small part of it was, mostly it wasn't. Part of it became about the battle between myself and my all encompassing nemesis of my daily life, pain.  

But mostly, it was about the connection with others thru social media and what it brought to me.

It was about finding joy in small places, simple ideas and everyday situations.  It prompted me to start my 500 days of Happiness Page on Facebook.  Funnily enough, I never thought I would make it past day 50, and here I am at day 243, with a small but loyal group of followers who regularly contribute and do wonderful things by posting pictures, and writing songs and creating art, all in the name of Happiness.  It still makes me smile.

I found out thru the year who I could rely on and who I couldn't, I experienced joy in the reconnection of an old friendships, I found joy in the connection with new friendships, I found joy just sitting at my bistro table watching the birds in my yard.  Who knew?

I realized it wasn't about the big things in life, it was about the simple joys of living.  It was about those every day moments like reading, singing, twirling in the yard, listening to music, digging in the earth and walking hand in hand with my better half.  Sometimes it was even more simplistic than that.  Sometimes, the joy was sitting in a lawn chair watching the clouds go by.

This year wasn't the Year about Me, as I so boldly tooted in January.  This year was the Year in finding joy.  And I did.

And as 2011 starts to wrap itself up, I am excited about what 2012 will bring.  I have found that over the past year nothing is better than working together in harmony with others. It has been far more enriching than I ever expected.

And as 2012 creeps quietly upon me, I feel a creative journey ahead of me.  And it makes my toes tingle, my heart flutter and my soul aching in anticipation.

And even if I head into 2012 with a pimple in my nose, a rash on my bum and pain in my neck, I can honestly say "so what", because this year really gave me what is important in life.  It gave me YOU!  And how lucky am I! 

Happy Holidays my friends.  

Thank you for your continued loyalty, support and friendship.

You all touch my heart.

Cheers

Tracy

Giving back with a Christmas Party, just for you here on my little old blog!!!

Tis the season to give back, wouldn't you agree?

And you know, it's my turn to give something back to bloggy land. It's been awhile.  Last year, I featured 4 to 5 blogs every Monday for three months, and then in January, a wildly enthusiastic, unbelievably successful blog party happened right here on my little ole blog.  I did a crazy thing then, I just handed over the keys to my digs for 48 hours and said to my fellow bloggers to just run with it and have fun!  And they did!!!

They met new people, discovered new blogs, found new interests and new things to rev up their mojos and keep the excitement ALIVE within blogland! 

I don't know about you, but my blogging interest has waned a tad and I would sure love someone (like you), too light a great big old fire under my rather large ass and get me all worked up!

So, here I go again, handing the keys over to you!!!  

And you know what? The Rules are totally simple:

For the next 48 to 72 hours, I am handing over the keys to my digs! Yup, that's right! This party is for EVERYONE. And I mean everyone. From beginner bloggers to seasoned ones, from those without followers to those with thousands. Everyone is invited whether you follow my blog or not, take this opportunity to PIMP YOURSELVES OUT!!!!

Here's the house rules:

• Leave a comment to this post with a small description of what your blog is about along with your blog address;
• Be kind and come back periodically and check out other blogs and their addresses: and
• Meet and greet and support each other.

And when you're said and done, make sure you do your own dirty dishes, turn off the lights and lock the doors!  What?  I'm not your mother for gawdsakes! Pick up after yourselves! :)

And just so you know, I so can't wait to come and meet you all too!

Oh, and by the way, stay out of my underwear drawer while you are here! I don't want to hear about any of you running thru my place with my delicates on your heads!

And for gawd sakes, don't be shy!  Now go... meet.... mingle.... be merry! Well not too merry. Oh what the hell, be SUPER MERRY!

Average Girl vs. The Man Cold

Tis that time of season that I dread the most.  Yes, that's right, it's Man Cold Season!

Every time this year, my better half ventures out into the germ infested world of retail and comes back at some point sporting the dreaded man cold.

Nurturing by nature, my "once struck down by the dreaded influenza" better half goes from this:

TO THIS:

Now I am not one to not return the favour when it comes to handing out my fair share of tender loving care to those in need, but during cold season, I am running at a full throttle to escape the ever needy spaghetti arms of my 44-year-old-turned-5-year-old man!

Stuffed up, sneezing, coughing, wheezing, the molecule of puss I currently live with has made it his mission to try and hug and kiss and smother me during his time of plague infection.

Uttered words of "I love you" followed by his long arms stretching out to grab me and to hug me in his clutches whilst he rubs his ooey gooey snot-filled nose in my hair are regular occurrences during the man cold stage.

Cold clammy hands seem to come out of the darkness in the middle of the night and find themselves planted firmly on my back all in the pretense of providing me with a "back rub" when in fact they are heat seeking missile devices looking for a way to suck my warmth out!

Moments of "honey can you make me a tea" or "can you grab me a kleenex" all seem to happen while I am sitting on the toilet or whimpers of "what I wouldn't do for your chicken soup right now" seem to be uttered all too frequently.  

Moving like a target, I run from room to room to avoid the shower of spit that seems to evaporate from his phlegm-filled lungs.  In an effort to avoid the man cold, I don my arsenal of Tylenol for cold and hide out in my den, waiting for that moment in time when he gives that last large mucus incrusted cough that frees him from the clutches of the dreaded needy five year old to the great 44 year old I know!

Oh well, I suppose its a small price to pay when you live with such an amazing guy, but in the meantime, don't be surprised if you knock on my door and find this Average Girl sporting a surgical mask.  I may love my better half, but my momma didn't raise no fool!

Until Next Time.

Tracy

In a chocolate filled bath

Feeling sore and tired and wanting a change, I took up the challenge of cleansing my poor painful body once more. Perhaps with the annihilation of all bodily toxins, I would see a significant reduction in pain.  Prepared for the after effects of sugar, wheat and dairy product withdrawals, I filled my fridge to the brim with fruits and veggies and items that were definitely nature's version of a colon cleaner combo.

By the time I was to be finished, I knew that my bowels would be whistling dixie and hopefully so would many of my painful body parts.

As I have completed many cleanses over the years, the last thing I expected was to be on day ten of the cleanse and get my first real surge of a sugar withdrawal.  Surprised by this yearning, I have to say that sugar has never been my weakness.  I am more a chip and dip type of girl. Yes that's right, fats and salts have been my weakness for as long as I can remember, and if I could dive into a bowl of spinach dip, I would most likely be the happiest girl in the world. But yesterday, I was craving something so sweet, so delectable, so gooey and yummy that I turned a slight bump in my cleanse into a day's worth of seeking and hunting and searching thru my cupboards.

Ravenous, well at least in my mind, I sucked back strawberries and raspberries, blackberries and apples, in a fruitless attempt (pun intended) to appease the God that was ruling my stomach.  As the hours ticked by, I knew that the only thing left to do was too cheat! But with the ever watchful eye of my better half, I was stumped on how to go about it. By 8:00 p.m., I was literally climbing the walls. So with some slight manipulation, I convinced my better half that our pitiful little pooch was in some serious need of exercise and guilted him to take our doodle bug for a walk.

The moment he left, I dashed to the cupboards.  I opened this drawer and that drawer, pulled this item and that item, I searched, I hunted, I tore thru my kitchen like the Tazmanian devil on speed. I was, in short, desperate for something ooey and gooey.  Sadly, I knew that I could not eat any of the Christmas treats that I had stocked our pantry with as the food police would be counting the wares and would note any corruption of packaging.  Finally, I flung open my baking cupboard, and in a moment that can almost be declared a miracle, I saw glimmering down at me, in all it's glory, from the second shelf, a box of Bakers Chocolate.  Knowing that my better half is not aware of what all my baking supplies are, I stood up on my tip toes and yanked that box down and ripped it open before you could say "Bob's your Uncle" and just as I had the dubious piece of chocolate in my hand, my better half came trotting thru the door.  I stood there like a deer caught in the headlights, slipped the piece of chocolate into the pocket of my hoody before he saw, and mumbled something about checking out my baking supplies for Christmas.

Not knowing what to do next, I sat in the chair quivering over the smell of the chocolate that was oozing up towards my nostrils.  I was so close to having my craving satisfied, yet so far away with the Cleansing Commissioner sitting beside me.  In short, I was going NUTS!

I stood up and did a fake yawn, told my better half I was going to have a soak in the tub to kick back and relax before bed and flew like a maniac down to the bathroom, only to find him hot on my tail.  Being his usual thoughtful self, he ran my bath for me and filled it to the brim with bubbles and sat on the bed to talk to me while the tub filled up with the ever so delightful fragrant scent of sweet peas.

And then with my better half retiring to the living room, I slipped into the bathroom, stepped into the tub with the chocolate in my hand, and eased my way into the steaming hot water. And as I sat there lovingly unwrapping the chocolate square from the clutches of its wrapper, and with my mouth salivating and drooling, I bent down to give that sweet rich chocolate aroma a quick smell, when..... all of a sudden, the damn thing slid off my freaking hand and kerplunked right into the bathtub!

And because I couldn't get out of the tub without risking an inquisition from my better half, there I sat for the next 45 with a great big old chocolate smudge down by my leg staring up at me and taunting me with it's bounty. 

I won't lie, there was a moment where I thought about sticking my head under the water and licking the chocolate off the bottom of the tub, but then I farted in the tub and realized that even I have my boundaries.

So much for cheating.

Until Next time.

Tracy

A Winter's Dance

Old Man Winter has finally come to visit and leaving his gentle touch wherever he goes.  From various colours of grey painted skies, to frosting on our roofs, to the bows of trees sparkling with a web of silver, to his butterfly kisses across my face in the morning air.

And while I mock and tease those who are excited about the first snow, secretly I adore winter.  This season always invokes wonderful memories of my childhood past, from snow ball fights and snow angels, to creating paper snowflakes, to being surrounded in family.  Longings deep within my soul whirl around like fall leaves caught in a gust of wind.

The white old man reminds me of Christmases past and cherished family members that have long since left this earth.  He reminds me of my adored and much loved childhood dog and warm fires, Sundays in pajamas, homemade hot chocolate and baking with my mother.

My memories are vast and large and all encompassing, and much like a scene in a snow globe, they has been frozen in time.

As I get older and our family branches from direction to direction, I can’t quite hold onto the winters of my past.  They were simple and uncomplicated and full of beauty and I miss them.

Holidays have become about spreading myself too thin from traveling here to there and seeing this person to seeing that person, and I grow weary of the changes.  This time of the year always brings me moments of regret for not having children.  And I latch onto my beautiful nieces all the more, well aware that they are growing up. And as one informed me last year, will be moving to a new country for University in one short year and my heart breaks again.  I miss her already and fear she won’t come back. I strain to see the child in her but I can’t.  And as they grow older, so begins another change to our winter traditions.  It is growth.

Why is it that we wish to hold onto those childhood moments.  I suppose it’s because as a child they seemed perfect.  I am betting however my parents would tell me that they were full of imperfection that my innocent young eyes would not have grasped.  I prefer to keep these cherished memories as untarnished highlights of my life.

Beautiful, endearing moments of my heart and I would not have it any other way.

Yes, Old Man Winter is welcome at my house along with his ice encrusted suitcase full of my memories.  In fact, I look forward to our first Winter’s dance together, under the sky while snowflake confetti lightly touches my face and sticks to my eyelashes and I twirl under the beauty of it all feeling like the enthralled five year old of my dreams.

He is my winter lover, my solace, my moment of dreams and my friend. And like all old friends, he will always have a place in my heart and in my home.

Until Next Time.

Tracy

Beware of the woman with Pooh on her hand!

Three months in and I have to say that selling a house is nothing short of exhaustifying. It never ceases to amaze me that people think that giving me 30 minutes notice during a work day is a sufficient amount of time to leave my office unattended, go home, clean and get my dog out, drive around while they look and be back at my desk within my one hour allotted lunch period.

Now, I will admit, I am a bit of a cleaning freak and have some serious ownership pride going on and prefer to have a requisite 24 hours notice to get everything in order and to find someone to dog-sit my little boy in order to accommodate strangers and allow them the opportunity to roam freely around my home and criticize their heart out. BUT, while I do everything possible to allow the potential buyers to attend my home on their time frame, I have found that even I have limits on what is pushing the proverbial envelope.

Generally in Canada, the rule of thumb for real estate is that the realtor you hire attaches somewhere on the outside of your home a lock box which contains a spare key to your house.  The buyer's agent makes an appointment to see your house at a specific date and time for a one hour viewing increment.  You gather up your brood, if you have a brood, in my case a hubby and a pooch, lock your house up and drive around aimlessly wasting one irreplaceable hour of your life whilst strangers grab the key and wander thru your life which is now on display for all to see, and then you usually have the joy of coming home to lights on, doors unlocked, and in my case, the washroom being used and furniture being moved.  All in all, it really is a self inflicted form of violation for which you pay big financial sums for.

A few weeks ago, I finally reached my boiling point.  We had the same couple attend our house three times.  Each time, they would come in and point out what they didn't like and then leave demands such as they wanted the exact measurements of our closets or the exact measurements of our bathrooms, and we would willingly provide same in the hopes that they would buy our home.  And then weeks would go by and we would receive narry a feedback nor any indication that an offer would be made. Eventually, we would forget about them, and then they would rear their ugly heads again and make yet another appointment to see our home and the process of pleasing them would begin again.  Finally, after another long period of time, they made yet a fourth appointment to see our house on a Saturday between 11:00 a.m .to noon.  With my home in order, and everything doused in summer happy febreeze air freshener and my pooch securely placed into his carrying crate in the backseat of my car, me, myself and I and my little dog were off to drive around for an hour whilst these time wasting morons went thru our home again.

After an hour passed, I drove back home looking forward to stretching out for a couple of hours before a second set of people were to come later that day.  However upon arrival, these potential buyers were still in my home. With a u-turn of my car, I took off for another 20 minutes only to come back and find them still in there.  With some cursing under my breath and with another slightly annoyed turn of my car again, I sighed heavily and left my subdivision once more to drive in the repetitive circular pattern that I had already done for the last hour and half. About two minutes down the road, I was immediately engulfed into the most gawd awful, nose hair burning, eye watering stench emanating from inside every corner of my car.  Immediately, I whipped the windows open, tried to restrain the gag reflex I was having and pulled over to the side of the road. It was then that I realized that my poor pooch had just expressed his anal glands. And if you don't know what that is, well in a nut shell, my poor baby boy sprayed out pooh juice from his teeny tiny bum and soaked the entire inside surface of his crate.  Imagine standing amongst the rot of 500 decaying fish and smelling that in.... Ah, I see recognition on your face, well now times that by 1000 and you get my drift on what my car smelled like.

Instantly, I made a turn into our local hospital that has a wooded park like setting, pulled my poor smelly pooch out of his stinky confines and walked him around in a desperate attempt to air out his little patooty.

And as we silently strolled around the tree lined parking lot, we ran into the hospital security guard. And as I was saying "hi", my beloved pooch decided that this was the perfect time to drop a bomb that was about five times his own weight right beside the foot of the ever watchful security guard. I stood there sheepishly, blushed profusely and reached into my pocket, grabbed out a bag and picked up the offending mountain of slop and walked hurriedly back to my car.

As I was reaching my vehicle, I felt a warm oozing sensation in my hand.  And wouldn't you know it, there was freaking hole in the bag!!!

Being without any form of kleenex, I single handedly picked up my pooch in my pooh free hand, secured him into his smelly crate, and drove like a one handed maniac home while I desperately tried to contain my breakfast in my stomach.

And as I approached home, some almost two hours since I left it, I came back to find those damn people were still in it! Still in it! Still in it! Did I mention that THEY WERE STILL IN IT!!!!

With a queasy stomach, a hand covered in pooh, a dog with a smelly ass and temper to match my mother's red hair, I drove up my driveway, opened up my garage, marched in my house, looked at the startled never-to-buy-my-house-but-constantly-waste-my-time potential buyers and unceremoniously escorted them out.

With open mouths and complete shock they scurried out of there faster than you could say "Bob's your Uncle".

And the moral of the story:  If you are not going to buy my damn house, than beware of the woman with a smelly pooch and pooh on her hand, because she is prepared to slap you up the side of your head with her pooh encased hand for wasting her time!

Until Next Time.

Tracy 

In the Battle of Woman V. Girdle....

As a rule of thumb, I don't dress up that much.  I am short and stumpy, and somewhat lumpy.  With no beautiful attributes to behold, I can say without malice that one part of my body just blends in with another. At work, I am only one step up from casual and on the weekend, I am your typical small town hoody and jeans type of girl. With a secret fantasy of my legs growing longer and my body becoming fabulous, I hoard away my share of accessories.  Purses, jewelry, shoes, shawls, scarves, you name it.  If it is feminine, its sitting in my closet pining for a day it will actually be used. 

So, when I was invited to a Murder Mystery party this past weekend by a friend of ours who really is the hostess with the mostest, I knew that I would have to bring my A GAME in the dressing up department! With the accessories needed to spruce this average girl up to a 1905 flirtatious tramp named Chastity Darling, I knew that the only thing missing was the clothes to cover my rather less than desirable body.  So with credit card in hand, I tromped off to the local clothing store.  

The moment I walked through the store, I instantly heard the sound of angels followed by a blinding light coming down from the heavens and shining on "IT" in all it's 1920ish glory.  Beautiful beyond words, delicate in appearance, the black and lace frock with a kick out at the bottom portrayed the look of a bygone era. With my size in hand, I ventured into the change room and tried it on!  And wouldn't you know it, the bloody thing fit!!! I stood and viewed myself with a tiny bit of admiration until I moved in the mirror.  What was that I thought... It couldn't be?  It can't be?  Oh my lord it is!!!! The only thing holding me and this beautiful frock from creating a binding love affair was the nasty betrayal of my jelly belly that was wiggling to and fro with every movement.  And just as I was about to declare defeat and send it back to it's place on display, words of wisdom were shouted from the great beyond, better known as my mother:  GET A GIRDLE FOR GAWD SAKES!!!! 

Huh?  They still make those?  Really? So as I scampered around the store, wouldn't you know that they had a seamless and promise to show no lines, guarantee to thin you by two sizes, spandexly happy version of the modern day girdle.

So with dress, nylons and girdle in hand, I arrived home to start the process of transforming this average woman into a character worth remembering.

Laying out all my wares on our bed, I scooched my better half out of the room, and emphatically stated "No matter what you hear, whether it be grunting, groaning, whining and howling, DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT OPEN THIS DOOR!!!"  Good lord it was bad enough that I had to witness the debacle of moving fat around on my body let alone subject my better half and cause him permanent blindness.  So with box in hand, I opened it to reveal a two inch by two inch square of stretchable fabric. Was this it? Seriously, I was suppose to get that around all of my body? Never one to back down from a challenge, I stepped one leg into the 16th century torture contraption. And with another leg in, I yanked, I squeezed, I tugged, I pulled, I sweated, I groaned, and I even whimpered once or twice until that two inch by two inch thing was made into a two foot by two foot thing which was then yanked unceremoniously up my body and secured into place.  With my stomach now pushed up into my breasts and my breasts now pushed up into my throat, I was ready to venture out.

At the dinner party, it became painfully obvious that with cutting off all amount of circulation to my stomach, the food was resting somewhere between my boobs and my mouth.  As the minutes ticked on and on, I could feel my stomach collecting gas and trying to expand beneath the torture device that was holding it securely in place.  With a shift here and a shift there, I felt light headed and dizzy and I was sure that a fart was going to explode out through my nostrils!  I moved from hip to hip and leaned as far back as I could in a desperate attempt to find some type of relief.  I spoke to my body silently willing it to conform, to adjust, to please just be good! But as the night progressed, I could feel my fat bubble into other free areas of my body.  I was developing a new form of a muffin top, a second set of boobs, and third double chin, GOOD LORD MY FRIENDS, I WAS GOING TO EXPLODE!!!

And just as I thought I couldn't take it anymore, the game was over!!!  And with a run from my chair, I grabbed my bag that contained jeans and a hoody and comfy undies and sprinted to the bathroom to make my change from gaseous trollop to everyday average girl.  

And as I stood there in my lovely friends' washroom, all halloweened up, I did the only thing a really comfortable friend would do, I took off the girdle and let my rather large patooty explode!!!  And as my body parts then settled back into their regular roles, I proceeded to jump around like a maniac trying to wave the rather nauseous scent away, then I rejoined the group, prayed nobody needed the bathroom soon, drank some wine and relaxed.

And what I can say my friends is that in the battle of Woman versus Girdle, that damn Girdle won!!!  Well sort of that is because when I got home and deposited my nemesis into the garbage, this woman snidely looked at the evil little thing and said "you may have won the battle my friend, but your off to the incinerator which means that I won the war!!" 

And then I walked away cackling!

Until Next Time.

Tracy

BACK AWAY FROM THE MAGAZINE, AND NOBODY WILL GET HURT!!!

By this point (unless your new to my blog or new to my life), everybody is most likely aware that I have some odd idiosyncrasies.  One of the craziest things about me is my love of a fresh and never been handled magazine.  Oh how I adore them with their new smell, their feel, their glossiness, and the fact that I am the first to touch their clean pages. Why in fact, it is nothing short of utterly exhilarating.  It's a love affair I have had for more years than I can count and it probably started when I was a child. You know I use to have two subscriptions, one to the Annie Oakley Fan club and the other to Junior National Geographic (yea yea, I know I look like a dweeb, but please there were no junior/teen fashion magazines back then and probably is the reason behind the way I dress now!)  Anyway, I use to wait that long 30 days in between until the next magazine would come in, and when it arrived in that delightful brown paper packaging with my name on it, I would bolt to my bedroom to savour the excitement of opening it all to myself.  

Oh the joys of it all as I sat there staring at my newly minted magazine in all it's shiny, new and cleanly glory. Many years later, and I can confirm that I still feel the same way. It probably would come as no surprise to find out that I nearly burst a vein on the side of my forehead if someone else touches my virgin magazine before I do. Those who know me well, know that I must be the first to flip thru it's untouched pages and I must be the first to read it, and if I am not, don't even bother giving it to me!

Of course, it should also be no shock that I absolutely cannot touch a magazine in any office setting. You know what I mean? Those horrid disgusting, finger licked magazines that glaringly stare at you while you are sitting at your doctor's or at your dentist's office. All I can see is a zillion little fingers that have flipped thru those pages. EEEEWWWW!  It blows my mind that most doctors offices require you to put a face mask on during flu season so as not to spread germs, but leave out for everyone to touch, sneeze on, cough on, snot on, paper reading products! Like we aren't going to catch anything off those little germ collectors! *shudder*.

Ironically, I have been with my better half for eight and half years and he still does not understand this flaw in my personality. And I nearly get frantic when I come home from a store and he starts to empty out the bags and grabs my magazine and does a quick flip thru those virgin pages.  It takes all my strength not too leap across our kitchen island, put him in a choke hold and slap him silly!  He regularly looks at me as though I am some sort of maniac, and perhaps I am.  But it is only when I have read the magazine thoroughly and I mean every page from top to bottom, from side to side, from article to article that you may pick it up and view it. Yes I know what you are thinking and you wouldn't be the first to call me crazy!

I think I can say with total assurance that at this point in my life, it is highly doubtful that I am ever going to change when it comes to the virgin magazine. And if you are ever in a magazine aisle and you see this girl reaching for the magazine way way waaaaaaaaaaaaaay at the back of the pile, the likelihood is, that is just crazy old me!  Harmless of course, unless you touch my virgin magazine and then I take no further responsibility for my future actions.

Until next time.

Cheers

Tracy

...in the midnight hour

I live with a man who during the daylight hours I adore completely, but during the night hours, it takes all my control not to throttle him senseless with the pillow he rests his rather large head upon.

I am sleep deprived you see.  

My mild manner better half is driving me to the brink of exhaustion!

To wit:  the other night, I had curled deep within the warmth of my duvet and fell off into a lovely, dreamless slumber when I was ghastly awaken by the following:

"GET UP GET UP, YOU ARE GOING TO BE LATE FOR WORK!!!!!"

With my heart beating fast and sleepy-filled eyes, it goes without saying that I hopped out of my warm and comforting bed and moved my decrepit body as fast as I could over to the loo where I dropped my pj's and scrambled into the shower to clean the old body in the most expedient way I possibly could!

Still feeling slightly tired, I came out of the bathroom to find my lovely better half deep alseep and snoring peaceful under a mound of duvets.  What was more curious was that it was still dark out. Usually by this time, there is a thin stream of daylight coming in from yonder window. However, the only thing that I could see was the glow behind my curtain of the mandatory street lights.

I stood there and scratched me head and proceeded to hobble over where the alarm clock was sitting and took it over to the window to get some light to read it. I stood and stared at perplexed, shook it a few times and wondered if perhaps the batteries in the back had finally died, as this time couldn't be right! On closer inspection, I could see the second hand moving without hesitation. In shock, I stood and watched that bloody second hand moving in perfect sync and felt a mad rush of warmth gather over my face. With a turn of my heel, followed by a thunderous over-exaggerated walk,  I stomped my way over to my side of my bed, grabbed my pillow and unceremoniously hit my better half in the head with the following screaming words:  

"IT'S ONLY MIDNIGHT YOU BLOODY FOOL....AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

Stunned by the onslaught of my pillow, sleeping beauty looked at me with confusion, and then it dawned on me that the freaking stinker was talking in his sleep again!

The rest of my evening went something like this:

• 1:00 a.m. finding said better half sitting on the side of the bed, asking him what he was doing, his answer "nuttin" and then him falling back on his pillow and snoring.
• 2:30 a.m. finding said better half sitting on the side of bed, asking him what he was doing, his answer "nobody's business" and then him falling back on his pillow and snoring.
• 3:45 a.m. finding said better half standing at one of our bedroom windows peeking out thru the slit of the blinds and saying "did you hear that, did you hear that?" and then him walking back to his side of his bed, climbing in and not missing a beat to his snoring.
• 4:30 a.m. finding said better half standing over our dog's crate and saying the street light is keeping Fred awake and then him climbing back into bed and snoring once again; and finally
• 6:30 a.m. the alarm going off and better half waking up with a stretch whilst Tracy drags her sorry ass out of bed.

I don't care what they say, I am going to do my best to bring separate bedrooms back into fashion!

Good lord, someone help me now!

Until Next Time!

Tracy

This Post is not for the Faint Hearted

You know I have always been a pretty open blogger when it comes to my personal life.  And in doing so, I have lost readership and I have gained readership. It's life. I have always been honest in my posts and have shared many things about my aging droopy body, from my ever-reaching-floor boobs, to the odd stray hair poking off the side of my nostril, to eating fart bars at will just to get even with my better half.  All of which compare nothing to the tale I am about to tell you.

So if you are easily offended or grossed out by bathroom humour, now is the time to skip to the next blog. I promise, my next post will be all flowery and full of daisies.

But in the meantime, all ladies and gentlemen, are warned to avert their eyes.

On to my story:

If you are familiar with me at this point, you know that I am a chronic pain sufferer.  I tend to shy away from pain medication until there comes a point when the pain is making me so outwardly miserable to all those around me, that I just have to give in and take something.  Such was the case for the last week and half.

So with a click of my magic fingers, I blinked up my delightful cocktail of pain meds and happily went on my way much to the pleasure of all those around me. 

The unfortunate part of pain meds is that after a few days they back up my old garbage disposal, if you get my drift.  You know what I mean right? My engine gets a blockage, my cat gets a fur ball, there's a rat stuck in the wall... No? You still don't know what I mean? Oh for gawd sakes, I get constipated people!!!! 

And constipated good, I must say.  This time it had been three days, three long days of torturous agony, until I took it upon myself to drastically force a flushing of my radiator. 

It all started like this.  I finally could no longer take one more moment of the pain in my lower back or the bloating in my ever increasing stomach.  Not too mention the constant pressure on my poor tookis. So with toilet paper in hand, and a determination in my gait, I finally, on the third day, decided to get the deed done and reward myself with a warm bubble bath to soak my soon to be released from agony nether regions.  So with the bathwater running, I decided to disrobe, and plant my naked body on the toilet to give an old heave ho to my ill suffering bowels, and from there jump into my bath and soak my sore patooty.

While idly sitting, for what felt like an eternity on the toilet, and bursting several blood vessels on my face, a few odd and disturbing things popped into my mind, like:

What if it didn't come out before the water in the bathtub started to overflow and my better half came into the bathroom to see why there was an indoor flood happening only to find me in all my naked glory sitting there grimacing and grunting on the toilet with two inches of water around my ankle yelling "we're almost there baby, almost there!!"

Or

What if, gawd forbid, I pushed too hard and gave myself an aneurysm, fell off the toilet and my better half found me naked, lying butt up in the air, dead to the world, with half a poop sticking out.  Good gawd, how on earth would he explain that to the family!!!

And if that wasn't bad enough, I spent an inordinate amount of time fantasizing about taking a pair barbecue tongs and pulling and tugging until I set my bowels frees.  Of course, when I merely mentioned my fantasy to my better half, he raced into the kitchen at full speed, and lets put it this way, I haven't seen those tongs in two full days. Like I'm really going to use them.  Okay, maybe it is good thing I can't find them.

In any event, I am happy to report that I did survive the bowel gate scandal of 2011 and that I burst out into glorious song the moment it happened!

The fact that I am now sitting on a pillow and a heating pad, is nobody's business but mine, and well, maybe yours too, and anyone else who has the courage to ask!  Because, damn it, I am not ashamed!  Okay, maybe I am blushing a bit in the cheeks, well, the cheeks I am sitting on that is!

Until Next Time.

Tracy