It's all Black and White to me!

A long LONG time ago, when I first started my baby steps into the blogging world, I was happily switching back and fourth from posting pics to goofy writings.  It was a happy mix for me that often confused the bloggers who stopped by for a visit.  

I had ones who just came for the photos and ones who just came for the writing, and then one day, I just decided to split it down the middle by starting my other two blogs that I could post photos and girly romantic things on, and keep Average Life just as a straight account of all my life's crazier moments. I have to admit, keeping up on three blogs is near IMPOSSIBLE!  

Anywhoooo, this week I thought to myself:  I think I want to post a few wee photos here and so I am!  You see my madness don't you, I am getting you all primed and ready for when I bombard you with pics from Italy!

So, after a year of having my camera, I finally located my black and white setting (which was so important to me, as I wanted to find it before we took off to Italy, I am imagining lots of architecture pics in b & w) and after I found it, I think I did a little jig right in my living room.

So without further ado and to waste more of your valuable time, here they are:

And this is what I am calling "The Daisy Series".... 

So original huh?

And here is one colour photo for good measure!

Hope you are well!

Until Next Time

Tracy

Finding my Pretty

Years ago, I mean YEARS ago, when I was in the blossom of my youth, I was a tad fashion obsessed, well as fashion obsessed as you could be living in the 1980's in a hick town without reality shows, internet and a store where you could buy both your underwear and your fishing tackle in the same aisle.

While most of the older town women shopped at the local Woolworths store for their yearly supply of the polyester/cotton blend wardrobe, I would every year save my money from my summer job and venture out by traveling the hour and half away with my mom each August to purchase my school outfits from the City I adored.

I felt glamorous in my teens and use to love to preen in front of my mirror and was ridiculously besotted with my once perky breasts and my wrinkle free skin.

A few years later, me, my school clothes, my perky breasts and my smooth baby face would move down to that City I adored and would instantly find out that I was anything but fashion forward.

It would be during this time that my thyroid would stop working and it would be many years before it would be discovered as such and I would spend the next 10 years packing on the poundage. My parents would go through an obscenely rough divorce that would see me eating my troubles away, I would earn a mere $6.67 per hour working for lawyers and be so poor, that I would spend the next several years walking to work with holes in my shoes, tears in my clothes and eating tuna and kraft dinner from the case lots sales at the local grocery store.

I would end up hanging out with other girls my age that were gorgeous and self assured and I would feel ashamed of my looks, and would view myself as the guppy among the starfish.

My confidence would be non-existent and I would spend another decade plus hiding under dark solid colours of clothing and feeling less than desirable and losing myself to that unspeakable nagging voice that kept reminding me that I was just a lump with eyeballs.

It would take up to a few years ago for me to realize that I was so much more than that. And even then, I would only allow myself to indulge in jewelry and purses to make my dowdy clothing seem a little more prettier.

And then this year, something happened that I can't explain.  I had a moment when I realized that I didn't want to go to Italy in my dowdy sturdy clothing.  I didn't want to blend in with the crowd.  I didn't want to be just another unrecognizable woman.  I wanted to be noticed. And as I stood in the clothing store, I felt this surge take over me and within minutes, I started to grab and buy everything that I could that was both feminine and beautiful.   

And then later that evening as I laid out all my new purchases on my bed, I did something completely absurd.  I took a running leap and jumped on my bed and laid among my new clothes, and it dawned on me at that moment, I was and had always been more than I realized, it just took me 20 plus years to figure it out.  

Thankfully, I was finally just finding my pretty.

Until Next Time.

Tracy

In a furious fit......

I am always appalled when I watch these *ahem* reality shows and I see adults throw hissy fits when they are not getting their own way.  

Let me pause here, because the first thing that saddens me in the above phrase is the fact that I watch garbage like that, and secondly, I *ummm stutter* may have fallen into that hissy fittin' group.

It all started yesterday.... *cue memory inducing music*

I had been on day sixteen of what would become 17 long days of another one of my cleanses. Desperate to feel better and more desperate to loose a dress size or two before heading off to Italy, I had yet again radically changed my eating plan.

Salads, salads and more salads, followed by apples apples and more apples and I had dropped a miraculous 9 pounds in 12 days.  Still eating healthily and definitely no sign of deprivation, I was on a mission (and still am) to see some results, but as I hit lucky day number 16, I woke up craving the inevitable.  Oh gosh, there it was, in my face, huge, dark and sweet, oh yes Chocolate was calling my name.  And it was saying "come on stumpy girl, what's another cellulite dimple on yer big ole ass, come on eat me!  You know you wanna!!!"  Yes, my chocolate craving was a bit of a hillbilly.

Earlier in the week, my better half was rushed in for some dental surgery which left him with a mouth full of stitches and a prescribed penchance for soft foods, consisting of ice cream, puddings, more ice cream and more damn puddings!  

For the first few days, his eating of refined sugary and fat inducing sweets, did not, let me repeat, did not in the slightest bother me, until the sixteenth almost fatal day of my cleanse.

I had done my usual routine which is to weigh myself in the evening before I went to bed (yes I weigh myself then) only to see that I had not moved one ounce, not one bloody ounce in 4 long days.  Frustrated and exasperated at the scale, my better half snuck around me and placed his long lanky frame up on the evil device to reveal that during his sugar frenzie he had lost two pounds!  Two pounds??!!!???  TWO FREAKING POUNDS whilst I remained stagnant in my belly and ass poundage!

While that boy walked around consuming a tub of lard, I had been sprouting lettuce for hair, carrots for teeth and cauliflower for ears and still had not moved one single line on that damn scale.

In what could be described as one of the worst hissy fits of my life (although I think my family would beg to differ), I literally ran down the stairs screaming at the top of my lungs "THAT'S NOT FAIR, THAT'S NOT FAIR... YOU SUCK YOU SUCK YOU SUCK!!" And then I frantically opened each of my cupboards until I found the glorious one foot long chocolate bar I had received as a gift from my friend in Sweden.  And there it sat in my hands, beckoning me, calling me, lord it was screaming at me!  "Oh just eat my Tracy, I mean seriously, how much damage can I do, I am only half your size in height and way like 10 pounds, but what the heck, eat me girl, just eat me!!!!"  For two long hard silent minutes, I glared at that chocolate bar, I slobbered on that chocolate bar, I whimpered over that chocolate bar, I caressed it, hugged it, stroked it and lovingly kissed its wrapper.  And then with a child-like pout, I got up from the couch, and with a gentle tear rolling down my red hot face, I slammed it back into the cupboard, walked past my better half (who was now sitting there with a disturbingly amused grin on his face), flicked him in the back of the head and said "oh shut up" and then with a hearty slam of the door, off to bed I went at 8:00 p.m.!

Yup, it wasn't pretty, but I made it my friends, I made it through my first furious fit!

Until Next Time.

Tracy

Dear God, Are you there? It's me Tracy....

Hey Big Guy

Let's face it, you and I both know that I have always believed in you.  I know that you forgive me for not being the church going type of girl.  I have always been a bit of a nonconformist that way. Some people I suppose find you while sitting in the pews of a Church.  I have always preferred to find you in the simplicity and beauty of nature amongst the birds, and flowers, the crashing of the ocean, blue skies, vibrant sunsets and in the mere feeling of the dirt beneath my feet.

I am not sure you are aware, but I have always prayed to you every night, the same unabashed prayer I have been saying since my childhood dog died when I was 17 years of age.  That prayer never changed in all those years until last year when I stopped.  I never explained to you why I closed the doors of communication and I never apologized for it either. I probably should have. I suppose that I felt that somewhere along the lines that same prayer was falling on deaf ears, or that perhaps, you were getting tired of my same old song and dance.  I don't know, but I felt that I shouldn't waste anymore of your valuable time on my trivial thoughts.

You know I have always thought you were amazing.  I mean good grief the colours of the world are so breathtaking that as I sit here, I cannot even fathom the amount of work it took to create the intricacies of such striking things like the wings of a butterfly, or the stunning beauty of a hummingbird or how the sky at night can go from soft blue to hot pink and then burn into an outrageous orange.  I know you know that I have always stopped and looked around, observed and appreciated the breathtaking splendor of nature. Being a lover of art, I have to say that walking out my door every day, I get to view for free the most spectacular hand painted canvass ever.  Thank you for that.

I do my best to pay homage to you in my own eccentric way.  I have tried to be kind and understanding every single moment I have been alive (of course I have wavered on understanding a few more times than I like to admit), I try to help whenever I can, and I try to bring happiness to others as often as possible (admittedly I do pass gas too much and am a bit of glutton when it comes to pickles and moose tracks ice cream). But, I have to tell you God, I am failing.

This pain I live with is becoming increasingly unbearable and there are days when I wonder if I will be able to keep going.  I spend an inordinate amount of time wondering if I am being punished for some past life deeds, or that perhaps, I angered yourself or the fates in this lifetime and this has become my retribution of sorts.  Everybody says you are a forgiving God, so I am hoping the latter statement is not true. But if it is, I have to say that whatever I have done, I am really very sorry.

Listen, I know you are busy, but I wondered, could you please tell me if this is really how I am going to spend the rest of my life?  In this unyielding, agonizing pain because I don't think I can go on much longer. You see, I am tired.  I am tired of the throbbing, aching, sharp pains.  I am tired of popping pills, using ice packs, pain sprays and heating pads. I am tired of therapy treatments and doctors appointments.  I am tired of planning my sex life around a less painful moment.  I am tired of getting up in the morning and seeing if this will be the day I can actually go and have some fun, and find out nope its another one of "those days".  I am tired of trying to put my underwear on and nearly keeling over every day because my knees give out. I am tired of red swollen and stiff joints.  I am tired of no sleep and exhausting days.  I am tired God.  I am so very tired.

Oh I know, there are far worse people out there than me, and you know I say that every day when I get out of bed and can barely walk.  It keeps me going, knowing that I am not the only one suffering and how sad is that?  And I am so aware of the fact that this world is going to crap in a hand basket, and that you are spread to thin by all the ignorance and destruction from mankind. I am completely surprised you haven't thrown your arms up in the air and walked away from us all.  If it was me, I would have done so a long time ago. I guess that's the difference between you and me.

But I wonder God, do you have any time for me?

Can you make me feel a tad bit better, just a wee bit?

Can you give me just some moments where I am pain free and can enjoy life?

Could you?

Hey God, are you there?

It's just me Tracy.

A Chocolate Walk of Shame

Well it started off innocently enough, at least that is what I told myself.

Be organized, beat the rush, gather your goodies now blah blah blah.  

In essence, this is what really happened.

It was a glorious Wednesday afternoon, and I, in all my glory, sauntered down on my lunch hour to the town's chocolatier to gather up what would be some yummy delectable goodies for my better half and my mother.  I roamed around the shelves for what seemed like an eternity picking this treat and that treat and this goody and that goody and then dropped a substantial amount of money on the custom made treats for my beloved and my amazing mother.

I told myself that with Valentine's day less than a week away, that it would be best if I hid the chocolate at my office in order to avoid the prying and overly attentive eyes of that man that I call my better half.  Like the nose of a bloodhound, I could foresee my Valentine's Surprise going sideways if those gooey delish items were somehow hidden at home, as in all likelihood they would be snuffed out instantly with that ancestral Lebanese nose that my better half sports upon his handsome face.

This was, as it turns out, my biggest mistake.

By Thursday at lunch, those glorious chocolate were calling my name, beckoning me with their sweetness, taunting me with their rich flavour and I thought to myself (or perhaps justified to myself) that I had bought so much, how could one simple chocolate be missed.  I would soon use that excuse again an hour later, and again, a half hour later.  

By Friday, the first signs of my impending doom would be fully noticeable upon my chin where a now volcano sized eruption had appear.  You would think, or better yet you would hope, that the zit upon my face would have deterred me from ravishing the remaining chocolates, but no, sadly no, I would reach for another chocolate the moment I walked into the office come Friday morning, and again by mid morning. And by lunch time, the evidence of my devouring nature was circled around my lips like a glorious halo of oooey gooey velvety brown goodness.

It was obvious to myself and the multitude of empty wrappers by Friday afternoon, that I would have to somehow muster up my courage and open up my wallet to replace what I had so willingly sucked back in a mere few days.

By the time I returned to the office, I felt safe in the notion that the chocolate would be locked up and away from me for two solid days.  A sufficient enough time frame for me to forget those teasers, to get on with my life, and to devour apples in the same glorious way that I sucked the filling out of those damn chocolate filled treats.  But alas, I was tormented.  Tormented I say.  Tormented for two full days, dreaming and craving and dreaming and craving those stinking zit making gloriously filled treat temptations.

By Monday morning, I was nearly running up the stairs and drooling at the corners of my mouth as I burst thru my office doors like a crazy woman shedding her clothing off during a menopausal hot flash.  "Come to momma!!!!" the words popped out of my mouth!  And with no will power whatsoever, I downed every last piece within an one hour sitting.

As I sat there moaning and groaning partly over my stupidity, partly over my gluttony, and mostly over my serious lack of self control, it dawned on me, Valentines was the next day and I had eaten the gifts of love for the ones that I loved.

And as lunch hour approached, I grabbed my wallet, and with what little self respect I had, waddled my way down once again to the chocolatier.  And with a look of disgust upon the sales clerk's face (or just my guilty conscious taking over), I picked out the replacement items, and then did what every respectable woman does, I held my head high, handed over my money, grabbed not one but two pieces of free chocolate from the tray at the cash register, gave the clerk a wink and did the Chocolate walk of shame right out of her store.

Until Next Time.

Tracy

...the art of casting stones

I got to thinking today about the art of casting stones.  It struck me how judgmental we the human race are, especially since we are all essentially born with some type of characters flaws.

I had been reading earlier the different articles over the early demise of the now late Whitney Houston.  Far be it for me to ever write about the death of a celebrity, but I had made the mistake of scanning the comment sections of a few articles that were written.  I have to say I was horrified by the amount of sarcastic comments oozing off the screen.

I personally have never really been affected by the death of a celebrity, well with the exception of Elvis Presley and only because I was the same age as his daughter, Lisa Marie, and in my astute nine years of age, I wondered how she would fair in life without the guidance of a male figure.  Oh hell, I was just upset that she had lost her dad.

Often, when the latest celebrity death hits the net, or social media, or the media in general, I am one of the last to be shocked.  It's almost like I knew it was coming.  I, along with the majority of the population, could see the train wreck approaching and was just waiting for the moment when the actual collision, followed by the carnage, would occur.

So the death of Whitney Houston was for me, no shock at all.  

But what shocks me the most and saddens me to the core, is how we as humans are quick to step up on our soap boxes and bring out our almighty sword of judgment and withdraw our gift of compassion.

I don't know about you, but I can safely say that I am not without an addiction.  Hence my chubby little body and my love for fatty foods.  I see addiction in everyone.  Whether it's shopping your life away (and what could be considered my second weakness), exercising to the point of depriving your body of nutrients, drinking, drugs, hoarding, compulsively counting your life away, frugality, gambling, or counting bottles, whatever it is, we all have some form of weakness that we fight throughout our entire lives.  Unfortunately, in the case of Ms. Houston, some addictions are more harmful than others.

It's amazing to me how quickly we do things like jump on the band wagon to find a way to blame someone else for our own problems, or in this case Ms. Houston's problems.  But the fact remains, that in the end, we are the only ones responsible for ourselves, no one holds a gun to our heads and forces us to smoke weed, eat another doughnut, drink another beer, buy another pair of shoes, save every single penny, throw money away on a game of poker.  Nobody does that but us.

It makes me wonder sometimes, when will we learn to take responsibilities for our actions, but more importantly, when will we learn that passing judgment on others is only a meager disguise for what ails ourselves.

Hopefully, someday, we will learn that nothing good comes from the art of casting the first stone.  Sadly tho, I highly doubt it.

Now if you would excuse me, *ahem cough* I think its time for me to step down from my own soapbox.

Until Next Time.

Cheers

Tracy

...and then she was gone

It was December of 1995, just a mere nine days before Christmas that my mom, a neighbour and myself would trot out to nowhere to see what would become one of the most beautiful blessings of our lives.

Tucked away in the woods, in deplorable conditions was the most disgusting house that contained the most flea ridden, docile ball of fluff that would eventually widdle her way into our hearts and leave a loss so significant, that even now as I sit here typing, the tears roll down my cheeks like raindrops from the sky.

She would be called Maggie Mae and would become one of the greatest love stories of my life.

With hearing so intense and eyes so sharp, high strung to her inner chord, hater of most men and felines, scared of abrupt noises such as her own farts, where kisses were plentiful, and cuddles were memorable, from paw slapping you when she was hungry, to shoving her tiny butt into you when she craved affection, to jumping heights that would revel Superman, she was a wild child at heart and a contradiction on many levels. She was such a gift, our beautiful brown eyed girl, and a complicated sweet soul.

And while she was technically my mom’s little girl, I would spend the greater part of her life being blessed with the kindness of my mother in sharing custody. I would eventually move 20 minutes away and grieve the loss of being a part of her daily life. I would spend the next several years visiting her on Saturday’s and looking forward to hearing words like “Maggie Mae, Auntie Tracy’s here” where she would run excitedly at me and bounce back in a pounce position waiting for her treat followed by love.

Years would go by and time would move on, and she would live what people would deem a long life. But for me, it was not long enough. It would never be long enough. We often made bets that she would outlive us all, or at least until the age of 20, as there was no slowing down for the little girl with the speed and long legs to match.

We would spend her final year watching in sadness as her heart weakened and her health deteriorated. One by one, her usual habits of happiness started disappearing, from rolling on the ground, to barking at me when I went to leave, to pouncing in excitement. Her tail would wag less and her body slept more. It would eventually become apparent, that she was no longer well and a heart wrenching decision would have to be made...

Last Thursday, would be our last time with sweet Maggie. The last time I would kiss her. The last time I would hug her. The last time I would tell her that I loved her. The last time I would tell her what a good girl she was. The last time she would look me in the face. The last time she would kiss me. The last time I would hold her little adorable face in my hands. It would be the last time my heart would feel whole.

And as we reluctantly entered into the vets, she snuggled deep into my mother’s arms, and I stroked her failing body. I watched in agony, as she tried with all her might to keep eye contact with me after the sedative was administered. With my heart bursting into a million pieces, I gave her one more kiss, and shed a million tears. And just before the vet gave her the final shot that would take her from this life into another, I saw a small tear roll down from her eye onto her soft sweet sweet face, and then in quiet peacefulness she was gone. Our beautiful girl... And with her went a huge, irreplaceable part of my heart.

Oh Maggie, how I love you. Thank you for everything little girl.

Maggie Mae
October 22, 1995 to February 2, 2012

Living in Fiber Hell

Last year, one of my more brighter ideas was to cleanse my body of all toxins. I, after all was said done, quite successful in my, let’s say, cleaning house endeavours. My body, by all accounts, was feeling quite chipper. In fact, I would even go so far as to say elated with joy. Inflammation had dramatically dropped, poundage on my body melted off, my energy level soared, I could run up and down the stairs with narry an ache, and above all, my happiness quotient over the situation peaked me into an orgasmic state.

However, the downside was that I nearly gave myself an aneurysm half a dozen times whilst I struggled with the delicate topic of expelling my lady like bowels. Yes, I was painfully constipated and constantly concerned, as I said in a previous post, that my better half would find me on the floor of our bathroom with half a poop sticking out.

Somewhere during this process, I had made a dramatic discovery between the correlation of the pain in my body and the food that laid within the confines of my colon. When my colon was so clean that it was whistling dixie, my pain was virtually non existent. However, should my engine get a bit of a back up or plugged with sludge, well, let’s put it this way, the little engine that could, would start to suffer some serious internal combustion problems!

I knew that wheat had become my enemy, or better yet the little protein gluten contained within the wheat was a major contributing factor, and still is, to the pain that I suffered. I was at a quandary, or impasse to say the least. Without gluten, I felt wonderful, but plugged up. Without eating gluten, I was seeing stars on my toilet.

In order to save myself any further harm or brain damage, I spent the greater part of December and a bit of this month, traversing the aisles at the different local grocery stores on my quest to fill my fibre need sans gluten.

Surprising, it really has not been such a difficult transition from gluten to rice flour or almond flour. I have enjoyed my excursion to the sprouted wheat bread section of the local grocery store and have thoroughly enjoyed it instead of the genetically modified ground version. I have found the most gawd awful rice crackers and the best raspberry cookies ever, I have eaten bread that tastes like cardboard, and then ahhhed and ooohed over amazing pizza crust and tortillas shells, all in the name of living a gluten free lifestyle. What I can tell you is that living without gluten has forced me to try and enjoy the offerings of other grains, ancient grains, grains I have never heard of, grains that are impacting my life.

What I have also learned is that those grains work like a hot damn. No longer singing the constipated blues in the toilette, there are days that those bloody grains work a little too well. Now the food in my body is squealing in high delight as it exits my nether region like water on a slide.

In any event, I am definitely prepared to do what it takes to make my body happier, and well, let's face it, anything is better than living in fiber hell.

Until Next Time.

Tracy

Ink to Paper: An Uncommited Story

As long as I can remember, I have always carried some sort of calendar with me, pocket sized, day planner sized or hang on your wall size. And within the pages and small daily squares, contained the abridged version of my life at a twelve month glance.

In my twenties, I prided myself on recording pretty much my every moment, much like facebook, with the exception that it was only for my eyes, my review and a reminder of my memories. Come the end of the year, I would flip thru those pages and re-read the highlights, often smiling and giggling and saying things out loud to myself like “oh yea, I forgot I did that” or “wow, that was such a blast, gotta do that again” or quite often “gawd what was I thinking, so embarrassing!” Whatever the moment was, it was recorded there on the pages of my free Hallmark Calendar in bright bold blue ink. Yes, there were many big gashes and slashes thru things that I actually didn’t get to do, but the fact remained that I did so many wonderfully, soul and heart enriching things and that I committed to those moments using ink to permanently mark my time in history. And sometimes if the moment was so amazing, it would be highlighted in a rainbow of colours followed by several exclamation marks. They were the joyful, memory making moments of my youth.

Sometime during this time frame, my parents went thru a very nasty and devastating divorce, one which lasted for many years, one which would have made a Lifetime movie on some sorry network, one which should have put me into counselling for years and one that scarred me immensely. The details are not mine to share, as they are my parents story. I was only a side player with an emotional outcome that would have been a best selling novel, had I written for all to see. And it was during this emotional and stressful time that my once committed pen strokes started to disappear only to be replaced with a more subtle version of what would eventually become my uncommited pencil scribblings.

The word “yes” was no longer in my vocab as it was replaced with words like “perhaps”, “I’ll have to see”, “ummm... I think I have something already that night” and my very favourite and over used phrase “I am pretty tired and sore, maybe next time.” My pencil notations in my calendar were often marked with question marks, like “hang out with Charmaine?”, “go to Cathy and David’s for the weekend?”, “Melrose night with Deanna?” I could no longer commit and what is worse is that I didn’t really want too. I played everything by ear, used my parents divorce as an avoidance, missed dinners and parties, clubs and outing. I had in fact excused myself from life. I had in actuality stepped out of my life.

Year after year, my calendar entries became more sparse, less exciting, virtually uninteresting till finally the only thing that marked my calendars were birthdays, my semi monthly massages and waxing treatments and the numerous doctors appointments for the never ending chronic pain.

So sad and pathetic my calendar had become that I no longer reviewed my previous year, I just quietly tucked it away into my filing system never to be seen again by the light of day. That was until this past year when I sat quietly down and flipped the pages over and over and over again. I sighed long and hard as the flipped pages revealed a year devoid of anything interesting with one exception. I could only account for one meager highlight. One moment to remember when I knew I must have had more moments than that, that I should have had more moments than that, when I should have celebrated more, remembered more, smiled more, giggled more and shrugged more. But I didn’t. I had only one moment in that entire calendar year that I thought was worthy enough to jot down in ink.

I sat for sometime thinking that day. I reviewed moments I passed up, moments I sat with ice packs, moments I watched the same tv show week after week, moments going to bed early, unexciting, brain numbing, emotionless moments.

And I knew that it was enough, life was passing me by. I could no longer use the excuse that I would do all I wanted to do when my pain became more manageable, because the fact is the pain was not going to get any better, and my parents divorce was far behind me and I had risen past the emotional times and I had grown significantly stronger as person. And that mostly, I just needed to live.

So with pen in hand I wrote the following into my calendar:

Three weeks of art classes; and

18 Days in Italy.

Yes, they are there in bold blue ink surrounded with happy faces. What’s more is they are not just pipe dreams, they are dreams that have been bought and paid for and dreams that are about to be fulfilled, and I sense, that they are just two of the many highlights I foresee for myself in 2012.

And you know what? All it took was:

Ink to Paper.

Who knew?


Until Next Time.

Tracy

GOODBYE DIGNITY!!!

I have the Public Washroom woes.

Horrified by the site of a public piddling station since I was wee tall, I have done my best over the years to visit as few as possible.

Not in anyway designed for comfort, the effort to maintain any sense of dignity is all but non existent for me the moment I enter one of these torture contraptions.

To wit: last evening, my better half and I had taken my lovely sister in law and her hubby out for a pre-birthday dinner in her honour. Knowing my distaste for the public washroom, I usually refrain from drinking anything of an abundance in order to take the pressure off my bladder until I can safely use my own bathroom at home. However, with it being a cold night, the bistro we were at had upped their heating bill by cranking it to an almost uncomfortable temperature. Hot and parched, I removed clothing piece upon clothing piece to the point where I was one more clothing piece away from being charged with indecent exposure. With my throat parched and dry and my body as clothes free as humanly decent, my last resort was to suck back copious amounts of liquid to assist in my rather dry and soon to be hoarse voice.

It didn’t take long for my wee wee to be quite full of potential pee pee! In my stubbornness, I sat there fidgeting and wiggling and crossing my rather short stubby legs in order to avoid a potential catastrophe. Thirty agonizing minutes later, and trying to eat my salad in a calm collective manner, I started moving my butt around whilst I did my own version of a happy pee dance.

Mental telepathy and willing my faithful entourage who were blindly enjoying their meals to suck back their food quickly in order for me to get home to my faithful bathroom companion, was to no avail. The only process that was speeding up was the pressure that was pushing upon my rather weak bladder.

Finally, I gave up the fight and myself and my dignity trotted our way off to the despicable door that would ultimately lead to my relief.

It was only then as I entered into that dubious room, that I realized that they had squished in three very petite bathrooms stalls into what was obviously a two bathroom stall square footage.

Squeezing my big old butt around, I twisted and turned and cranked into position, steadied myself up onto my tip toes and precariously squatted several inches above the toilet in what could be described as an acrobatic pose. With my pants around my knees and slowly slipping towards my ankles, I did my business and reached for the rather large, space consuming toilet paper dispenser and yanked out nothing but a inch by inch square of single ply paper. Knowing that this would not be sufficient, I desperately grabbed and ripped and ripped and ripped one teeny piece after another teeny piece of toilet paper that would not have even wiped a mouse’s butt, let alone mine! Frustrated by the fact that the single sheeted toilet paper was not strong enough to pull around the enormous roll of toilet paper, I continued to rock back and fourth trying to maintain my acrobatic pose when, with one great big tug on the toilet paper, I found myself losing my balance and heading straight towards the bathroom stall door!

And with what could only be described as the most gawd awful sight known too man, I fell head first into the door stall, forcing the door stall right open, straight into the vanity, with my pants now around my ankles, my ass to the wind, still clutching nothing but a single sheet of single ply stinking toilet paper!!!

And there I stood, and there she stood, the older lady who just came threw the door.

And all I could say whilst she stared horrified at my exposed bottom half was: “Yup, goodbye Dignity!”

Until Next Time.

Tracy