Wild Impulse

We have this little shop here on the sandbar called Wild Impulse.  It sits in a nondescript strip plaza, right beside where I go to get coiffed.  I've never been inside Wild Impulse because, truth be told, I'm not really  their target audience.  Although the  old men I see coming in and out every time I get my haircut must be.

Wild Impulse sells sex toys and such.  "And such" being a whole bunch of paraphernalia that involves rubber and edible clothing and other things to spice up your sex life.  I think.

Anyway, yesterday as I pulled into the parking lot for my hair appointment at the salon next door,  I noticed the sign above Wild Impulse...

"Wild Impulse now accepts Canadian Tire money."

How's that for some cross promotion?

Shades of Grey

Do you know how many different shades of grey there are?  I don't either, but if the colour picker on my photo editing software is any indication, perhaps there are a million.   I believe this to be true because at least a half a million have set up shop on top of my head, framing my face in a less than flattering way.

So today, feeling all powerful and strong because I go to Bootcamp and kick ass now...I am embarking on a journey to kick some grey matter off the top of my lid and I'm thinking...Platinum.  Platinum Blonde.  Like Marilyn or Madonna in the early years.

Whatdaya think?

Oh, hell, it doesn't really matter what anyone thinks because by the time you read this, I'll be sitting in Emily's chair and she'll be massaging chemicals into my scalp to turn my grey/brown/bronze colour into something perfectly blonde and summery and different.

I'm thinking it'll go with the new ass, abs and pipes I've been working on the last few months.

Photo evidence soon!

Field Day

Do you remember Field Day at school?  The time of year to get out of the classroom and onto the athletic field - time to shake out the cobwebs - time to run around and get the blood flowing through your veins again after a long winter hibernation - time to prove your physical prowess by participating in such things as relay races, potato sack races, three-legged races, long jump, shot-put, etc.?

I hated Field Day.

That shouldn't come as a big surprise to anyone that really knows me.  After all, the term "athletic" was never an adjective used to describe me.  "Book nerd" was more like it.

But, every spring I'd find myself out there on the field.  Dreading whatever show of physical strength, dexterity or prowess was coming next.  I'd suffer from so much anxiety about running a short relay race that if I didn't have my inhaler at the ready, I could anxiety myself right into a full on asthma attack in about a half hour.

It was a great excuse to get out of Field Day.

But here's the thing.  All that getting out of Field Day set me up for an adulthood devoid of much physical activity.  Given a choice between going for a walk or curling up and reading a book, well, the book won every time.  Choose between a nice skate on a winter day or a mug of steaming hot chocolate?  Where's the whip cream?

So, it was with a TON of dread that I signed up for Fitness Bootcamp a couple of weeks ago.  I've been hitting the gym five days a week for the last 9 months and all I can say is, my fitness regime had become BO - RING.  I needed to shake it up and when a colleague suggested I join her at Fitness Bootcamp, I signed up in a snap.

Okay, that last part isn't true.  I bitched and moaned and whined about it.  The last time I'd done a Fitness Bootcamp I was living in Vancouver, I was about 40 lbs heavier than I am now and at the very first class I tore my achilles tendon and pissed away $300.  I wasn't really sure I wanted to repeat that.

But, here's the thing.  I decided I could continue to do what I've always done on the fitness front, and I could continue to tone muscles and drop weight at my steady 8-ounces per week rate, or I could ramp it up a notch and get over my high anxieties about group fitness classes and my poor old achilles tendon and I could sign up.

So I did.

I've endured two classes so far.  In a lot of ways it's just like Field Day was back in Junior High School. We're still competing with each other, but this time, it's not about reward & recognition, it's about feeling better.  We still run around a field.  Sometimes in the rain.  We still push the limits of our physical abilities.  We still do squats, lunges push-ups and those nasty things called burpees.

And guess what?

I LOVE it!

Believe me.  No one is more surprised than I am.

I don't know but I've been told...
This is how we don't get old...
March!  Two, three, four

Pants on the Ground

I once updated my Facebook status that "pants on the ground" is becoming the story of my life.  Someone thought I was complaining that Buzz wasn't hanging up his clothes, but what I meant was that as groovy as losing weight is (and it is sooooooo groooooovy) um, having pants YOU JUST BOUGHT not fit a mere two weeks later is a HUGE pain.

When I was in Nashville I had the opportunity to shop at one of my favourite stores where, in preparation for summer, I bought two very sweet pairs of capri pants - one in khaki and one in WHITE.  I have never owned a pair of white pants in my life.

That was 5 weeks ago.

Neither pair fits anymore.

So today, I've got a basket of summer clothes I'm taking to a tailor in the hopes that he'll be able to nip, tuck and sew my newly acquired, hardly ever worn clothes into some semblance of form fitting.  Fingers crossed that this works because I love those pants.

So while I was gathering things up to take to the tailor I decided to try on some things that were a staple in my summer wardrobe last summer.   I put on my t-towel dress - the one I wore the night before our wedding two years ago.  The same one that I could barely zip up two years ago.  Now?  Now it hangs off me, literally like a t-towel.

But then there were these.  These beautiful Tommy Bahama, 100% silk capris.  I've owned them since my days of living on Maui.  I love these pants.

Do you think the tailor can do anything with these?

What Not to Wear?

Okay internetters, I need some help here.  I have an event to attend in a few weeks and I've been in wardrobe trauma...And because all my girlfriends are scattered throughout North America and because Buzz thinks I look great in a potato sack - I need opinions...opinions that matter...opinions that are informed...give it to me now!

I've combed the limited shops & boutiques on here on the sandbar and so far, the best option for a lady-like, summer, late-afternoon but into the evening type of event dress is this:

Nice, huh?  Conservative?  Yup.  Fits like a glove - you bet.  I mostly like it.  Although it wasn't really what I had envisioned wearing to the soiree.  It is...how do you say... "okay".

I'm escaping the sandbar  for a last-ditch shopping trip to a larger (but not any more cosmopolitan) metropolis where, if I find something better suited then this little frock will be sent back from whence it came and I'll wear the new thing, if there is one to be found.

But, if I don't.

If I don't?

Will these shoes work with that dress?

  

I'm just asking...'cause I'd rather not have to try to find shoes on this little island, where the concept of trendy and fun usually means polka dot and striped MacIntosh rubber boots.  It's what happens when you live in the country, surrounded by cows, pigs and lots and lots of red mud.  Polka dot striped rubber boots.  Christien Laboutan?  Manolo Blanik?  Anne Klein even?  Not a chance.  Polka dot striped rubber boots.  You can see the problem can't you?

Hit the comments button and let me know your thoughts:

Yes, the cow-hide offers a nice fashion tension to contrast the conservative nature of the creme dress

No, what are you thinking mixing animal hide with raw silk?  I know you live in the land of cows & pigs, but really!

Pain in the Ass

She was having such a good week.  She went from being Gidge the Hippy...

...to a day at the beauty parlour and a new fresh 'do for summer...

(isn't she cute?)

...to being an emergency room patient all in the span of about 48 hours.

Poor Gidgey.

Something wicked this way came.

And took a bite out of her ass.

And now, she's just pathetic.

As is evidenced by this:

pick me up...please??

And this:

see how sad I am?  not to mention sore?

And this...

nothin' like a warm shoulder to lie on

So here's what happened.  Late on Friday night, on the last just-before-bed-piddle-run the two dogs encountered an intruder on our property.  Rather than doing the sensible thing...like running back to our door and asking to be let back in, our two adventure-seekers sought out the intruder to say "hey, what the hell?  this is OUR yard!  get out!"

The intruder must have thought he'd hit the jackpot - spying a rascally rabbit running through the yard at 10:30 at night - can you say frickasee??

Alas, it wasn't rabbit.  It was Gidget.  

I opened the door to call the dogs back in and all I could hear were the blood-curdling screams of our little dog being attacked  by what we think might have been a fox.  Or a coyote.  Or a really bad ass raccoon.  But most likely a fox.  The sounds of her screams have been seared into my memory for life.  I hope I never hear anything like it ever again.

I bolted blindly into the pitch black yard, screaming to the dogs to come and that's when the 10-pounds of fury kicked in and Gidge wrassled her way free from the jaws of death and came tearing toward me, leaping into my arms.  I only realized once I got them back inside that Gidge was bleeding all over my pretty apple green cardigan that I like to wear so much.

Poor Buzz.  He wasn't even here for all the excitement.  Stuck in the hotel as manager on duty all he got was a panicked phone call from me screaming "Gidge has been attacked and she's bleeding all over me - meet me at the emergency room - we're on the way!!!"  Click.

That's gotta be a hard way to wake up out of a dead sleep.

So, I bundled the battered, bruised and bloody girl up and drove to town - what normally takes 20-25 minutes to drive only took 13 on Friday night.   Funny that.

Unlike a people hospital, the emergency room at the veterinarian hospital isn't open 24-hours a day.  But we lucked in because a very tired intern was just finishing up with another patient and just about to head home as I careened into the parking lot on two wheels.  Even though we had no appointment (which by the way - isn't that contrary to the whole concept of "emergency" patient?) he took us in and inspected the damaged little dog.

Adrenaline is a funny thing.  It kicks in in the case of emergency and once it's coursing through your system you feel like superman.  So there was our bloody superman-girl-dog walking around the exam room with her gaping wound, but acting like nothing was wrong.  She was so hopped up on the hormones she didn't feel any pain.  She was, however, scared to death having just survived an attack from behind and escaping the jaws of death.

The young doc cleaned her up, sent us home with a prescription for possible infection and the advice that perhaps it's a good idea to keep the dogs on a leash at night, especially at this time of year when all the other varmints are feeling particularly frisky.  Right.  Got it.

Ever since our Friday Night Fright the Gidge has been attached to me - literally.  She has not left my lap or shoulder for two days.    Funny that this little dog, who only has eyes for Buzz really is a mama's girl when it comes down to it.  Funnier still?  I always thought that in a fight  my money would be on the Gidge.   Nice to know that when the chips are down she can hold her own.

Wanna Go?

Ah, springtime in Paris.  Who wouldn't want to go?