You'll never be poor...

A recent visit with with my 98yr old Grandmother became even more of a pleasure when she gave me a 100 year old leather pouch filled with old coins.

In 1912, my great grandfather came to Canada to start a new life. Once settled, he arranged for his then fiancé to join him at the home he'd bought since arriving. Two years later she crossed the pond, but before leaving, her father bestowed on her this wise gift. He didn't like the idea of a single woman travelling alone and wanted to make sure she could take care of herself should she find herself waylaid.  He said, "As long as you have this pouch, you'll never be poor."

The oldest coin, a penny farthing with King George III on the reverse, is dated 1807. There are some Dutch coins and a Russian Kopeck, from before the assassination of Tsar Nicholas, some with Queen Victoria...

I ebay'd the value of the coins, maybe worth about $300 in all which is not a lot by today's standards. The pouch itself is circa 1910, about £15 on auction sites.

It is rich with history and given with love...for these reasons, as long as I have this pouch, I know I'll never be poor...

spf, s'il vous plait

For the past two years or so, I've been keeping an eye on a flat brown spot that had developed on my skin.  It didn't look like anything to worry about, so worry about it I did not.

Until...

...about eight months ago when it started to change.  From a flat brown spot to something that looked like an oddly shaped mole on top of another mole.  And as it happened to be growing on my areola, it was like I had sprouted a third nipple.  Well, isn't that sexy.
 

All vanity aside, this is when I did begin to worry.  With a family history of skin cancer, it was nothing to be ignored.  So I did what any responsible person would do, and I waited before talking to my doctor about it. Why? Because I was afraid. Afraid that it would be the very thing I'd been worrying it was.

But let's just wait a minute here...how could THAT show up THERE?  It's a part of me that hasn't seen the light of day since probably age two...but being a cottage kid and a sun worshipper, I shouldn't be surprised that something had turned up.  Oh baby oil, I thought you would never do me wrong...and maybe you haven't and that dastardly tanning bed is the culprit...
 

When I finally got around to (read: worked up the nerve) ask my doctor, she immediately referred me to a skin specialist...who happened to also be a Yorkville cosmetic surgeon. Well this is sweet, I could rule out terminal illness and get some celebrity style botox in the same visit!  The only downside was a three month waiting list.  This had me start a 'mole journal' which documented any changes, of which, thankfully, were minimal.  Truth be told, said journal was nothing more than a scrap piece of paper at the bottom of my purse and a couple of third-nipple-selfies taken with my phone, but the changes were documented nonetheless.

So last week I had the appointment and, it turned out to be a 'maturity spot'. Ya ya, I will say it so you don't have to...probably the most mature thing about me!  So, YAY for maturity!  Dr Yorkville treated it with liquid nitrogen on the spot...another yay!  Except that my third nipple has been transformed into a black witche's wart on my tit, but it's temporary so I can live with it for uhhh...what did she say? Oh right, 4-6 weeks while it blisters up and then scabs off.  Well, isn't that sexy.

This next part is where I share some key learnings from this experience:

 

1. Get to know your body.  Not in the 'master of your own domain' sense, but keep track of any lumps and bumps and if they start looking to look like something that shouldn't be there.

2. Do not wait.  Not only are you delaying diagnosis and an appropriate course of treatment, but in my case, you could delay being on the receiving end of good news.

 

3. Never, ever Google images of third nipples. Or liquid nitrogen. Some things you just can't un-see.  Trust.

 

So I conclude my post with this..take care of yourselves, friends.  I'm not asking you to go all Downton Abbey on me, just promise that when someone passes you the SPF, you'll take the time slap some on, si'l vous plait.

 

 

 

giving thanks

Another year has passed and with it comes an abundance of things to be grateful for.  The everyday ones like my health and that of my loved ones, a good job, a loving family and wonderful friends…and those that are less obvious, but that deserve to be pointed out:


·         the wisdom to know the world is unfolding as it should

·         the comfort that comes from knowing someone is watching over me

·         new friendships

·         mended fences

·         dodged bullets

·         integrity

·         incredible weight loss that didn’t make my face look older than it really is

·         beer

Friends, I always love hearing from you so please share what you are thankful for in the year twenty-twelve!

you are my sunshine...

you make me happy, when skies are grey...

the evolution of women

It’s 2012.  We’ve burned bras, been given the right to vote, hold Chief Officer positions.  So why is it as women we have yet to evolve?  Allow me to elaborate…

A recent break-up had me kvetching to a friend.  She was supportive, completely on my side (even after I admitted that to some extent I was at fault), and offered me the simple advice to get right back on the saddle and find a normal single guy my own age.  I replied “There’s a reason guys my own age are still single” to which she said “You would know!” followed by "I am so glad to be out of the dating game!"  A dig?  A slight?  I’m not sure.  Another friend refers to social outings with her “parent friends” and, being a childfree woman by choice, I sometimes don’t qualify for an invite which I do understand, I just don’t get the need to label.  These women are my friends, my confidants, my champions, yet they make me feel small for not choosing their same path in life.  I know this isn’t their intent…but it happens often enough to make me ask…why haven’t we evolved?

Can we discuss too, baby and wedding showers?  Women sitting around a bride-to-be or expectant mother to ooooh and aaaah as each gift is opened and passed around.  Commenting, critiquing, criticising.  We play games, drink punch, eat finger sandwiches and brag about our kids and husbands. (Well, everyone else does…I sit in a corner getting drunk with the expectant dad or father-of-the-bride because I haven’t got either said kids or husband to speak of so the booze and men at these events are my only friends). The gifting has evolved exponentially since my mother’s days of tea cups and nursing blankets…so why haven’t the events themselves?

Do forgive me for saying so, but I'm not all that keen on male strippers (sorry, Magic Mike).  Have been once, ‘twas a horrible experience, not keen to return any time soon.  Went for a friend’s bachelorette, she was on stage hooting and hollering and bumping and grinding while I happily sat in the shadows, mortified; I found her behaviour appalling…she found mine homosexual and chose to call me out on it.  Sorry dear, it doesn’t take a greased up juice-head wagging his dick in my face to prove I’m straight. Why haven’t we evolved beyond Chippendales as a panty-creamer?  And speaking of wet panties, why is it Fifty Shades is so popular when erotic literature has been around for years?  Fanny Hill, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, The Story of O…erotica has never been considered acceptable book club material until Fifty Shades of Mommy Porn was born.  Own it ladies, don’t be ashamed if you’ve read one (or all three) of the aforementioned books…they’ll make Mr Grey look like Mr Rogers.  I promise.

To wrap things up, I do confess…I am guilty of the girlie tear down.  You cheat on your partner? I judge. You use your kids to punish your ex?  I judge. You wear pyjama pants as daywear? Oh honey, I will judge and judge some more!

But ladies, we aren’t in grade 10 anymore...we aren't fighting over boys, positions on the cheerleading squad or competing for a role in the school play…we aren't fighting to be the same as one another to be accepted.  Let’s celebrate having the kinds of choices not afforded our mothers and grandmothers before us, celebrate being women with strong minds and strong voices, celebrate breaking free from the pumpkin shell! 

As usual, I welcome your opinions (and I expect more than a few of you will have something to say) but please, enough with the tear downs and disrespect, and let's just agree to disagree!

your voice in my head

I recently read Emma Forrest’s ‘Your Voice in my Head’.  If you’ve read it, you understand when I say it is not an easy one to get through.

The writing is beautiful – she clearly loves language and marries words in such a way that in a healthy mind wouldn’t come so easily, but that still seem to make perfect sense. The danger in reading an autobiographical book about someone else’s mental illness was the reminder of my own sadness or as the official diagnosis goes, “mild to moderate depression”.

I was never suicidal, just shrouded in perpetual gloom. There were days I’d wake up and wish I hadn’t…days when the anxiety over feeling without hope was so paralyzing I’d be late for work and social events, if I even went at all…when the negative stigma attached to being mentally ill forced me to instead of being open with people about it, place blame elsewhere.  He broke up with me.  She was a terrible friend to me.  So-and-so was a terrible leader and stifled my career.  I sometimes still joke “you know I’m only really happy when I’m miserable” because it veils the underlying truth.

There have been times I felt I blended into walls, completely unnoticed.  Ugly, fat ,dumb, a terrible person…undeserving of love and friendship and success.  I sabotaged relationships with good men because I knew eventually they would realise I was a loser and want to leave…orchestrating break ups so I wouldn’t feel the humiliation of being dumped and then persecuting the guy in a way that people couldn’t help but join in on my pity party.  I come from a good family, and have a small but mighty circle of friends.  There was no rationale for me to feel this way, but it was there, knawing away at my good sense…

The doctor gave me pills, they stopped me from feeling sad… they stopped me from feeling anything so I stopped taking them.  I saw therapists, but I felt they were belittling me (see? the fault always lies elsewhere) so I stopped seeing them.  Over time I got better, and have been for a while now.  There are moments when I feel the melancholy creeping back in – the irrational thinking, the conspiratorial notion that the universe is working against my personal happiness.  I’m of the lucky ones, who can sense it coming and fight not to get sucked back in.  Most aren’t so fortunate and get stuck in a spin cycle of highs and lows.  Be patient with them.  Be kind.  Be compassionate.  Do not judge.

It’s true, about misery loving company…so please share your own stories or comments.  My pity party welcomes you...

the new freshman fifteen

Well readers, I have a confession to make. I fell off the wagon…the weight watcher’s wagon that is. I signed up in January for their awesome and amazing point-plus-jennifer-hudson-program, after my last post (yes, it’s been 6 months since I last blogged, what of it? I’ve been too busy starving myself to write) and right off the bat, I was losing weight like gangbusters! Ok, more like a snail’s pace – but it was motivating to see results both on the scale and with how my clothes were fitting, not to mention how much energy I had and how great I was sleeping!

At about four months in, the unspeakable happened. I peaked at 15 pounds lost. Even though people at work had nick-named me “Shrinking Lori” and my mother commented on how great I was looking (well, you know how mothers are…she said “you’ve lost a lot of your belly fat” or something equally backhanded), I still felt like a failure because the weight had STOPPED coming off. I was eating properly, tracking each grain of rice and drinking a camel’s worth of water each day…exercising even…and the needle just sat there…at a lousy 152lbs.

“F*ck you, one-fifty-two!!” I would say to the scale, but it didn’t hear me…or maybe it just didn’t care.

This is the reason I haven’t been blogging, and the reason I stopped sharing my success on Facebook and Twitter.

I was ashamed and embarrassed. It’s weight loss for crying out loud, how could I fail at losing weight?!?

And then, something worse happened. I threw in the towel. I allowed all the bad habits to come creeping back in. Ice Cream for dinner. Cinnamon rolls for breakfast. Regular vs. lite beer. Dear readers, I hate to say it – I caved. Like a house of cards gently tapped by a charm bracelet (yes, it’s a Brady Bunch reference), my awesome and amazing weight loss plan came tumbling down. And what happened next, you may consider a bright side, but not me. None of the weight came back. That’s right, eating what I wanted when I wanted and still stuck at that one hundred and fifty two f*cking pounds!!

Not only am I not successful, but I am a FAILURE at FAILURE!!!

Fortunately last week, thanks to the wonk weather and poor air circulation at work, I got sick. Really sick. Three prescription sick and with that, came zero appetite. This, my friends, is what finally toppled my freshman fifteen and put me back on track.

I am re-motivated and back to tracking and starving. Bikini season is half over, and I didn’t reach the goal I’d set for myself in time for summer, but my 40th birthday is still 3+ months away and I will not let myself see another setback such as this. This I promise, to myself.