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.

i'm not a girl named boney maroney

Let me explain, because unless you’ve known me since grade five, you have no idea what the heading of this blog refers to.

When I was in lower grade school, I was one of the skinniest kids in my class. My last name being Moore, Boney Maroney was as good a nickname as one could earn. Because at the time, I really was about as skinny as a stick of macaroni.  As I grew into adulthood, I became quite a hot little ticket - slim legs, tiny waist, great rack...

...flash forward 30 years to the present day, specifically this morning when I tipped the scales at 165lbs – my highest weight to date.

Now, I’m a tall-ish girl, so the extra pounds crept up without any real notice except for maybe some tighter waistbands and a second chin. And before some of you out there in Bloggerland say "165lbs? I’d be happy to weigh that!" please bear in mind, I was always between 127-137 for the better part of my life to date. So, as I am currently rounding out my fourth decade, I’ve decided I’ll be damned if this is the body in which I turn 40.

Before I get into the planning stages of said weight loss, let’s review two major obstacles:

     1. I love food
     2. I hate exercise

It would seem I am doomed to fail before I even get out of the gate because it’s true, I’d rather suffer a hangover than a workout but I am determined. Too add to my motivation, friends of my parents with hotsy single sons have bought a cottage on our lake and no way are they going to see this current bod in a bikini. No. Effin’. Way!

The point of this post is for me to take ownership of my weight. I got lazy, I stopped caring, and as a result, I became unhappy. Not with the fat, but because I let it get to this point. I know how to eat right. I know about portion control. I know sitting on my ass and watching movies for hours is not a great way to burn calories. Going forward dear readers, to help hold me accountable to my goal I will be boring you with the details of how I am going to reach it. Which brings me to just that – my goal. I would really be quite satisfied with a 20lb loss, bringing me down to 145. I can do it. Right?

Ok great, we’ve owned it, identified roadblocks and set a target. Next steps? The how-to.

I guess finishing off the ice cream in the freezer doesn’t really count as pre-work. Or does it? Because once it’s gone, it’s no longer there to tempt me. Right? *sigh* I’m pretty sure it’s this same misguided mentality that got me here in the first place. So the ice cream stays until kids come for a visit. Or until I have a major bout of PMS mixed with full moon fever. You don't want to mess with me then. Trust.

I don't expect at the end of this journey for people to start calling me Boney Maroney again, but you can bet my fat ass, readers, I'm bringing sexy back!

the birds and the bees

I was recently faced with the daunting task of talking with my 14yr old nephew about the value of condoms. Uncomfortable? Yes. Unnecessary? Also, yes. He knew where to get them, how to use them and more importantly when to use them, which is every time. Whew for me, that part of the conversation was short! It was also important to me that he understood beyond the mechanics of sex that no matter how much fun he was having, to make sure he was never disrespectful – to either his partner or to himself - treating girls the way he’d want guys to treat his younger sister. (At this he made a face and said “She’s only seven.” Ya ya, you get my point.) He agreed breakups online weren’t cool and that switching girlfriends every 5 minutes wasn’t either. He volunteered that he wasn’t having sex, and I said that I would never judge him if he were but made him promise he’d be smart about his health and his future. Soon after that, a friend told me her 5yr old was asking questions, beyond the garden variety version of where babies come from. Both situations have got me thinking about when my mom had the talk with me, and how times have changed in the thirty years since.

One day, after I had called one of my grade 4 classmates a ‘prick’ at the dinner table that resulted in very shocked looks from both of my parents, my mother came to my room with a book she wanted me to read with her. It was called “Where did I Come From?” and the cover had a cartoon picture of a really cute baby. Being an avid reader and having no clue what was in store for me, I eagerly agreed to join in. We had already had a very basic talk that went a little bit like this:
Me: Mommy, where do babies come from?
Her: Well, a Daddy plants a seed in the Mommy.
For years I had visions of my dad with a gardening trowel digging through dirt in my mother’s navel to plant a seed, water it and watch it grow. It made no sense, but I didn’t have the imagination to conjure up anything even remotely closer to the truth. I also didn’t have the courage to speak up and challenge the explanation. Well, this book cleared some things up but also left me completely deluded about others! I mean, sperms in tuxedos??? My mother concluded the reading with the following:

Her: Now Lori, when a man and woman love one another very much and are married, they show each other how much they love one another by having sex. Nice girls wait until they are married. Do you understand?

Me: Yes, Mommy.

Her: Do you have any questions?

Me: Mommy? How does the sperm know it is time to leave the man’s penis and go to the woman’s egg? Does it come out in his pee?

Her: (squirming) Well, that is a very good question....(she then proceeded to tell me about ejaculation that I heard in a wah wah wah Charlie Brown Grown Up voice because it way over my head and kinda gross too)

Her: And this is something we don’t talk about to anyone. It especially isn’t appropriate to talk about sex with your friends.

Me: Yes, Mommy.

Naturally my friends and I did talk about it. We tore the clothes off our Barbie & Ken dolls and mashed their plastic naked bodies together making kissy-face noises hoping that Barbie would miraculously become pregnant. Sometimes, Barbie cheated on Ken with GI Joe, He-Man or Donny Osmond. Just because we had to behave like nice girls didn’t mean she couldn’t have some good times!

Flash forward to the year 2010; I am shocked at how openly promiscuous kids are today. I attribute my shock to the fact that when I was becoming sexually curious/active, it was during the onset of the AIDS crisis which at the time instilled fear (and ignorance) into the masses. So it makes me happy to report, that kids are very aware of and are practicing, safe sex, even if they are engaging in things like sexting, rainbow parties and sex bracelets. Add to the mix the accessibility of information via the internet, movies, video games and tv shows contributing to their overt sexuality...and it all has me asking, whatever happened to the simple days of ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’ in the garden shed?