Inside me lives a skinny woman crying to get out...

...but I can usually shut her up with cookies.

I don't know when I first heard that quip but it has stuck with me, just like every cookie I've eaten in the past ten years. And every brownie. And every potato chip. And every second helping. And every alcoholic beverage.

I used to be thin. See?

Now I am plump. Chubby. Tubby. Fat, even. I know this from looking at recent photos and, ugh, at my reflection in those damnable inventions called mirrors. At the same time, my body image hasn't fully caught up to reality. On the one hand, I am conscious of all of my parts that jiggle inappropriately. On the other hand, as much as I kid about it, I haven't managed to internalize the fact that I have become a Large Woman. It's similar to having a phantom limb, only I have an entire phantom body, a thin one, enveloped by fat. I sense the presence of my formerly thin body as strongly as if it were still here.

I haven't altered my eating habits to make up for my slowing metabolism. I have allowed the odd ache, pain, strain or sprain to keep me from exercising regularly. I hate perspiring, which is apparently a necessary element of most forms of exercise. Swimming is relatively sweat-free, but I can't bring myself to go to a pool; even my formerly thin self didn't look so hot in a bathing suit. I recall vowing to start exercising in earnest after being shocked by the cross-section of an obese man's body at Body Worlds. Just seeing that the fat in a human body looks exactly like the fat in a cut of beef or pork disgusted me. Of course, while the image stayed with me, the inclination to exercise faded. What can I do to convince myself to get active? Either of the following scenarios might motivate me:

A few days ago I asked Scott to help me move my stationary bike from our abandoned basement to the main floor of our house. While the bike isn't linked to the speed of my internet connection, I am hopeful that its new location will be effective. After all, it is positioned where I often am: directly in front of the television. Of course, it also happens to be near the refrigerator. Who knows if I'll actually have the willpower to use the bike and resist the temptation of the fridge. All I do know is that I'm not going to make any New Year's resolutions regarding my weight or my diet; resolutions appear to be the surest way to kill good intentions.

Nothing says "Merry Christmas, owners!"...

...like the acrid smell of doggy diarrhea at 5:30 in the morning.

Pity me.

While many people were woken up in the wee hours of this Christmas morning by the squeals of excited children, Scott and I were stirred to consciousness by the smell of... you guessed it, dog poop. Montana had dutifully slept next to our bed throughout the night, but Ferris must have been pacing by the back door hoping some magical elf would let him outside. No such luck. I wandered downstairs in barely more than my skivvies and immediately armed myself with paper towels, plastic bags and disinfectant wipes. One look at the two mats at the back door and I was convinced that they were goners. They are great mats for the dogs to dry off on after playing in the back yard; they have firm, deep pile in a pattern like tire treads. Perfect for trapping snow and ice from wet paws. Also perfect for trapping runny stools.

Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil, smell no evil.

I did my best to clean up the mess before hurling the two mats outside onto the deck. Perhaps the snow or rain would cleanse them. It has never worked before, but I was far too tired to think of a more intelligent course of action. Not Scott, though. Declaring, "We've thrown out enough mats!" he got dressed, went outside, sandwiched the soiled mats together and headed off to the coin-operated car wash. In the meantime, I let Ferris outside to do whatever business he had left. When I let him back in fifteen minutes later, he vomited all over the freshly scrubbed floor. I'm not making any accusations here, but the puke smelled an awful lot like crap.

So I cleaned the floor again, consoled a very unhappy-looking Ferris and headed off to bed in the hopes of catching a few more winks. I could be forgiven for thinking it was Groundhog Day rather than Christmas when I awoke to the very same disgusting smell a few hours later. Let's just hope this isn't the beginning of a new Christmas tradition.

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, and the best of the season to those who don't. Happy new year to all!

Dough for dough

It is my Christmas tradition to bake cookies which I then give to folks like my doctor, dentist, letter carrier, neighbours, etc. Since regular readers know that I'm not particularly skilled in the culinary arts, it will be no surprise to learn that I make my cookies from prepared dough. In the spirit of giving to the community as well as to friends and acquaintances, I like to purchase my cookie dough through organizations that sell it as a fundraiser. Sure, it would be cheaper to buy the dough directly from the company that makes it, but where's the holiday spirit in that?

I used to call the dough company each year and ask them what charitable organizations in my area were selling their products. I was able to support a day care centre and some youth activity groups. How nice. A few years ago my mother informed me that one of her colleagues was selling the dough to raise funds for her choir. Without thinking, I went ahead and placed an order. I have been ordering dough from the same woman for the past three or four years, and it only struck me this year that her particular cause is a bit off the mark for me. It's wonderful that her choir is keeping well-to-do middle-aged women busy, otherwise they might be out hosting tea parties and getting manicures, but that isn't the demographic I had in mind when I decided to pay a premium for cookie dough.

Never mind. Today was my baking day. Somehow I managed to screw up a two-step process. Roll and bake. That's it. Roll and bake. Once again my mind inserted "drop onto floor" into the instructions. This time I didn't bother to photograph the fur-covered dough blobs. I did, however, take the time to photograph my favourite batch of completed non-floor cookies:

Cookies only Salvador Dalí could love

"Prop 8 - The Musical"

I have to give credit to my very vocal adversary from this post, as he was brave enough to send me a link to the movie below.

I love shrimp cocktail.

How much is that doggy through the window?

You wouldn't want to be a French door in our house. Last year, Scott somehow managed to put his thumb through one of the panes in our French door. He skillfully "repaired" it with Scotch tape. A few weeks ago he slipped and put his knee through another pane. This was actually a fortunate occurrence, as the cats now have their own entrance to our little enclosed porch. Since our basement is out of commission, we had to relocate the litter box to a more frequently used area of the house. Not pleasant. Now we are able to put it in the front porch and still keep the French door closed. As an added bonus, this is what greets me each day when I come home from work:

Ten points and twenty pictures

If a picture says a thousand words, then below are several thousand words to describe our wonderful wedding day. First, though, a few actual words:

1. It was a very chilly day, but the rain cleared up in the afternoon. Mother Nature doesn't hate me after all.
2. There were still leaves on the trees as well as the ground. I couldn't have been more pleased.
3. After panicking for weeks prior to our wedding day, I awoke that morning completely free of stress. I don't know why, but I was perfectly calm.
4. A few minutes before the ceremony I was informed that the venue's audio/visual equipment wasn't operating properly and that the video I had slaved over might not work. Good-bye calm!
5. Our computer-savvy friends fixed the problem and the guests enjoyed the video. Hallelujah!
6. Scott saw my dress for the first time when I walked down the aisle. He was very moved.
7. I saw the rings that he made (yes, he made them) for the first time when they were presented at the ceremony. I was very moved.
8. At the last minute I had decided to wear white Sketchers rather than high heels. I credit that choice with the fact that I did not stumble or fall all day.
9. A group of wonderful friends and relatives arrived early to decorate the ceremony and reception sites. I am still gushing over their talent.
10. Oh my gosh, we're married! Yippee!

Enjoy the images.

More to come...

Scott's handiwork

Marriage

My wedding was beautiful and I thank everyone for their good wishes and their interest. I promise to post photos once we receive them from the photographer. Today it is not my own wedding that I want to write about, but marriage in general.

I was saddened to hear that some loving couples will be denied the right to marry thanks to ignorance, right-wing xenophobia, and hatred disguised as religion. On Tuesday, when the United States made history by electing the country's first bi-racial president, just over half of Californians voted to strip gay and lesbian couples of the right to marry. About 18,000 same-sex couples have already married in that state. Voters in Arizona and Florida also approved amendments to ban same-sex marriages. Similar bans had already been passed in 27 states before Tuesday's elections.

My marriage is not negatively affected by the rights of others to marry. If anything, it is enriched by inclusion, by the ability of all adults to celebrate their commitment to another person. I do not want to belong to a discriminatory institution, and thankfully, here in Canada, I don't have to. Between 2003 and 2005, same-sex marriages became legal in every province and territory.

I am rejoicing in Obama's win, but it is a bittersweet victory. Based on the popular vote it was a very close race. Both the high number of McCain/Palin supporters and the banning of same-sex marriages in three more states illustrates just how far there remains to go before equality is a reality.

Egale Canada

Back by popular demand...

...my beautiful niece. Here is Haven, trying to nap.

Who replaced my Prozac with TicTacs?

The following is a post I began writing prior to our wedding day. I will write more about the big event soon. For now, enjoy reading about the mental breakdown I had a few days earlier.

Is this what pre-wedding stress and sleep deprivation does to a person? Recently I became emotional at work during a meeting with my co-workers, our branch director, a supervisor and some people (I use the word loosely) from the legal department. We were discussing the impact of certain new pieces of legislation on our work. From my point of view, the impact is devastating. Not just for my co-workers and myself, but for our clients as well. My co-workers, being mature, rational women, were able to convey this opinion with clarity and conviction. I conveyed it with tears and tissues. Nothing embarrasses me more than crying at inappropriate times. (When I say nothing, I mean nothing. I've tried everything, and nothing has embarrassed me as much as crying.)

Help me feel better. What's your most embarrassing workplace incident?