Supersize Me

In a way I feel like many of my previous posts have been leading up to this one. I guess it’s just a season of this blog; a season to work out these body image issues. It sure beats the break-up season, hey? 😉

It’s been hard for me to differentiate lately between a healthy body image and a healthy body. A doctor commented on my post about being called fat, and he or she made a good point…I can throw myself the pity party of the decade here, sure, but I do need to take this seriously. Maybe today I am not significantly overweight or “fat”, but if I am not careful I could be one day. Not to mention the fact that I used to be for sure.

Rachel (who says I could use her real name) and I tried a few months ago along with some others to lose weight. We kinda dropped the ball sometime during the summer though, all 9 of us, which is actually really embarrassing for me. And now we don’t even talk about it. Because losing weight isn’t fun. Guilt doesn’t work, and often that’s what I (we?) feel when we start to veer off track, and it’s definitely not motivating. So when I talked to Rachel a few nights ago we started talking about making healthier choices and living healthier as opposed to losing weight.

And I heard a great quote this week…

Nothing tastes as good as healthy feels.

Can I getta AMEN?

At this point in my life I couldn’t care less what I weigh, and that’s the truth. But I DO care about being healthy and feeling good, and I am not really making the cut on either of those things at the moment.

So here is what I want:

A) My pants are not fitting well right now, and it would be really nice if I could save some money and not have to buy a pair of (bigger…sigh) jeans. And I figure that if I don’t have to buy bigger jeans I’ll have a few extra bucks for a decent winter jacket this year.

B) Now that the drama of the move and the first month of preschool is behind me, I can’t use those things as an excuse to not make nice dinners anymore. So I want to eat better. Not more, not less, just better.

C) I want to keep loving myself and keep working on making good choices and not being so judgemental of the girl in the mirror.

Evelyn and I stood in a field last Saturday and watch three of our friends jump out of a plane. It was pretty scary and awesome…and I was on the GROUND! Can’t even imagine what they were feeling as they fell at lightening speed toward the earth. We stood there with our hands shielding our eyes from the bright beautiful sun, searching desperately in this huge blue sky for three tiny little specks to come into focus, and I realized…

We are really, really small.

Not big. Small.

So I can put that fear behind me. The one where I am terrified that I am some kind of huge monster.

And one more little musing??

I found this on Nicki’s wall (facebook wall, that is), and I figure she wouldn’t mind me passing it on:


So, to the mean doctor and also the nice one who wrote that comment (whoever you are!), this is me taking sincere care my one wild and precious life. 




Then came fall, and with it, the baby :)

The baby we have been waiting for for a very long time. And when I say we, I mean we.

Some people think it’s weird that I spend so very much of my time with these two. People think it’s weird that I always spend New Years with them. People think it’s weird that I spend holidays at their (our) house. People think it’s weird that we vacationed in Los Angeles together, oh yes, just the three of us, and some people just can’t wrap their heads around the fact that when I’m with these guys there is no third wheel. They have seen me in the hospital with a broken arm and they have supported me through many many ups and downs.

We’re a family.

We’re Chandler and Monica and Joey. I have a bedroom at their house. I sleep there all the time. We have operated as a family for many years now, and so when I say that WE have been waiting for this baby for a long time, I mean it.

When my girl told me she was pregnant, we were in the Walmart parking lot and I ran in circles and cried happy happy tears. And then we bought baby shoes just because we finally could. And when this precious girl was born, I actually physically RAN to her. As fast as humanly possible. And when I burst into Room 38, I cried more than I ever have at the birth of a baby in my entire life. She is here. She is real. And she is in my life forevermore. And I in hers.

She is Kylee. I feel like I have known her for my entire life. I LOVE this kid!

I cried when she was born. A lot. But then they put her in my arms and I felt higher than a kite. Then I started taking pictures. Get used to it, kiddo... 😉

When M was pregnant we talked a lot about how things would change. We weren’t naive to the fact that this baby was going to rock our worlds. If I am being perfectly honest (which I usually am, no?), I was nervous. It was hard to separate the fact that M could be my best friend and a mother, too. During the times when I should have been the one reassuring her that she would be an awesome mom, she was the one reassuring me that I would be an awesome auntie. And you know, change doesn’t have to be a bad thing. How can it be when we have this little dolly that we get to play with for the rest of our lives?

(do you not just love that little pouty face?)

What a JOY!

I always find it amusing that my friends who once published blogs about fashion and such things became mamas who now blog about their children and their children alone. I don’t have any children and maybe I never will, but I am forewarning you now that you are probably gonna see a lot of this kid because she is very, very special.

And if you know her mama and daddy (Chandler and Monica, remember?), then you are blessed because they, too, are very, very special.

I’m a lucky girl to call them family.


My Doctor Called Me Fat: The Sequel

This post has a thousand beginnings and still no end. But I figured I would get the ball rolling and just start writing. I don’t know where this is taking us but here we go.

“Only 4% of women worldwide consider themselves beautiful”.


Dove has a movement called Campaign for Real Beauty.

I cry every single time I watch one of their commercials. Especially this one.

It’s only 1.5 minutes long. Watch it. And tell me you don’t worry about your daughters, nieces, granddaughters, friends,


I worry about myself all the time.

Hello, is this really our world?

Is this beautiful?

Is it?

Because 5 years ago I honestly would have preferred looking like her over looking like Christina Chantal Marand. That makes me a sad girl tonight.

Lost. I was so lost.

When I was muddling through this “my doctor called me fat” business, I kept waiting for the breakdown. I was waiting for the tailspin, waiting for the fall-out. I was anticipating an out-of-control-crying-standing-at-my-closet-searching-for-something-that-fits moment.

But it didn’t come.

I did, however, think long and hard about my body, and it turns out I think that I am freaking beautiful!


And I have a message for my mirror and for that doctor:

I’m not gonna stop writing about this stuff. There is more to come, especially where weight loss is concerned. But for now, for tonight, what I need to say is that the doctor who called me fat is a retard.

My friend wasn’t having any of my self-pity that night. She put me in my place. She told me to list 5 people who love me, and immediately followed my response with this:

“Are you going to hurt our feelings by giving his words more power than our love?”

Am I?


Their love, your love, God’s love, that matters. That counts. That wins.

Hands. Down.

I think she is beautiful.

And not to be vain, but I can honestly say I think she is beautiful, too.

 I come with curves, hips large enough for 5 year olds to be carried on with little effort, and an extra snuggle-factor, yes.

But those things don’t hold a candle to what I got goin’ on behind my green eyes and in my little heart. And that’s nothin’ but love, baby.

And what could be more important?

And nothing, nothing, Dr. Insensitive has to say about me and my body can change that.

Rock what you have, guys. Rock it.

There can never be a more beautiful you.

Like, ever.

Receive it.


PS We need to pray that Dove is wrong about those stats. We need to go from 4% of women to ONE HUNDRED PERCENT of women who find themselves beautiful. Desperately. 

My Doctor Called Me Fat. (part 1)

It’s true. He did.

Linds told me I was allowed to cry about it for 5 minutes only. So I did.

But I’m still feeling the sting.

Let me backtrack.

My lungs don’t work very well. I’ve had issues for a very long time, narrowed down to Auto-Immune, which I am pretty sure you all know. It’s why I get lung infections so easily and WHY I went to the doctor on Thursday.

Not to be called fat.

So I’m sitting there waiting for him (HIM!!) to print out my prescription when he turns to me and asks me loudly when the last time I had my cholesterol checked was. I told him never. He chuckled, turned back away from me and commented that he will be scheduling me for a test since I’m fat. Haha. Oh yes, he “haha” ‘d.

I did not “haha”. But I did hightail it outta there as fast as humanly possible.

And then I did what any sensible girl would do: I called in for back-up.

Gramma, Mom, the girls… I needed someone to tell me I am not. Even if I am a little bit.

I’m okay with not being skinny. I never have been and I never will be. It’s all good in the ‘hood.

But I have spent my entire life trying to avoid that word. Trying to avoid that stigma. Trying to avoid that name. Not because it represents a lack of beauty. Not even close. Because some of the most beautiful people in this entire world are not skinny either.

So why does it bug me so much?

In 2007 I managed to lose a LOT of weight. I went from 220lbs and a size 18 to 150lbs and a size 10. I know it had a lot to do with the bulimia but it wasn’t everything. I was running a lot and for some reason was just really inspired to get thin. But it turned ugly. Obviously for the bulimia reason, but also because it became a god. Weight loss became an obsession and a way of life. It ruled me. It was all I thought about.  I eat, slept, and breathed weight loss.

Enough said?

So this is a touchy subject. And yet another controversial topic for a PUBLIC FORUM!

Am I crazy? Am I nuts to be putting this out there? Is the world ready? I don’t know.

But this isn’t the end of this blog post. I am going to sit on this for a few days and come up with a Part B. Because I don’t know yet how it ends.

I had the opportunity last week along with 2 friends to sign up at this gym in Abbotsford and lose 26-35lbs (how they can say that for sure is beyond me, but whatevs) for $99 by Christmas. They were having this contest thing where if you lose the most weight they give you a free year to the gym. And they were offering nutrition counseling and some de-toxifying sauna and all that good stuff as part of the fee.

Finances aside, I don’t really know why I didn’t do it, especially because I would have had the accountability since my friend is on board. But at the time I didn’t think I had anything to worry about.

I do NOW of course. Thanks to Dr. McTactnGrace

So more later, when I muddle this over.

Until then, happy new week, to all you precious ones out there!


PS Thank you, Net, for catching me. Again. ❤


Hoarding-Buried Alive

Is anyone else fascinated by that show? It’s like driving past a bad car accident; everything inside of you is telling you not to look but you just have to. And it’s the same with that show…it’s gross and hard to relate to but something just keeps me watching it.

TLC is doing a good job of showcasing the hoarders who have mountains of garbage and crap and rodents and antiques in their homes. But what TLC isn’t showing us is the people who experience different forms of hoarding.

Like me.

I’ve made many a confession here on this blog; everything from being a puker to not taking my medication to loving (and I mean loving) Full House. And in the years I have been writing, I have been dancing around this subject, never really shedding the light on it that it needs and deserves. Because I am scared.

5 years and 3 months ago I had a fight with someone who meant the world to me. She was one of my closest friends in the world and her opinion of me was highly regarded and trusted. I wanted her in my life always. We had a fight because she was mad at me. And she had been mad at me for a long time without me even knowing it. The details are both unimportant and also blurry, but the main thing was, I had hurt her feelings continually by spreading myself too thin and not giving her the time and attention and love that she and our friendship deserved. She called me a people hoarder. That show Hoarders wasn’t even around yet, but I still knew instinctively that being a hoarder was a bad thing. For an entire hour we stood on the sidewalk in the twilight “talking”, and without knowing it, we were making decisions about the future; decisions about whether or not our friendship could withstand such a huge fight, (I’m not being dramatic…it really was a huge fight), and decisions about how much we really cared for each other.

I was 22 years old, confused as hell and still trying to master the art of balancing pride and humility.

She won that fight. We didn’t talk again for 4 years.

Thankfully thankfully thankfully, our story doesn’t end there. As cliche as this sounds, we were finally able to patch things up and while things will never be the same, peace now surrounds what used to be a terrible situation. And guys? I am SO thankful for facebook and it’s ability to allow “enemies” to reconcile. Hugging her for the first time in almost half a decade last year was like a rite of passage…I don’t wish any of you to fight with your friends but there is nothing like patching things up with an old pal.

The lessons she taught me that night on the side of the road don’t end there, either. I was serious after that night about making changes; serious about never, ever letting something like that happen again between me and someone I love. I went straight into the house absolutely bawling and I called Nicki and apologized for anything and everything I had ever done to hurt her. It came as a shock to her, but it might have saved our friendship because at the time we were drifting apart, too. I ate a giant slice of Humble Pie that night, I tell you.

I was told the night of that fight that it was almost as if I had a mental list of all the people in my life, and all I wanted was to put as many checkmarks beside those names as possible, indicating that I had seen that person. I was told that I was obsessed with having as many friends as possible and the amount I had was never enough. And I can see how people would have thought that. When I was packing boxes in August I came across my agenda from around that time, and there wasn’t one single spot in that book that didn’t have someone’s name scribbled in. Not a day went by where I didn’t see at least 1 friend, but usually 2 or 3. I remember it; I remember being exhausted and weary and stretched to the limits. Time alone was a foreign concept. I was being buried alive by people. And if that doesn’t sound like a problem to you, I don’t know what would.

It would be nice to say I have come a long, long way since then. But it would be against my character and nature to do what I wanted to in that moment and never hear from or speak to anyone ever again. No, I can’t do that. I need people. And I don’t think there is anything wrong with that. To the degree that it was running my life, yes, but not in theory.

Heather Nova has a song called London Rain that I was listening to on my way to work this morning, and it inspired this post with these words…

When somebody knows you well, there’s no comfort like that. And when somebody needs you, there’s no drug like that.

Amen, Heather Nova. Amen.

Addiction to people and to being needed is normal, I think. It needs monitoring and attention, but it’s normal. There is no greater thrill for me than having a friend, or hell, even a stranger, come to me needing help. That excites me and brings me life.

Living alone in a cottage is good for this people-pleasing girl, though. I only have 2 places for people to sit. Me and someone else. If I need time alone I have learned how to ask for it, but please know that The Cottage awaits. Come join me and share your stories with me.

I was scared to re-visit that epic fight, but it wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be.

Thanks for listening, as always…


1 House, 2 House, Old House, New House

Ladies and gentlemen, I have arrived.

Chapter 1 of my life in The Cottage has commenced and I.Am.Thrilled.

For the record, I wasn’t unhappy with my old suite. It was very nice, too, but there is something about being a girl with seasonal depression living under the earth with limited daylight that just wasn’t quite working out. So this is gonna be good.

I can hardly wait for Christmas in my magical little cottage! You’ll have to please come over for some hot chocolate or egg nog, and if you’re really lucky, maybe I will even throw in some gingerbread 🙂

Behold…Old House, New House

The other day, when boxes were FINALLY unpacked and the cottage was coming together, I walked in the door and literally got tears in my eyes…I had such a happy, overwhelming feeling of being home.

I’m home.

And yes I still want to get married ONE DAY, but I’m not moving again. I want to live in my cottage forever and ever and ever. So unless this (hypothetical) guy is a midget, I’m good on my own. Because there a’int no room for two!

Special shout-out to everyone who helped me move and/or settle in. I love being reminded of the fact that Miss Independence can’t do this life thing alone. I may be brave and strong, but I still can’t move a queen size bed by myself or install a wall-mount without doing some serious damage to the drywall. And for that I have you to thank. Thank you for not letting me be alone even when I pretend I can do this by myself. Because I can’t. And in some ways you know that more than I do.

Don’t wait for an invitation. The Cottage is our happy place. So follow the smell of the flowers in our English garden to a small cozy cottage on Jackson Street, where all are welcome and all are loved.