10 Things I'm Missing This Week

On Wednesday evening Paul boarded a plane for Norway. And this very minute he's running a half-marathon in Oslo. Did I mention lately how much my boyfriend kicks ass?

On the down side, I'm missing him. So I decided what better way to make time fly than do a Top 10 [warning: this top 10 is chalked full of lovey-dovey goodness].

10 Things I'm Missing This Week:
- A passport (if I had one, I could travel, on a plane, like to Norway)
- Money (if I had some, I could travel, on a plane, like to Norway)
- A fear of flying (no wait, that's still there)
- Cheering while holding signs that say "Get 'Er Done" and "Looking good babe" during Paul's run
- Seeing Paul cross the finish line
- Talking to Paul every night before I go to sleep
- Falling asleep in Paul's strong arms
- Playing with Paul's chest hair
- Sweet and passionate kisses
- [censored]

On the plus side, I am keeping busy so the time flies until I pick up Paul at the airport (wearing only a trench coat and heels).

10 Things I'm Doing To Stay Busy This Week:
- Enjoying some/ a lot of emotional eating
- Getting a passport
- Hair cut, brow/lash tint
- Dyed hair
- Purged various household items collected over the years via yard sale
- Bought various new household items during "nesting" frenzy
- Went to doctor for annual exam
- Cleaning, cleaning, cleaning (ok, I'm not really doing a whole lot of that despite the fact there is an inch of dust on everything)
- Blogging (ok, I'm not really doing a whole lot of that either - with all this non-Paul free time I thought I'd be cranking out the posts but...nope)
- Spending quality time with Billy Blanks (ok, I'm not really doing a whole lot of that either but I really need to be so I'm in tip top R-N-D condition when picking Paul up at the airport)

Will this week/next week ever end?

Today's Post Is Brought To You By the Letter F

If you're a divorced parent who's dating, there's very few moments that will make you hold your breath and pray like the introduction of your date to your child/ren (except perhaps for said child/ren waking up through the night, and quietly sneaking into your room at a therapy-causing moment).

Paul came over last Friday evening for some pizza and Game Cube to meet my 10-year-old son Aidan. Paul brought some books he thought Aidan would like (in Paul's words, he's not above bribing).

They bonded. Talked about Gladius. I pretended to know what they were talking about. Aidan explained game rules and strategy. I said, "Hey, how come you never told me any of that!" Aidan just laughed. This is going really good I thought. And then...

It's hard to put into vowels and consonants the sound of a "boy fart." Naturally, that is the only kind of farting sound because as we've already discussed, girls do not fart.

Ofcourse I shot Aidan "the mommy look" as in "Oh my god I can't believe you just did that" look. To his credit, he did say excuse me. So I figured, ok...that's that. Moving on. Back to the game. And then...

He did it again! Only this time he laughed after saying "excuse me." Time to take action.

Me: "Aidan, if you're going to do that, please leave the room and then come back."
Aidan: "You don't make me do that any other time."
At this point I'm trying to see if I'm small enough to roll under his twin sized bed and hide.

Each time, Aidan thought it was funnier than the last. I think I stopped counting at this point. It was almost as if Aidan was trying to impress Paul in some only-boys-understand way.

Paul, to his credit, was very understanding. And said, "Wait until you meet [name of his daughter]. " Eep.

After our game we drove Aidan to meet my ex-husband in a near-by "drop off point" city. I made it a point to talk to Aidan when I picked him up on Sunday. We discussed the importance of manners. And we discussed the possibility of sending him to military school if he doesn't learn some.

Nuts and Bolting

Mary (aka Undercover Mother) and I were chatting about her impending trip to the eye doctor this week. As it turns out, we go to the same one. We'll call him, Dr. Evans** I've been going to Dr. Evans for eye exams since I was a wee little redhead.

Mary confessed that for this week's appointment, she's opted to go with Dr. Evan's daughter who is a newly minted eye doctor. "Instead of going to see the nut rubber."

"The who what now?" I asked.

She said it again, without trying to laugh. "The nut rubber."

Picture it: You're sitting in the eye examination chair thingy. Dr. Evans is seated (legs open) in his wheely chair, and comes toward you to begin the exam. Granted, we're dealing with eyes here so a doctor does need to get close. And before you know it, his nuts rub against your knee. And I don't mean bag of peanuts...

At first, you think, did that JUST happen? A drive-by scrotum sack swish? You try to put it out of your mind. Clearly you imagined it. But then you come to the realization that you've had less bodily contact with lap dancers.

Mary has even attempted to out smart the good doctor. She's tried to cross her legs (he asked her to uncross them), and tried to use her purse as a knee/nut guard (he put her purse on the floor). And per usual, she was groin grazed.

And here I thought it was just me. Turns out Dr. Evans doesn't discriminate between the sexes, he's an equal opportunity nut nuzzler. He's given Mary's son, Brad, the ball brush, in addition to her daughter Bridget. The more Mary and I talked (and laughed because the whole sorted scrotum scenario is as funny as it is bizarre) we discovered it's also happened to our coworker Aaron (who was oblivious to Dr. Evans' beat with his south of the border bongos).

And here's the quandary. My next eye appointment is in January. Should I go to Dr. Evans and blow the whistle on his testicle two-step? Or should I let sleeping dogs lie, and just switch to his lack-of-sack daughter?

Hmmm...

**Definitely not his real name, what am I crazy?

Meep Meep

Paul and I were chatting about a girl he used to date who was as vocal in the bedroom as Charlie Chaplin was on screen. Paul found it frustrating because he never knew whether he was doing something good, bad, or whether she was asleep.

I offered, "Wouldn't it have been funny if you could have made little signs with phrases stuck to popsicle sticks like Wile E. Coyote does when he's chasing the Road Runner. Except the signs would say things like "Oooo baby" or "A bit to the left" and "Bob's Your Uncle".

Perhaps this could become a full scale marketing thingamajig. The signs could come in packs of 5. Keep 'em or trade 'em with your friends - collect all 20! Hmmm, no?

Perhaps this is why I don't work in marketing...

Ass-Hole

Remember what happened to my last [and by last I mean only] pair of pants?

Score! I was unpacking my winter clothes [it's getting a bit frosty north of the border] and found my light brown cords. I thought I'd given them away last winter because they are a bit big. And by a bit big I mean I could pull them down over my hips when zippered and buttoned at the waist.

But that doesn't matter because I was back to being the proud owner of one pair of pants. One pair of pants that must be worn with a belt.

Wore them to take my son to school for his first day of grade 5. Ran into former hunky high school classmate. Was told I looked amazing.

Wore them to work. Was told pants really highlight best asset (the super booty).

Washed them. Ironed them. Put them on for another redhead-next-door adventure. And that's when I saw it...a hole in the ass of my pants. To be more specific, another frey in the ass of my pants. I mean, how is this possible? Am I THAT hard on the ass of my pants that I'm wearing out the material?

So I was late for work because I had to concock a new outfit dejours.

Consulted with coworker Mary (aka Undercover Mother) about said ass-hole. As weird as it sounds, I quizzed her whether she has noticed me wiggling about in my chair during meetings which could account for freying. Mary advised that was probably something she would notice. Considering the frey location (about half-way up the butt cheek along the crack) I would have to slouch down before commencing any chair wiggling which I'm guessing would be quite noticeable.

She did suggest that maybe shirt-less lawn mowing neighbour Chip was breaking into my house and rubbing the bum of my pants [the rest of this sentence is censored] and did elicit a response of "Ew" from yours truly. In unrelated news, Mary is missing her pork chop broiler pan. We suspect it's the undetectable work of Chip.

Perhaps instead of throwing out pants, I should invest in some sturdy yet fashionable pant patches for the cords and the countless ass-worn pants that will undoubtedly follow.

[Post Post Update: I bought 3 brand spanking new pairs of pants. And I'll be keeping my eye(s) on them].

A Picture's Worth 3 Words

Paul and I braved the heat to tackle some wilderness hiking at a place called Devil's Bend [note: it's not just a name and in fact should be renamed "Feels Like The Devil's Bent You Over" by the time your done].

The hike took us hundreds of feet/meters/felt like miles...up. And then down. And back up. Etc etc etc. 6 whole kilometers worth.

We did pack: 2 liters of water (which had to be rationed) because the hike was actually 6km to the waterfall and 6km back, and 12 condoms.

We didn't pack: batteries (keep reading), bug spray (probably have west nile now), sun screen, a change of clothes (sweated our own body weight worth), and food (save for one banana and strawberry runner's gel pack which had similar consistency to ejaculation with the same salty after taste).

As all newly minted couples do, we took many photos during our trek (see above, which we will refer to as, exhibit A). The scenery was breathtaking [and I mean more than just my décolletage].

Unfortunately the camera batteries died as we reached the waterfall. So now we have vowed to one day go back just to get pictures of us by the cascading water. Or perhaps a cardboard cut out will do.

Paul downloaded the pics today and sent them to me. And that's when I discovered a picture can be worth three words...I look pregnant.

Ugh. (See exhibit B, above)

Nothing like seeing yourself looking as though your 3-4 months pregnant to spurn you into a major workout fest.

10 (+2) Things I Did This Week

1. Officially went back to being a redhead
2. Officially got a boyfriend (aka Paul)
3. Renewed membership at LaSenza
4. Spent half of funds in bank account at LaSenza using renewed membership on purple/lilac/fuchsia items which will yield a higher return than interest bearing savings account
5. Sorted through knicker drawer, and tossed out unsightly unmentionables to make room for new purple-y purchases
6. Helped sister ring in her 29th birthday
7. Attempted to take trunk load of bottles (1 and a half years worth) to bottle exchange in another province to avoid looking like alcoholic only to discover said bottle exchange was closed. Left bottles for brother-in-law to take to said bottle exchange possibly looking like an alcoholic.
8. Enjoyed black-tie pizza date with said official boyfriend which lead to...
9. Enjoyed bottle of white wine with said official boyfriend which lead to...
10. Enjoyed modeling LaSenza purchases which lead to...
11. Enjoyed "return on investment" (multiple times)
12. Came up with brilliant and plausible excuses as to why I'm walking funny like "pulled a hamstring playing ball" which is...true. Sheesh! What were you thinking?

Blog This

So far, so good with Paul. Like realllllllllly goooooood.

He even knows about this blog and is not going to read it. FYI: Paul would have chosen the name "Nick" if he had the choice. This is funny because I did consider the name Nick but opted not to because I also have a friend named Nick.

I definitely come up with post ideas when we're on the phone or out together. He's very familiar with the phrase "I need to write THAT down, it is SO a blog post."

Not that I would mind if he read 95% of the posts, after all, they're quite funny albeit quirky and some slightly neurotic. But I certainly don't want him reading what I've written about previous exploits, like here and here, and who could forget this humdinger. And I certainly don't want to start censoring what I write or removing anything I have written. Heck, even my mum reads my blog and I don't censor for her [Hi mum!].

I'm not sure if I could be so respectful if the roles were reversed. My curiosity might/could/most definitely get the better of me. I blame this partially on my journalism background, partially on my being nosy.

So I get to keep this guilty little pleasure all to myself. But I think I will share this post with Paul, after all, it was written for him.

Naughty Girl

This morning while getting ready for work, I heard my son (age 10) singing from the comforts of his bedroom across the hall.

It wasn't so much the singing that bothered me. It was what he was singing. Beyonce. "I'll be your naughty girl..." in a voice two octaves above his normal 10-year-old-boy range.

Never one to panic (or over react)...for the duration of our morning commute I blasted ACDC's "TNT" which he also sang along to. I encouraged some slight head banging and a rock-on hand gesture. I did stop short of pulling over the car for him to beat up a neighborhood kid jumping rope.

I'll make a man out of him yet.

Murphy's Law, #1

Today was one of THOSE days. And I know people say that all the time, but seriously. It was.

I was ironing my favorite pair of pants this morning for work. They are also my only pair of pants. I'm not really a "pants" kind of girl, so I have about 12 skirts and 1 pair of pants. Ok, ok and 3 pairs of jeans [although 1 of those pairs of jeans is too big so I can't wear them, 1 pair is too high waisted so I can't wear them, and 1 pair would make the Pope's jaw drop - I wear them]. So technically I only have 1 pair of jeans, and 1 pair of pants. The pants I was ironing.

I get the front of said pants all pressed. Actually, I was in a rush so "pressed" was putting it nicely but I wouldn't exactly look like I rolled out of bed in them and came to work either. So I flipped said pants over to press the back side and that's when I saw it. The frey. The frey that was actually a big freaking hole in my 1 pair of pants. The 1 pair of pants I was going to wear today. The 1 pair of pants that goes with the pink lace blouse I also picked out to wear.

I briefly debated wearing the pants anyway with a pair of non-attention-getting panties underneath. After all, would anyone really even notice? Ofcourse they would. And besides, I don't own any non-attention-getting panties.

So I had to wear...what else, a skirt. I picked a subtle light citrus yellow cotton shirt and a black skirt with my red flats and headed out to work where I was joined by 3 other coworkers, all dressed in light citrus yellow shirts and black skirts. As if we were part of some secret "bee-fabulous" society [though naturally, if such a secret society existed, I would be President].

I ended up working an hour late to bank some time so I can leave early on Friday to get ready for my date with Paul.

By the time I left, I was famished, but had to make a stop at the grocery store to pick up a few necessities [i.e. tampons and salad dressing - both of which I was completely out of and in desperate need of. Like ASAP because in 2 minutes the crimson hoover dam is going to break].

I get to the checkout. There's only one customer in front of me. And the cashier is ringing through his last item. I put my items up on the checkout. The middle aged guy is paying for his groceries with his debit card. The middle aged guy starts asking questions about how much the noddles, bananas and eggs were. He's sure the eggs weren't $4.54. He wants her to check the price. He knows the price he paid was wrong. The cashier is trying to explain that she's already processed his order, so if he goes to the customer service desk, they can check the price and refund his money if there's been an error.

But the middle aged keeps standing there. Talking about the price. I turn to him and say, "Excuse me sir, but unless you want to be standing in a puddle of blood in 0.2...take your ****ing sales receipt to the customer service desk and they'll do your price check there." In retrospect, he probably thought I meant I was going to beat him up. Either way, that's how you get a line moving.

Ok, ok. Technically I didn't say that to the middle aged guy. But I tried really hard to concentrate and use my mind to telepathically say it to him.

I hoped in my car. The sun was shining, the sun roof was open. When I started the car, I inadvertently startled some seagulls. It scared the shit right out of one of them. Right into my open sunroof.

BomChickaWahWah - Part 2

My Friday night date with Paul went so well our date plans extended to Saturday evening through to Sunday since we were both "child free" this weekend.

Date #2 was equally as perfect. Chinese food (had Combo A - the sweet n' sour chicken balls, chicken fried rice and egg roll). Arcade car races (I kicked ass) and air hockey (he kicked ass) as we waited for our turn at glow-in-the-dark mini golf (I lost by 1 point). Followed by a movie rental (Chris Rock's "I Really Love My Wife") and white wine (Yellow Tail).

I had the opportunity to tour [aka sleep over at] his condo in the city instead of driving an hour and a half back to my place in the wee hours of the morning. I told Paul I'm now completely spoiled because he made me coffee and cooked a delicious bacon and scrambled egg breakfast for me to enjoy in bed. Although I felt guilty I was lazying around in bed while he braved the bacon grease shirtless so I hauled my cute ass out to the kitchen.

Next on the dating agenda: the Drive-In.

BomChickaWahWah

Over the past two weeks, I've been getting to know Paul (aka the Runner) via three hour laugh-infused phone calls, lots of flirty emails, and reviewing [reading many many times] his profile on Facebook.

Last night we had our first date.

Pre-date getting ready: Consumed a half a glass of wine to calm flip flopping stomach. It was humid out so my hair was doing this Sideshow Bob impersonation. Had to flatten my curls and opt for straight hair. Changed mind over flirty date outfit. Paul's a "legs and back" guy but my best assets are the T&A. Decided to go for a strapless/sleeveless/ shows off neck, shoulders and part of back top with my new Esprit jeans that look so good I never want to take them off unless... The outfit was complete with the addition of 3+ inch black suede stiletto heels.

Paul picked me up at my house with flowers in hand (daisies - my favorite). Bonus points earned = 20. Plus he smelled so good. Bonus points earned = 20.

We headed to the local Irish Pub for some eats. The food was good (a munchie platter and BBQ chicken pizza). I found the chicken wings to be unusually spicy (a probable side effect from my detox earlier in the week) so I tore through my glass of water and glass of wine pretty quickly while trying to appear lady-like. Paul smiled and asked if I wanted some more water (all I could do was nod) and he went to find our waitress. Bonus points earned (for taking charge) = 15.

I took him for a walking "tour of the town". As we were popping in and out of shops, we heard the sound of live music coming from the waterfront. We followed, and took our seats (front row, center). It was one girl on the stage with her red guitar - Jenn Grant. Live music can be hit or miss but Jenn = amazing. We hooted after every song. Pulled the "I'm cold" move (though I was cold) and was rewarded with a nice strong arm around me. Bonus points earned (for picking up on verbal clues) = 30.

After her set was over, I had to get her CD and got her to sign it. Jenn asked who she should make it our to, I didn't want to impose, so I said, "Oh just write that you are fabulous because you are." In retrospect, I guess I should have been clearer that Jenn Grant should write that Jenn Grant is fabulous because she is. So now the insert on my CD says "You guys are fabulous, xo Jenn" and I feel like a big asshole.

Back on our walking tour, we decided to stop at a little cafe where they make the best cheesecake (we opted for a piece of "Hugs and Kisses"). I had a coffee (almond amaretto) and Paul had a latte. We talked and laughed some more over the CD misunderstanding. I suggested "To the two hooters in the front" would have been a funnier request and then realized the double meaning. I had to write that down (in case I forgot) but didn't have a pen. So Paul tracked down one from our waitress. Bonus points earned (for taking charge of a girl's needs even if that need is only a pen) = 1,000,000.

On our way back to the car I took my heels off and walked back to the barefoot. The sidewalk became really rocky so Paul gave me a piggy back ride. We were almost there and I asked, "Am I getting to heavy?" He answered, "What are you...only 110 pounds. No, you're not getting heavy." Bonus points earned (because I am not 110 pounds) = 50.

We went back to my place to listen to the CD and play Scrabble (times two, FYI I won both games). Bonus points earned (for possibly throwing the game because he knows I'm competitive) = 10.

I ended up breaking my first date rule. Paul was aware of my rule before our date, and for the record did vocalize he wanted to remain a gentleman and respect my boundaries. Bonus points earned (for at least pretending to respect my boundaries, although he was quite genuine about it so I think he was actually trying to) = 30.

But he caved pretty quickly after I gave him the green light.

After he left, I was thinking about our evening. There was not one time I was let down or disappointed. There was no thinking "If only he had of," or "I wish he had of thought to". He did it all. It was a perfect date. And I can't remember the last time that happened.

Detox: Day 4

Escaped from prison tonight.

But earlier today, 1200: Went to lunch with 3 of the girls from work. My sentence: to eat a salad (only) in the local pub amongst all that yummylicious greasylicious food.

Since I had already cheated this morning with a Kit Kat (it was a singles - that's practically the size of a peppermint!), I knew I had to stick to my detox regimen at lunch. Besides, there were witnesses. Must. Keep. Up. Appearances.

There were three equally-as-bland salad choices on the menu: Caesar, garden, and spinach. Whopdeedo. I opted for the ever-colorful spinach salad. A pained look came over my face when I told the waitress to hold the bacon bits, and I'd take the dressing on the side. [Ironically the last time I asked for something on the side, it involved the opposite of dressing].

The waitress asked if I wanted to add chicken for $2.50. I answered "I wish". She probably thought I was broke and couldn't afford the chicken. Ok, I'm broke too. But not THAT broke.

While my lunch mates consumed Greek pizza and the special-of-the-day mussels, I picked and chewed and swallowed my wilted tasteless mushrooms-were-decomposing mushy-eggs no-red-onions spinach salad. Even the dressing was bland. Like mayo but with even less taste. With tasteless green herbs in it. At least I hope they were herbs. Willpower = 1, Brain = 0

1300: Back at work, I was so disgusted I couldn't even face my herbal tea. Why was I doing this? Oh yeah, because for countless weeks I was shoving everything in my piehole. You won the argument this time brain. Willpower = 1, Brain = 1

1700: Back at home, I begrudgingly ate my steamed veggies and brown rice. Why was I continuing to do this? Sure, I wanted to cleanse my system from the weeks of abuse. Sure, I wanted to get rid of that sluggish feeling I just couldn't shake. Sure, I wanted to lose a few pounds before my next date. But I'd accomplished all of that (except maybe the weightloss, though I'm not entirely sure because I don't own a scale). Why keep torturing myself? Willpower = 2, Brain = 1

So I made the decision to ease my way back into eating real food. To celebrate, I made a cup of tea (hello caffeine!) after I eased my way back into more ice cream. Tonight I plan on enjoying a half glass of wine and cheese/crackers combo while watching Big Brother.

I really have no willpower when it comes to food.

It's a good thing I have willpower when it comes to other things. Like booze, shopping and men. Well, three out of four ain't bad.

Detox: Day 3

Tonight, I cheated.

But only a little teeny tiny bit. So, it probably doesn't even technically count. Right?

I couldn't resist. It was calling to me, "Erika, lick me. My creamy goodness will melt in your mouth. Devour every sinful inch of me. Mmmm...that's it. Just like that."

Stupid talking ice cream.

Detox: Day 1 and 2

I am coming to the end of day 2 (out of 7) on my detox plan.

To accurately describe my experience with detox (for readers who have not had this unique experience), I decided to write a little poem. It's called "What the F*** Was I Thinking".

[Clears throat] *Ahem*

What the F*** Was I Thinking
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh ug. Huhhhhhhh.
My head's going to f***ing explode.
I threw up and it came out my nose.
A week without coffee, what was I thinking?
Detox really blows [literally].

Answering Your Burning Questions, #5

Today's question comes from Anonymous, whom I've affectionately dubbed Phil.

He writes: "How do you recommend approaching women like you who run or go to the gym? (By the way, I am a charter pilot, we pilots have a hard time meeting women)."

My answer: With caution.

It's hard to approach a woman at the gym. We're usually focused on the task at hand and in quite precarious poses (on the pilates ball, doing a dead lift, etc). And we naturally assume that guys are ogling our tits and asses. Therefore, guys who do approach us at the gym seem kind of creepy (though I'm sure you are the exception to the rule Phil ;) Besides, we want to get in and out without guys noticing that we're not wearing makeup, have a wedgie (or worse...camel toe) and a bad case of boob sweat.

It's much easier to approach a woman runner (from behind) and say something complimentary like "You've got a great pace". But only if she doesn't have an MP3 player or else she might mistakenly assume you're a mugger and go Taebo on your ass. And naturally, we'll still assume that you were ogling our asses.

It's a dating jungle gym out there. There's no "right way" anymore when it comes to dating and mating. There is however the "gentlemanly way", the "jerkoff way" and the "have been in prison too long" way. I find being irresistibly charming and direct always works.

Hope this helps Phil!

Answering Your Burning Questions, #4

Today's question comes from Sara.

She writes: "Dear R-N-D, How do I approach a guy at the coffee shop, "Batman and Throbbin'" feature at the movieplex, or pirate convention and let him know that I'm interested?"

My answer:

At the coffee shop: walk up to the guy, smile and say "Hi."

At Batman and Throbbin': "All this could be yours for one low, low price."

At the pirate convention: "Is there an 'X' on the seat of your pants? Because it appears that there's wond'rous booty buried underneath!"

Of course it goes without saying which one is my personal favorite and works best. Men (while trying to appear complex) are actually simple savages. And they like wenches who dig for buried treasure (even while the parrot's watching). If you know what I mean. Oh, you don't. Ah, me either.

[Click here for more pirate pick up lines].

Today's Post Is Brought To You By the Letter D (as in Detox)

Today is my last vacation day before I head back to work. A real enjoy-your-last-day-of-freedom kind of day. This must be how one feels before being carted off to the clink or forced to watch a Surreal Life marathon.

Unfortunately I've spent almost half of it asleep. My sleeping beauty tribute was [partly] due to watching a scary movie before bed and then needing to have all of the lights on in the house. "Bob, we can't hack her up into bits, look, she's got all the lights on."

I was half tempted to sneak into the office and sort through the piles of stuff on my desk so I could arrive tomorrow morning feeling...not so overwhelmed. Fortunately the non-tempted half of me won out.

Instead, I'm going to go jogging in the dead heat. I've been eating quite a few bagels over the holidays. Bagels are my weakness (second only to cheesecake and men in uniform). And I've got the carbo-loading ass to prove it.

Normally I wouldn't bat a tinted eyelash but I have a potential date on the horizon. Perhaps I'll need more than a jog. Something more "full-scale".

Like detox (it's not just for celebrities anymore)! I knew I bought "The Detox Book" for a reason [other than to look cool on my bookshelf]. I was so excited that I began preparing at once: downing coffee, noshing on sour cream and onion chips, and salivating at the thought of the Hoof Prints ice cream in my freezer.

Leafing through the book, I decided what's more "full scale" than the ominous sounding "Seven-Day Detox". But wait a minute...there's a section on "how to prepare" two days before. Oops. So stockpiling all your naughty food indiscretions is not how you prepare for a detox. No coffee or alcohol? Shit arse.

Looks like I'll need to make a trip to the grocery store if I'm to cook up a delicious pot of "Seaweed Broth with Lemon and Walnut Noodles".

Today's Post Is Brought To You By the Letter R (as in Recouperation)

Who knew that all this relaxation would leave one feeling so...tired.

My get-a-way was uneventful [with the exception of mounting the bike rack on the car upside down and then managing to drive the whole way home with the bikes that way]. That, and we were almost asked to leave because of the sheer volume [in number AND audibility] of flatulence/ other sounds emitting from the orifices of my son and nephew.* Something must be in that mountain air.

The interior of my house now looks like it was ransacked. Our suitcases are strewn on the floor with bits and pieces unpacked and more bits and pieces flung on top of the suitcases in a sort of art nouveau clothing statue.

Tonight I'm playing host to three tween-aged boys. Scratch that. I'm playing host to two tweens and one official teen boy. I'm supposed to be cooking them supper right now but had to steal away a few moments to myself. Which I've chosen to down a Vex and type out this ill-conceived post. They seem to have this radar and know when I'm trying to get away. Oh ****. Here they come!

Vacation is so overrated.

* Girls do not suffer from flatulence afterall. Except maybe when we're sleeping and much like night-time erections, we are not responsible for what happens in our sleep.

Running for Mr. Right

Today it was refreshing to find myself [wait...there's more]

Today it was refreshing to find myself chatting to a single guy [wait...there's more]

Today it was refreshing to find myself chatting to a single guy who, like me, is an avid runner. It doesn't happen very often (unless you count the guys who "run" to the liquor store).

And he was witty to boot. Teasing me about my "batman belt" aka my fuel belt. Alas, the only crime I'm fighting right now is that I'm single.

It reminded me how much I'm attracted to guys who are physical (and not in the way that you're thinking about. Ok...maybe a bit of that too ;) I like guys who are rugged and like camping. Can handle a canoe. Build a fire. Carries me over his shoulder to the bedroom while calling to his jungle friends (loincloth optional).

Runners. Surfers. Skiers. It doesn't matter as long as it's physical. And he's got skills (or at least pretends to). Confidence is another thing I'm attracted to.

You would think in this day and age, finding a physical guy would be easy. It's about as easy as doing what's on page 20 of the Kama Sutra. Case in point: I run on the same trail every night and I come across lots of other runners. And you know what, they're all women. We knowingly nod in passing, as if we're all members of the same club.

Perhaps I need to start running somewhere new if I expect to run into Mr. Right.