My pal Herman

I am always up for anything that is even slightly pampering or relaxing and I have been DYING to go to float.

Now Liz, (you might be thinking)....I have seen you and your built in life vest (ha ha ha ) and you should be floating effortlessly for a lot less $$ than going to a fancy spa and doing it there.

Well allow me to rob you of that illusion.

Firstly, I have a hard time relaxing in public
As I have said before, I suffer from crippling anxiety, and I really don’t like most people near me, let alone watching me in a swimsuit.

Also, most public pools frown on nude swimming.
It usually results in a free car ride to the local RCMP station.

(I heard it from a friend)

Secondly, I HATE public pools.
They are vats of steaming human soup, and I just don’t think that there is enough chlorine to ever wash off the feeling of touching someone else’s stray floaty hair.

(hopefully from their head...I would be out of there so fast if hair from anywhere else touched me)or...black Jebus forbid.... a wayward band-aid. *hurl*

 Not to mention the foot sweat, urine, ball juice, beaver gravy, swass and all manner of other personal bodily fluids that would be left behind in the pool water.

Don’t fool yourself with those “showers” they make you take either. You know it’s nothing but a cursory rinse, and some people who get in the public pool should likely be dipped in lye first.

Thirdly, despite having several whale like qualities, I sink like a chubby, flailing stone.  Years of swimming lessons in my youth could not have prepared me for the submarine attitude my ass takes on whenever I get into water.

DIVE!! DIVE!!

Like a pale Titanic, no iceberg required.

Getting out is no picnic either.

Every time I get out of a public pool, it absolutely looks like I am beached, and I pray my tits aren’t going to pop out and flash some poor unsuspecting soul.

You really have to prepare to see my boobs, it’s not to be taken lightly.
(It’s like staring directly at the sun or something, it will change you as a person.)

When I do manage to get my fat ass out, Kim Basinger and Bob Barker always show up to the pool in their PETA shirts and keep trying to push me back in and it’s this whole awkward ordeal to explain that I am not in distress, and no, that’s just cellulite, not whaling scars.

So as you can see, there is nothing remotely relaxing for me in a public pool setting.
(or any setting really)

I have read all sorts of literature about floating, and I really wanted to give it a try, but there was one major issue for me living where I do.

Until recently the only float spa was on the south side, which I cannot go to.
Now before you start thinking it’s some blood feud or west side story or Lord of the rings type deal, it’s not.

I just hate driving there.
It makes me super anxious, and the streets were all designed by a crack smoking monkey with a set of Crayolas.

I’m sure southsiders all feel the same about the northend, but in any case they are the lucky ones with the great shopping and the only float place in the city so they should shut it already.

Anyways, I really, really wanted to go, but figured the cost to relaxation ratio would be destroyed ASAP as soon as I got in the car. I would need a float both pre and post drive to chill out, which would be way too pricey and would make me look like one of those dried out mummies in the museum.

For those of you that have no idea what I am talking about (ha ha get used to it!), floating is where you lay in a puddle of super salty water (800 pounds of it), in this giant sensory deprivation chamber and do nothing.

No other people. No PETA. No stray band-aids. No swimsuit.

(Although you feel free to wear one if you like, there is no judgement in your private pod, wear a chicken suit for all I care; I won’t tell you how to live your life.)

It sounded like heaven situated in my own personal hell of driving to the south side.

UNTIL RECENTLY!!!

My friend Her Majesty posted about this new place in St. Albert that had 3 float rooms and she was going. 

I could drive there and back and only have mild homicidal driving thoughts, and wouldn’t you know it, right beside a yummy burger place. My day off was officially set up.

I booked immediately.

I scheduled the first one on a Tuesday morning, again to avoid other humans, and camped outside the door of the place like I was waiting for concert tickets.

I had looked online to see what kind of prep that needed to happen, and I was sure glad I did, because they recommend not shaving or waxing before a float. Big no no.

(Not that I was going to tidy myself up of anything, I mean unless Michael Chiklis wanted to climb in and share my pod, I wasn’t going to go out of my way to groom myself for a salty puddle in a dark pod. Sounds like a few bad dates I have been on in the past now that I think of it...)

Anyways, it was calm, and serene and you get a room all to yourself with your own shower and pod.

The lady explained what to do and how to turn it on, and showed me where the earplugs and Vaseline was, and then she left me alone.

(She did explain before she left what the Vaseline was for, but it escaped my short term memory as I was fascinated by the big pod and privacy.)

I quickly locked the door, stripped down to nothing and got out my phone.

(easy folks, I was taking pictures for you...of the pod and room only. I could have left my clothes on for that I suppose, but I was really excited and didn’t think about how weird that would sound typing it, and didn’t think to erase it now that I have wrote it. Not a lot of editing is done on my blog.)

After getting what's kind of a weird selfie with my pod, I had a shower and went to climb in.

Here is where the knowledge of the oddly placed Vaseline would have been good to come back to mind.

I went to sit in the pod, lit up and beautiful and tempting me with its alone time, and as soon as my ass hit the 10 inches of 800 pounds of dissolved salt water, I damn near died.

Let’s just pause there a minute.

You know I had a baby. 

You likely know it was a shitty, terrible pregnancy because of Mike’s cancer and chemo and all that business.

But it was by most standards, a pretty healthy pregnancy.

Several things happen to a woman’s body during this little miracle, some good, some not so good.

My feet growing and making me buy a whole new shoe collection, both good and bad.

(yeah new shoes, boo pretty small shoes I never even got to wear)

My wicked scar and the stretch marks that criss cross my belly like a tiger, not so good.

But the real kicker was Herman.

Herman, as I have named him, (I gave birth to him as well), is my hemorrhoid.

Herman showed up around the 3^rd trimester, when I started to have my own gravitational pull, and has been with me ever since.

Don’t get all high and mighty here, 4 out of 5 people are reported to have one of these things

(Source-Dr. Google), and its perfectly natural, especially for pregnant women. 

(I bet your ass would try to escape too if an 8 lb baby was squishing it for 40 weeks.)

Heman’s generally not a trouble maker, despite the long hours I sit on my ass for work, and only really gets temperamental if I have a donair. Or a steak. Or anything spicy. Or too much whiskey.

Ok, I admit Herman can sometimes be a real pain in the ass. (ha ha ha)

But 80% of the time he’s quiet, and I sometimes forget he’s still with me.

Until I dipped my ass in the salty water.

When the float lady told me about the Vaseline, she said it was for any wounds that are open.
Just rub it on and the salt should stay out and not burn. It all came back to me real fast once I was ass deep let me tell you.

Other than a couple scratches on my chest from when my cats used me as a starting block for the furball 500 two nights before, I felt I was relatively wound free.

Until I submerged Herman.

The float tank is like eating ketchup chips. You think your mouth is whole right before you eat them, until the first chip hits your mouth and you instantly remember every time you accidentally bit your lips or cheek the past week because it burns like fire.

Herman had been relatively quiet the past few weeks, so his angry little self didn’t even register, I was way too excited to float and forgot all about him.
 (But now that I think about it I did have a donair Monday night...dammit)

So here I am, hovering over 10 inches of uber salty water, hanging on to the edges of the pod wondering what path I should take, like one of those adventure books from Junior high school.

Do I get out of the pod, wash the salt off Herman, then do the prison lube on my asshole?

Or do I suck it up and try not to scream like a little bitch and get my float started?

Decisions, decisions...

Now if any of you have read “The night I lit my ass on fire” ( go now...I'll wait), you will know I can be a cheapskate at the best of times, and this was definitely one of those times.

Paying close to a dollar a minute for the opportunity to float made me very conscious of the time constraints, so I did what I had to do.

I quickly doused my whole ass in the salt water and bit my lip, trying not to ruin the ambiance of the spa with my squeal of pain having pickled my anus.

They tell you not to jump into the water, as the point is to forget the water is even there.
So once the nerve endings on Herman were silenced, (approx 5 mins of burning, far less then it likely would have taken for me to prison prep my bum, but hindsight is 20/20.) the waves from my ass were still tossing me around the pod.

There is nothing relaxing about a burning asshole and bumper cars inside a sensory deprivation pod, let me tell you. Worse yet was that I had turned off the lights in the pod, so it was kinda like the time I went on Space mountain and you couldn’t see anything but you felt like you were moving.

Except I never went on Space Mountain naked. Felt I should qualify that statement.

Eventually the tank settled, but my brain really didn’t. It’s hard to turn it off, especially for someone like me, who over thinks every little thing in existence.

Is there a camera in here?
I could secretly be on that naked and afraid show, what did that waiver I signed blindly really say?
I should read things I sign.
Oh I wonder if Crafty Pants would make me a sign for Christmas.
I need to put up my Christmas lights before it snows.
I wonder if I could smuggle in another Christmas tree?
I need to go get those LED ones to plug in to the computers at work.
It was a bad week at work, I hope this float relaxes me so I don’t snap on anyone.
I wonder if you could fit two people in here?
I would be super relaxed if Chiklis was in here with me.
Maybe getting turned on in a pod isn’t smart.
Wow my boobs are freezing!

See what I mean?

Eventually I did start to relax, and a few little splashes of salt water warmed up my boobs enough that I didn’t freeze to death.
I really was floating, and you forget the water is there after a while. It’s kinda like what I imagine being in space is like, except naked.

(I don’t think they let the astronauts get naked very often, I think there are all sorts of surveillance cameras up there. One day we’ll see the space station sex tape, people will be going crazy I’m sure.  I’d kind of like to see it too; I think it would be interesting to see the dynamics of weightless sex.)

Anyways, by the time I got comfortable the pod kicked me out, threatening to turn on the filtration system while I was still lying naked in its puddle.

I stood up to see a thin layer of salt had dried all over my nipples, from me splashing the water on there to keep warm. It was very “girls gone wild”, I just needed a couple of limes and some tequila.

I had a shower in my private room, which was very lovely and warm, and left feeling like a million bucks.

I will be going back for sure, just for way longer, maybe 90 minutes next time.

I highly recommend it to everyone, I slept better, I was able to suppress my homicidal tenancies for another week, and my skin was super soft afterwards. Plus its beside the Delux burger bar. 

I will just try my best not to have a delicious donair the day before, and remember my Vaseline. And tequila.

I wonder if Chiklis would do body shots with me?

                                                                        The pod

                                                         My awkward selfie with the pod

J'aime Paris

I tried to be funny today, but this had to be purged first from my creative conscious before I could move on...

I would like to say my thoughts and heart goes out to the wonderful people of Paris and all of the other cities who experienced fear this week at the hands of radicals.

I am an atheist for this exact reason.

Islam is not a violent religion.

I know firsthand, as I have read the Koran.

It is a beautiful piece of literature that inspires millions of people in the world to be better people, to love their neighbors, and to be charitable.

The problem, and I am almost off my soap box so bear with me, is that a few people, following whatever dogma they choose to, make everyone who is Islamic look bad.

The same could be said about Christians and even Jewish faithful.  

Ever heard of Westboro? Those hillbillies make me want to punch people, and I have amazing control in that area, which is why I am still employed.

The issue is we don’t ever hear about the charity work, the sense of community or the unbending support  that most of the people who follow these faiths are amazing at.
You only hear about the whack job extremists who inevitably fuck it up for everyone else.

Why is that?
Because it makes good news.

It sounds horrible, but think on it a minute.

When do they ever put feel good stories on the news?
Whenever there is not a giant flaming hateful conflict to report on.

I watched the news unfold on TV last week and you know the thing that stuck with me?

The people of Paris, of every faith imaginable, offering their homes to strangers off the bloody streets to be safe, and the singing in the streets in the aftermath, when the citizens of Paris refused to live in fear of these shitheads with guns and bombs.

The resilience they showed, singing the national anthem is what I wanted to see. 

Not the gruesome murder scene in the concert hall, or the rubble and bodies from the explosions in the districts.
Or the multiple news reports plastering these douche mongers faces all over the place.

I didn’t want to know what these fucks had for breakfast before they went on a shooting spree, give your head a fucking shake news people. Ugh.

I am sure there was an incredible amount of fear and hatred flowing earlier that night, but as the world watched in horror and grief as the city of love turned out its lights, they rose up and conquered.

We should be honoring the dead with life, and love and peace in our world, not fear and hate.

The people killed in Paris not doubt loved her like a mother, with her beauty and grace, her liveliness and culture.

Turning a beautiful woman such as Paris into an ugly place of terror only lasted for a day, and that was the only victory these assholes scored.

The world stands united with all countries who are victimized by these dogmatic following, self righteous fuckwits. We will recover from these strikes and move forward, stronger than we were the day before. 

One day I will travel to Paris, Beirut and New York City, and I will not see death.
I will see vibrant beautiful cities with amazing people, living their lives despite everything they have suffered.

How we treat our neighbors going forward will also dictate if these extremist dicks win.

Keep your racists shit off Facebook and social media.
Be a better example to your world than that.

Don’t see color, don’t see religion, and don’t see nationality.

See a mother, a father, a child, a family, trying to make a better life in a peaceful place.
Isn’t that what we all want?
To live in peace, to watch our kids grow up feeling safe and loved and not afraid?

Be a better person and let’s not let a small group of nut jobs ruin everything for the rest of us.

Fish are gross...so are feet

Recently my husband and I went to Mexico on a sort of, look-at-us-all-cancer-free sorta honeymoon.

I tell you its been a long and crappy (pun intended) road to get here, and the fact that he's still alive is a miracle most days.

Not just from the cancer either, Jerk ate my ice cream sundae out of the freezer the other day and has yet to replace it....
YOU DON'T EVEN LIKE CHERRY SUNDAES!
No, Mike, I will NOT just get over the ice cream theft of the century.
Just because it was in the freezer for 3 days does not make it fair game!

But moving right along....

There is nothing like celebrating being cancer free then by giving your liver a cirrhosis inducing workout while lying on a beach in the tropics.

So we packed our stuff at the last possible hour (we are not good planners on this front), dropped the kid (who is now a rambunctious threenager) off at my mom's and skipped town.

I have been to Mexico a few times, and I gotta say I love it there.
I enjoy a couple of favorite places that just fill my cup o' life, like Xcaret and Tulum; I go back to them every time.
I plan to have my ashes, at least some of them, maybe my toes since they are always cold, spread on the Tulum beach when I die.
(The rest of me is going to other places around the world. Mike has a lot of work on his list if I go first, or I will haunt the shit out of him.)


To be 100% honest with you, I would love to go back alone, the tourist industry is incredibly protective of single white women traveling in their country, and really go out of their way to shield you. Honestly.
Or I was just too fat to be sold like the girls in 'Taken', but either way I had a nice time.

I didn't do a lot of spa treatments while I was there alone, as it was my first trip internationally, and I wanted to keep my credit card clear in case I had to bribe Mexican officials to pardon any indiscretions I had while I was down there.

For the record I was very drunk and very burnt and the closest thing I had to an indiscretion was tripping over my drunk feet while running to catch the little golf cart back to my villa after my birthday dinner.
Where the waiters were very liberal with the tequila I might add.

I slid like a first baseman across an iguana shit covered pathway while my tits flew out of the strapless dress that was trying its very best to keep my sweater meat from causing a scene.

I suppose I could sort of consider that like a spa treatment, I was technically drenched in rubbing alcohol and had a very nice lady rub cream on my skin.
Yeah it was polysporin, but that's pretty close to a spa cream.
I bet you could put it in a pretty bottle and call it "Restorative healing gel" and charge a fortune for it.

Anyways, since this was such a big celebration, we did a bunch of cool stuff this time around, including swimming with whale sharks in the ocean and going to the really fancy spa at the resort.

(I don't know why I felt the need to tell you the whale sharks were in the ocean, seems kinda self explanatory to me, I mean, those things are huge, you aren't going to swim in the pool with them, but whatever)

So when we pulled into the resort, I was most looking forward to getting into our swim up room. I went on and on about just bellying up to the bar from my bed, floating like a manatee with a margarita wedged in my cleavage and a really long straw. This was going to be amazing.

Unfortunately the resort had given our room away by the time we got there and we were stuck on the second floor. Which makes sliding around like a drunk manatee pretty damn difficult.
They don't do stairs very well I'm told, although I bet they could if there was a warm pool and a cold drink at the bottom.

So in an effort to pacify this upset, pale Canadian, they gave Mike and I a coupon for the Spa.
Score one for Liz.

After checking into our non drunk manatee room, we went to peruse the menu.
As we step into the lobby, I see these tanks of fish.

Now before I continue, let me tell you about me and fish.
I like them. I really do.
Preferably panko breaded with a side of fries and a nice cold beer.

First time I was in Mexico, I wandered (should read stumbled) into the lovely ocean and sat enjoying the warm sand and water lapping at my drunken ass.
Until I felt something brush my leg.

I didn't look down right away, but I knew what was there, and it was not a sexy merman.
(which was too bad, cause that would have been one more thing off the bucket list for sure)
A school of pervy,aggressive little fish were congregating around my bikini bottoms, and I slammed my legs shut to prevent what likely would have ended with me in a fish gang rape.

Its a real thing. They like to hide in holes and stuff to avoid predators and sometimes mistake humans for coral reefs. Google it.

(STOP!!! Please don't Google 'fish gang rape'. Trust me on this one)

These fish were really not afraid of people, as drunk tourists had been feeding them from the buffet for ages, so they just wouldn't leave you alone.
They even sucked on my fingers and toes...it was for sure going to end up as a fish penthouse letter had I not gotten the hell out of the water.

When you think about it, fish are by far the grossest creatures in the world.
They shit and piss in the air they breathe for instance.
Not to mention the water they drink.
Don't get me started about all the other fishy bodily fluids floating about in the water.

You just know there is no fishy stork dropping off fish babies in the ocean.
Gross.

Anyway, I think they are nasty unless on a plate or behind thick glass in an aquarium.
So I was shocked to see the tops of these little fish tanks open, and a chair parked right beside it.

When I asked the lady at the desk what this was all about, she said "your feet".
Which brings me to the other point, I hate feet.
They are gross and are hairy and sweet baby Jesus if you have one of those raptor claw second toes happening you stay the hell away from me!

So by far this looked like the kind of fresh hell I had been avoiding my whole life.

Stick my feet, into a tank of fish and their used old semen water, and allow....no wait..PAY them to eat me.

(and not in the fun way you all thought when I said eat me...not that I would want a fish to do that, as I mentioned above....wow this got weird quick didn't it? Spa day to fish porn in 2.5 seconds....)

They eat the dead skin off your legs and feet, for the record, although there are some spas you can be fully immersed in the water with the fish and they pick where they want to eat off you. Mostly in Asia and Europe though, which is likely a good thing with my fish rape phobia.

So after paying these nice Mexican ladies to let their pet fish use us as a buffet, we sat down. Mike got right in there, and those little buggers were all over him.
I wish I had been sober enough to take a picture, but they were wriggling in between his toes and all up is legs, really going to town eating his flesh.
It was horrifying.
If I had my way he wouldn't even put his feet in our bed most days but these poor creatures were eating him like he was creme brulee.

At this point I was sitting with my legs up on the sides of the tank, together at the knees, like I was in a birthing chair.
(they might try to jump up in to my business, you never know with fish, they're fishy like that...lol)

I wasn't 100% convinced this was a shit hot idea and thought I could trade it in for a pedicure, one that was done by a human. No eating or toe sucking required.

(This would only be encouraged if Michael Chiklis was like, researching a role on Mexican day spa workers and he had to give me a pedicure to help develop his character or something, then suck on anything you want. I am here for you to develop your craft you sexy bald man. xoxox)

Mike eventually called me a name, and said it would be a great story to tell, which is my Kryptonite.
For the sake of this blog, and your entertainment, I was gang eaten by fish.

With my legs squeezed together so tight I would have made a diamond in my knee pits, I slowly lowered my feet into the tank of fish.
I was immediately converged upon by a hundred little slimy creatures, all nibbling at my toes and my legs and the soles of my feet.

It kind of feels like a mixture of a feather duster and a small vacuum on your skin, but a teeny tiny one. It didn't hurt so much as it grossed me out, and they were very professional and business like for fish, staying mostly around my ankles and feet.
No rapey fish here thank goodness.

They went at me for a long time too, and you know the session is up when they mostly leave you alone.

Mike and I agreed that our feet were a bit smoother, but I have heard that amino acids in semen have some smoothing qualities, I suspect it was a combination of the two.

But I doubt they would put 'Fish semen soak with a free foot eating' on a spa menu...at least not in North America.

The night I set my ass on fire

So I have told this story lot, and people have always told me its funny.
Hopefully you agree.

It all started in and around the 2005 area, when I was with my first husband, Farm Boy.

This was pre-chubby Liz, around the same time I was introduced to big farmer breakfasts, butter, and  real cream.
They don't call it a farmers breakfast for nothing; He really did eat a huge breakfast after he came in from milking all those cows, and being the good little housewife I was, I made sure to sample most of what I cooked.

Well all that cooking and rich food started to catch up to me, and the weight started to pack itself in its usual hiding spots.
While I was okay with a little extra junk in my trunk, it came with a high price.

Cellulite.

I had avoided the bumpy ass of my older female counterparts for years, not by eating healthy or some shit like that, but I used to work out, and I was an elliptical maniac.

I also used to rub coffee grinds on my ass in hopes of doing some preventive work, sort of like keeping garlic around just in case of vampires.
Bonus on that was my ass smelled like a latte, which was a perk when I dated the guy who was Starbucks obsessed for a few weeks in '04.

I was just out of the shower this one night, and I reached around to spread some body lotion on my butt, when I spotted this evil creeping up my backside.

FB was sitting in bed watching TV, and he bolted up when I let out my best warrior yell (very Braveheart), like somehow if I yelled at my ass, the cellulite invaders would run back to the fresh hell from whence they came.

FB-What is the matter with you? did you hurt yourself?

L- NO! Would you look at this!!??

FB-What am I looking at exactly?

L-Obviously my ass! Why didn't you tell me you could park a fucking tractor on it?

FB-Honestly Liz its fine, you've just put on a bit of weight, looks good on you. 

L- Have you lost your goddamn damn mind or just your vision? Do you not see that I somehow got a Braille novel all over my ass in the last 6 months? 

FB- Don't get all crazy, I think your ass looks like a plump little orange, its adorable.

At this point I must have blacked out, because when I woke up, FB was doubled over laughing, trying to catch his breath and was accusing me of having a mean right jab.

It was all fun and games as I became affectionately known as OJ in my house.

(which is kind of appropriate considering by the end of my marriage I wanted to stab him repeatedly.
Yes I know that joke was kind of in poor taste but rest assured I wouldn't have..........gotten caught that is.)

But he meant it as Orange Junk. Clever huh?
Sorry to say that was one of the more clever things he ever actually muttered in the whole time I knew him.

This went on for about a month, and one weekend he was going away on this Tae kwon do getaway thingy and I thought I would do something about this OJ issue.

Now some people would likely try to eat better or drink more water or some shit to get rid of the cellulite, but as you will find out, I hate waiting for ANYTHING.

I try to be patient, I really do, but I never succeed.
Ask my mom.
I used to unwrap my Christmas presents every single year until she finally gave up. Now she just gives it to me to wrap and then act surprised on Christmas morning.

Its the surprise I hate.
I hate having to form a reaction to things as they come up unexpectedly.
Which seems a bit counter intuitive since I am the most impatient person known to man, but if you know me at all you know that I am constantly visualizing how to react to things so I am not caught unawares.
That's why I am so quick to give a witty comment, I've been silently practicing in my head for years, waiting for the right time to bust it out.

Anyways...I hate waiting.

So while FB was gone, I went to the local beauty section of the Zellers (miss that place) to check out their cellulite creams.

A bevy of jars beckoned me to let them touch my bum, but nothing said the magic words...fast acting.
Plus I am a bit of a cheapskate and there was no way I was paying 20 bucks for ass cream, magic or not.

Almost having given up, I stopped at the end of the aisle where they have those super inexpensive foil packets of face masks, foot scrubs and the like.
If I couldn't shake the OJ moniker, maybe I could just play up another feature, like my face or something.

I found a nice mud mask, and low and behold, second shelf down, was a little packet of cellulite remover. Huzzah!!
(pretty sure that's what it was called, not Huzzah, but just cellulite remover, although that would be a great name for cellulite remover come to think of it. Oddly enough the package had a face on it, not an ass, which seems a bit off but whatever)

The package promised a gentle warming action, and the visible reduction of cellulite in just 15 minutes, plus it was only $3.50!!
I was completely sold and set off to transform my citrus rump into a juicy J-Lo type creation.
I had high hopes for this $3.50 investment.

The house we lived in was a tiny little thing in the middle of nowhere so I wasn't exactly worried to have the curtains open no matter what I was doing. Sorta miss that.

After getting off the phone with FB, and assuring him that I was fine and had the doors locked and the gun out etc etc, I whipped my pants off and put on a grey cotton thong. Sounds like the beginning of a penthouse forum letter, but less sexy, kinda boring.

The directions on the package specifically said to be careful applying it around your lady bits, and I was pretty sure I had no cellulite there (Thank Jebus), so I wanted to keep the meat curtains good and tucked in.

I opened the pouch and was aghast to find this miracle ass fixer was, in fact, the color of neon oranges.
So not only did my ass look like an orange in texture, I was going to slather this crap all over it to complete the look in its entirely. Too bad I had just missed Halloween the week before, instant costume.

I had a little laugh about it, considered taking a picture to show FB, and quickly dismissed the idea.
He would have never let that picture die, and the OJ name really would stick forever.

I dumped the whole thing in my hands and began slinging it all over my backside and thighs, before I realized I should have taken just a bit out at a time instead of the whole thing at once, I had way too much leftover.

Remember when I said I was a cheapskate?
Well I sure as hell wasn't gonna let any of that shit go down the drain, so I started applying it in other places that may or may not have even been able to show cellulite.
Prevention,I thought, clever girl.

So the concoction went all over my legs, my love handles, I put a bit on my newly minted Bingo wings and on the little Buddha belly I had just sprouted.

So in case I haven't painted you enough of a visual picture, I was almost naked, in just a bra and a grey thong, coated almost from head to toe in a neon orange paste that was beginning to tingle a little.

Unable to sit, I started walking around the house, puttering around like a slutty carrot.
The cream was slowly warming up, and I started the timer about 5 minutes after I had finished applying it all.
If I could erase the bumps in 15 mins, surely 20 would be much more effective and I could keep the little bastards at bay for longer,right?

It was getting kinda toasty, sort of like a warm orange blanket, which was funny because it was November and I was nearly naked and I didn't even have the heat on very high in the house.
My ass was gonna look so good, I was a genius and FB would have to worship me and my perfect rear.

Then like all things in my life, shit got a bit crazy
.
This stuff went from warm and toasty to what the fuck in about 30 seconds, and it felt like someone had lit me on fire.
I started to walk around the house a little faster, in hopes of creating a small breeze to help with the burning sensations all over my body.
The walk soon turned into a jog, and then a full fledged run around the upper level of my little house.
I think I was trying to out run the skin fire I had subjected myself to, but to be honest it wasn't my best idea.

The movement of my newly acquired flab agitated the cream and exposed new areas to the air.
Fire loves air. And friction. Lots of both when a half naked chubby girl is running circles in her house cussing a blue streak.
Because I had put some on my hangy arm flaps, I had to get air flow up there, so I laced my fingers on top of my head and got a breeze going by flapping my arms in a demented version of the chicken dance.

Again, a chubby pale as milk girl, grey thong, old beige bra, hands on her head, neon orange cream over 65% of her body, and running around her house screaming expletives directed at her ass.

GET OFF ME YOU BUMPY JERKS!!
FUCK THIS SUCKS!
I HATE YOU GIANT ASS!
I WILL DEFEAT YOU!
IT BUUUUUURRRRRNNNNSSSS!!!!

Now, most people stop me here and ask why I didn't just go wash it off right then.
My answer is always the same.
I am stubborn and I hate my cellulite.
I was not letting my ass win this battle. It already took the battle of cute sweatpants and designer jeans fitting ever again, I was not going to fucking concede this war.

So I continued to run and jump (so dumb...) and curse and clench my fists until the stupid timer finally fucking dings.
I had, in the heat of the moment (ha ha ha) forgotten that I had left the cream on at least an extra 5 minutes, but I am sure the deer in the front yard really enjoyed those extra 5 minutes of my torture.
Sick fucks.

Because I had put so much of this shit on me, and it hurt so bad, I wanted to get it off as fast as I humanly could.
So quickly and carefully I stripped down (still mindful of the giblets not making contact with this acidic crap)
and hopped into the shower.

Now had I been of my right mind, I would have thought this through, or even, oh I don't know....read the instructions on the package that expressly forbade showering this stuff off.
But I was not in my right mind, oh no, I was dying a burning death and I needed to be clean ASAP.
I turned the water on and started to try and take the cream off.

Seems the extra 5 minutes had turned it from ass cream to cement and now I had to scrub my scorched flesh to try to remove it.
My loofah looked like I had murdered a pumpkin by the time I soaped my whole body up (wait for it)
and went to rinse off, just like regular shower.

Let me tell you about water sluicing off a body...it always finds the path of least resistance.

I had inadvertently covered myself with a cellulite remover-soap mixture and it was finding every.single. nook and cranny to get down to the drain and escape forever. Right along with my dignity.

The stuff on my arms coated my tits, and made my nips feel like they were candle wicks.
The stuff on my love handles bypassed the Tramp stamp and slid lovingly into my ass crack and beyond.
Only to meet up the the frontal waterfall from me stupidly putting the stuff on my gut.

All the prep work I had undertook to keep my lady garden safe was gone in an instant, and my whole under carriage was dipped in pepper spray. (which was the active ingredient btw)

I haven't ever had an STD, but if we could do this to kids(and not go to jail,) I guarantee they would wear condoms for the rest of their life.
Like a scared straight program for your junk.

I had to get it all off of me, there was no turning back, but the cussing soon turned to weeping and bargaining with my abused body.
I swore I would never look at another piece of bacon again as long as the burning stopped.

When I finally emerged, with mild chemical burns on my mud flaps and half my body, I was given one last slap in the face by the discount ass cream.

Remember how I said it was neon orange?
Yeah so a side effect apparently was that it dyed my fucking flesh orange.
For like 3 days.
Plenty of time for FB to come home and laugh at me and my orange body.

I have since learned to embrace my cellulite and chub, and have sworn off ass cream for good.

Pour some sugar on me

So I am usually up to try anything once. Especially when it comes to food. 

Hence my voluptuous figure.

But I am also pretty open to trying new things to get in shape...or fulfill a lifelong dream.

So when my friend SA reminded me that we were to go to a Stagette where the beginning of the night started at a pole dancing class, I could barely contain my excitement.

Who hasn't done a little "Striptease" dance in their bathroom?

Or while raking the leaves in the back yard while your two sets of elderly neighbors likely watched you try to do a spin on the handle, landing face first and scraping the hell out of your elbows?

Super common right?

We show up to this little hold in the wall, which is nestled in the middle of an office building. Imagine all the dentists and psychiatrists spinning around the poles like demented tops on their lunch hours, going back to their normal lives a bit sweaty and with the knowledge that they had just shown an industrial pole who was their Bitch.

Luckily I didn't have to come face to face with any wanna be dental strippers, but I had some pretty awesome jokes prepped in case.

When I said it was nestled, what I meant to say was that it was jammed between a daycare and a dental office, in what looked to be perhaps a converted storage locker. 

Don't get me wrong, it was a nice storage locker.

I mean, how can you not be classy looking with 8 stripper poles facing a wall of mirrors lining the entire room?

You can't, that shit is brilliant.

Cheap on rent too I'd wager.

So this Stag was for our friend B, who happens to be a nurse. She has a lot of nurse friends, most of which were with us that night.

It made the meet and greet like a game of career duck duck goose.

Nurse

Nurse

Nurse

Nurse

Nurse

Fleet manager!! (That's me)

I was really considering fucking with these pretty little nurses and telling them I masturbate bulls for a living or something, but frankly I am still repressing some of my memories from living with Farm Boy, the first husband. 

For the record I only saw a bull being masturbated. 

I did however impregnate a few cows.

Which sounds really terrible to anyone who has not lived on a farm.

Or is from one of those countries....you know what I'm talking about. 

The other crummy thing about this group, besides not being as awesomely hilarious as I think I am, was that they were....lets say, curve deficient.

Now I am not as chesty as I was when I wrote taming the Sweater meat, but my friends still steal my bra and wear it as a hat whenever we go hot tubbing, so I get by in the booby department.

SA, while she did lose a lot of weight, is still my soul food sister, and doesn't judge me when I dip my fries in pretty much everything when we go out to eat.

I'm pretty sure we could have bench pressed these girls no problem.

But I don't give two shits about them. 

See I have always secretly wanted to be a pole dancer.

Not a stripper per Se, but to have the audience captivated by me as I showed my strength around the pole.

Dancers are powerful creatures, and I'm not just talking about the mud flaps in your face or the terrible porno things they're sometimes encouraged to do.  

I worked in a deli across from the one good bar in my little town, and the dancers used to come over to buy themselves dinner for between the shows that night.

When you prepare someones coffee or food and treat them like a human, not a piece of ass, they open up to you. 

One of these girls was just ripped.

I'm sure she opened walnuts on her triceps, total gun show.
She'd just had a baby 5 months prior and was back on the circuit dancing already.
She invited me to come and watch her perform, and not one to turn down a free beer, I went.

I can barely do a pull up and  she was twirling around this pole like she was walking on thin air, which she did at the end come to think about it.

Legs out, arms spread and hanging on to the bar with not much more than her thighs, I was mesmerized.

I didn't watch the end of the show, because in Hanna there was a lot of nasty rig pigs who were not as nice to this strong woman as they should have been.

Plus it would have been awkward for me to make her a roast beef sandwich the next day having seen her roast beef flapping in the wind the night before.

Her boobs were amazing, on a side note. 

Top shelf. (ha ha ha!!) 

She let me touch them, really quality plastic surgery.

You couldn't even tell they were fake on stage either, so you know they were some quality tits.

Anyways, I've always wanted to take a crack at this, but I'm stuck in a class of stick figure nurses who are silently judging me and my last 10 years of poor food choices.

What is a busty brunette to do you ask?

I worked the hell out of that pole is what I did.

It does sort of lose the sex appeal when you are so fucking happy that you are laughing like a loon and smiling so fucking hard your cheeks feel like splitting.

But fuck did I feel amazing. 

Some of the moves were a bit tricky for a lady of my girth,I will admit.

For instance the bum roll against the pole had to have me with my legs spread even wider than the pre-teens in the class. 

(which made mine look even sexier if I do say so myself.)

The drop it like its hot move escaped me totally. 

I dropped it alright, but I had a hell of a time picking that sucker back up again.

But since you are down on the ground, you end up laying there and writhing around, slapping your ass and holding the pole so you don't slip on tears or something. 

The girl taught us how to swing around the pole with just our leg and one arm, as well as the full on run and jump and swing move you always see on movies and TV.

Rest assured those poles are exceptionally well secured and appropriate for all weight classes, 'cause I rode it like I fucking owned it.

At the end of the class, the instructor turned the lights down low, and got us into two groups. 

Having been separated from SA the whole lesson, I snuck into her section and we were ready to do our little routine.

When she asked the first group what song we wanted to dance to, SA and looked at each other, smiled our wicked smiles and screamed over all the skinny nursey chicks....

DEF LEPPARD!!!!

I'm positive that half of them had zero idea who Def Leppard is, if the look of complete confusion was any indication.

The instructor had obviously had this request before, because she didn't even ask us the song we wanted before cueing up "Pour some sugar on me". 

So fucking awesome.

I can honestly say I have not been that happy in a long long time. 

Sure we all say we are happy, but when you are working your curvy ass in front of a wall of mirrors, with 7 other girls all basically sexing their reflections up, listening to the ultimate pole dancing fantasy song, you have made it in life.

Just needed an ice cream sundae and a back rub from Michael Chiklis and I would die a happy woman.

My cheeks hurt from smiling, my belly hurt from laughing and I was sweating from the workout, as well as how drop dead hot I looked wrapped on that pole. 

Big tits and all.

I`m getting pancakes after this

So I ran my first 5 km race on September 23rd,2013.
(Yeah yeah, its been a while, but I will try to remember exactly how I felt that day.)

As someone who was new to running, the idea of a 5 km race was a bit daunting.
Frankly at the beginning of this journey two flights of stairs was pretty fucking daunting, but I digress.

I was perusing my Facebook page and ignoring a few hundred loads of laundry one night when I noticed a friend asking for someone to run a race with her.

Being the oh so confident new runner, I agreed right away. Like an idiot.

Had I ever run 5 km?
Nope.

Maybe like cumulatively, over the past 2 years, but not all at once.
I have a car for those kinds of distances.

Had I ever run with this particular person?
Or anyone other than my learn to run class, the understanding group of out of shape beginners who had watched me sweat, wheeze, cuss and slowly shuffle my way through my interval training?
Nope.

Remember when you hung out with the (insert socially crushing deformity) person in your class?

You know, the one who was really nice and you enjoyed their personality, but you always made sure to have your picture taken with them because their level of weirdness always somehow made you look like a normal functioning human being?
Like their Star Trek t shirt covered torso could protect you from ridicule, a social body shield so to speak.

Those are the people I need to run with.
Or do anything with, cause they are usually pretty rad and make you feel great about yourself with their weirdness.

Where was I going with this?

Oh right....I am that girl in this situation.

I made my friend look like Ben Fucking Johnson in this race.

She whipped past me like her ass was on fire.
It wasn't by the way.
I know, because that is all I saw of her for the whole race, until she lapped me hard at 3 kms.

Anyways let me tell you how the day went.

It was a crispy fall day, and my entire family came out to see me do this nutters thing I had been going on about for weeks.
There were a few hundred people, all milling about, getting ready for this little fun run, including children who oddly enough were wearing the same race bib as me.

Huh..isn't that adorable.

I kissed the kid, gave my husband my oh so cool fist bump and I went to the starting line with the other runners.

Now for those of you who are unfamiliar with St. Albert, let me give you a quick topography lesson.

Remember your grandparents telling you about walking uphill both ways in the snow to school?

Likely they lived in St. Albert.

It has got to be the hilliest (yes I just made up that word) place in the greater Edmonton area.

Now I had not run the course before, which in hindsight was a big mistake.
I was coming off a relatively easy stretch of land behind the Rona where my run club would saunter over flat cement at a leisurely pace.
Oh we did a teeny little hill, affectionately called Goose poop loop
(Lots of slip and fall hazards there let me tell you)
But it was no where near the inclines I faced here.
I do kind of wish I would have thought to bring one of the territorial geese from the loop with me, you never run faster that when being chased my a maniacal Gander who lacks the appreciation of your pretty running ensemble.

Confident in my tried and tested interval training, my fancy water bottle belt and my coordinated spandex outfit, I went to the start line with my friend.

Aww....look, the little kids are lining up too!
Super cute!
You gonna run the race with us little buddy?
10 years old? Well just have fun ok?

The official raised the pistol into the air and fired.
It was really a cool thing, and it seems I stood slightly transfixed, taking in the experience with a little mental snapshot for when I am old and senile.
Speaking of being old and senile, I was quickly left in the dust of that little shit 10 year old, as he bolted ahead of me at the speed of a bad donair through your guts after a bar night.

My friend was no where to be found, I was lost in a sea of bodies, pressing me forward.
My running pace usually resembles a heard of geriatric turtles stuck in cold molasses, so I quickly lost all breath control and all my training went straight out the window.
Wheezing past the spectators, I tried to focus and get back into my killer mindset (ha ha ha), but I was now out of breath and wondering if anyone would think I was dead if I just laid down for a quick nap in the bushes.

1 km
I was doing ok. The pack had thinned out a bit, and I was starting to find that pace that I was comfortable in. I call it my "please come back ice cream truck I have money!" pace.
The juvenile delinquent was no where to be found, and I was running along a nice older couple who I could use as an excuse for my relaxed pace if anyone asked.
"Oh I was having a nice conversation with Fred and Ethel, and didn't want to run off and be rude!"

2 km
 Fred and Ethel have abandoned me. Surely this hill can`t keep going up forever?
Really starting to feel the burn.Also beginning to worry about the friction of my fancy running tights as my thighs are rubbing together hard enough to start a fire.

3km
Oh look, a water station! I could just stop and have a drink and it would be amazing....shit shit fuck shit there is my gazelle friend on the turn back, cant let her see me stopping for a drink, that would mean I am human and need a break on this little jaunt of death.
`
Oh hey!! Just pacing myself, right behind you!!
Kill me know, the little cheetah child is on her heels, and is smiling at me. He looks like he just set his Xbox down to embarrass a grown ass woman in her virgin race.
I wonder if I would get kicked out of the race if I tripped him a little...
At least my friend had the decency to be sweating.

4 km
Sweet baby Jesus I don't think I can lift my feet over this speed bump. WHO PUT A SPEED BUMP HERE??? If I trip over a pile of leaves because my thighs are on fire and my feet are made of lead, I will not be a happy woman. How am I still on an fucking incline?

4.5 km
So hungry....I am getting pancakes after this.

4.75 km
All good athletes ( and I use the term super loosely on me) know that the last stretch is usually a good one, and running is no different.
I was blinded by the sweat from the hundreds of doughnuts I had consumed the past 2 years dripping into my eyes, and my lungs were packing up to leave my body through my nostrils, when I made the last turn to the finish line.

All these random people are cheering my fat ass like I was running a sprint in the mother fucking Olympics!
Whistles, cowbells ( MORE COWBELL!!) and rounds of applause greet my soggy ass as I finally saw the big inflatable finish line. It was almost enough to make me pick up the pace. Almost.

Because that finish line was at the top of the biggest hill I had ever fricking seen. I felt like I should have been provided a Sherpa for the last 100 meters of this race, the air was getting thin and I think I saw a weather balloon floating past me.

But I finished it. In 45 mins, which isn't that bad of a time really.
My gazelle friend only was ahead of me by 9 minuets, and I was in a good place with that.
Plus I feel she was a bit sweatier than me, which was only fair.

I never saw the little runner boy at the finish line, which was likely a good thing, as I don`t need to have the publicity of having given a 10 year old a wedgie for kicking my ass at putting one foot in front of another.