Last night I had the privilege of being one of 21 readers at Blog Out Loud Ottawa 2012. It was my third year in a row because they like having someone there who makes the other readers look sane. I'm pretty sure I didn't disappoint in that department. I read a post from January 2011 about bad teenage moustaches, complete with flashbacks to the early 90's. Anyone who is that traumatized by facial hair clearly has issues.

I was obviously nervous about reading my post with a sound system boosting my every word. It's not that I'm particularly shy in large crowds, but reading my own work makes me want to throw up in a trash can and then throw up again because I just threw up in a trash can and that's fucking gross.

It was a hell of a busy week. The gremlins scuttle out of school next Friday, so every volunteer-laden activity is happening right now. Not only do they attend three different schools this year - yes, really - but I happen to work at one of them on a casual basis and that meant some shifts this week, as well. Then there's my regular gym date with myself so I can get buff and make other people uncomfortable by constantly asking them to fondle my biceps (this is already happening; I expect a few restraining orders shortly - one from my husband.) Oh, and there were appointments. There are always appointments when you have three kids, which should be a deterrent to having such a big family, except people like to have sex and the next thing you know you have lots of appointments.

Not that I'm speaking from experience or anything.

Anyway, to wrap this up in a neat little package that is not all rambly due to drinking a double-shot americano while writing a blog post on 5 hours of sleep, it was a really busy this week, I was nervous and I hadn't had time to do anything BOLO-related until 3pm yesterday. That gave me four hours to:

- Remember what post I was reading
- Fine-tune that post for public speaking consumption
- Ask myself if "public speaking consumption" is even an allowable term in the English language
- Get worried that I don't even know what acceptable English is so how the fuck can I even expect to speak it in front of a live audience
- Begin absentmindedly eating chips
- Gently remind myself that eating my feelings is unhealthy
- Take myself out to find a new dress, because buying things is a calorie-free way to deal with emotion

So off I went to find a dress.

I went to two stores. That's pretty decent in plus-size land, because there aren't a whole lot of places that cater to the curvy bitches. I tried on a few dresses. I tried on a few tops. I didn't like the way they fit; they were either too big on top, too snug on the bottom, or showed things that I don't find terribly flattering. I decided that I might need something to tuck it all in - to smooth the lumps and lines, so to speak.

That's when I discovered the body wrap. It was a pain to get on, much like unceremoniously stuffing yourself inside a flesh-coloured boa constrictor while simultaneously jumping hurdles, but it was totally worth it. Suddenly, all the dresses looked fabulous on me. Just as suddenly, I realized I didn't need to spend upwards of $80 on a new dress. What I needed was to buy my new best friend for $40, take it home and try on one of the two dresses I have here.

Yes, I only own two dresses. Dresses take confidence, folks, and I haven't had much of it in the past. But now that my body is changing I find that I'm actually excited about clothes. Geekster is not so excited about my excitement. There is talk about my credit cards going missing. I suppose this is better than my brake lines going missing. I know that won't happen because then he'd have to remember to dust the shelves and he'd totally forget, and the next thing you know everyone would be commenting on how he never dusts and he'd say, "I should have never cut her brake line like that. I miss her. *sneeze*"

So I came home, tried on one of the dresses and was all, "This looks fab, except that there's not enough bazinga! in the bossoms." I needed to rock the cleavage because, as I mentioned loudly before my reading last night, if I totally bombed at least everyone could stare at my tits and it wouldn't be a total loss. I didn't actually say "tits" because I'm a proper lady, but I was thinking it as I waved my hand in front of my chest like Vanna White hovering over some newly discovered vowels.

Bring on the cleave.

That's where the double push-up bra comes in. It's like a regular push up bra, except there's more padding, heavy-duty underwire, and it parts the girls like Moses parted the sea, forming mounds of fleshy beauty. I wish my boobs looked like this all the time. 3 pregnancies and 7 years of breastfeeding later, they need a little help.

Anyway, I felt rather good in my old dress.

Check out my sunburn. No amount of foundation could cover it. Insert redneck joke here.

And then I got to BOLO, and all I could do was worry about the body wrap and the boobs. Mainly:

- I chose a body wrap with thighs to avoid the chafing us chubby chicks often deal with, but the leg parts were so long I worried they'd poke out under my dress, making it look like I'm trying to be sexy  in my fashion crisis and failing miserably because stockings that start at your torso and end above the knee are not at all attractive, merely practical.
- Scrap that. There is nothing about a body wrap that is practical. Esthetically pleasing, perhaps, but definitely not something you should wear every day.
- But what if I got addicted to wearing them? I get addicted to everything, including stair machines at the gym and you know how evil those are. If I can get hooked on panting and looking like shit in front of other people, I can definitely develop a body wrap problem. What if my friends and family have to stage an intervention for me because I'm walking around with it under my bathing suit, those ugly leg things squeezing my bare thighs as I head to the pool?
- And the cleavage. Oh my good god, the cleavage. Too much? Maybe. I waffled back and forth between being proud of it and wanting to cover it up. I sort of worried my boobs would fall out while I was at the mic and then I had to spend time trying to figure out how that would happen, exactly. I decided I probably shouldn't do the dry-humping action as I was reading about it. This was likely a good decision on several levels, not the least of which involved nipple-containment protocol.

In the end, everything stayed where it should be. BOLO was wonderful, the readers were fabulous, and I look forward to next year.

The moral of the story: Body wraps and tits make the woman.

Okay, maybe not. Hang on.

The moral of the story: It's okay to buy things on credit when you're nervous.

Nope. That one might lead to some serious brake line severing.

The moral of the story: Don't over-think things, because the next thing you know you'll be in front of an audience trying not to dry-hump the mic stand inside a giant spandex snake.