In Which The Maven Wishes She Were Childless

Hello. My name is The Maven and I did not want to be a mother today. Running away crossed my mind a few times, although I'm still a fairly slow runner and it was rather hot, so I didn't.

Over the course of the last twelve hours, I've sifted through my overwhelmed brain trying to come up with all the sunny, happy things that make being a parent worthwhile. I threw open the emotional filing cabinet and found images of their first days out of my womb, all new and pink and mostly quiet and sleepy. I tried to remember hugs and giggles and oddly drawn blobs that are supposed to resemble me and one of my boys making pancakes.

I wracked my tired and frustrated noggin for those memories and feelings, but came up short. For the most part, every time Gutsy whined or Spawnling wailed, I thought back to 1993, when Geekster and I moved into our first apartment in downtown Ottawa - the Byward Market, to be exact. It was a rather large one bedroom overlooking some shady garages, a few crack houses, and, at night, a wide array of hookers and johns. It was noisy and smelly and frankly rather terrifying to the then sixteen-year-old Maven, but I loved it. Oh, how I loved it.

I try to tell myself I don't miss those days, and normally it's true. I can remember stepping over the broken beer bottles and used condoms every morning on my way to school, and having to walk up the icy fire escape to avoid the drug dealers' massive guard dog in the common hallway downstairs. I tore apart the couches for cigarette change hunt more times than I can count, and sang with my guitar on Rideau Street in hopes of getting enough cash for dinner that night.

My world today sharply contrasts that of half a lifetime ago. I drive a minivan, I live in a four bedroom house in the 'burbs, I *gasp* garden, and, oh yes, I have three boys who drive me absolutely insane sometimes and make me wish I was still digging "new" furniture out of the trash every week.

It's not that I don't love them. I do. I really do. I mean, do I even have to say that? And I feel horrible admitting that I envy the childless, or that, in rare moments of insanity, I sometimes daydream about being divorced only so I would have at least every second weekend to myself; a true sign of burnout if I've ever heard one, because I know enough single parents to ever think it's a cakewalk.

From the moment I woke up - at 3:00AM, then 3:45, then 5:30, then 6:00, and finally with a series of pokes on the forehead from the toddler at 8:30, the two little gremlins have been sapping every ounce of positivity from me. I've lost count of the near deafening demands for everything from attention to a third glass of milk ("No. You can have water. I don't care if you don't want water, you can... Hey! Don't dump that on the floor. What are you doing?")

By 5:00PM I had exhausted every tactic, every threat (oh, sorry: "promise of action" - it's all about how you frame it) and every follow-up from time-outs on the stairs to mopping up spilled water with a rag and not a mop, because that might be considered fun - and they certainly didn't deserve much of that today.

I made a pitiful dinner of cheese ravioli from a bag in the freezer, topped with tomato sauce from a half-empty jar in the fridge. I grated cheese on top of the already fat-laden dinner so I wouldn't be asked to do it and hence have to say 'no' for the three hundredth time. It's all about picking the battles.

At 6:00PM, when everyone had a belly full of bleached, enriched, cholesterol stuffed crap, Geekster and I enacted the long awaited end-game maneuver of wearing Gutsy and Spawnling out at the park. We ran up ladders and slid down slides and built sandcastles. We pretended we were thieves coming to steal their precious sand toys. We were customers at their restaurant and ate everything from buckets full of "popcorn" to shovels full of "tea". I think I might still have sand on the inside of my bottom lip.

I like to go for realism. I'm a method actor, some would say.

I hurt myself on the slide, even. See?


No. Look. I did! I'm going to call it 'slide burn' because it sounds cool, like I did some sort of extreme sport.

At 7:30 we put two tuckered out little gremlins into their pods for the night. As I sat down to bitch blog about my day, I asked Geekster to send me the pictures he took on his iPhone. I ranted and I raved up and sputtered and nearly pounded the keyboard in frustration until about two paragraphs ago, when I checked my inbox and found out, in not so many words, what was missing about that romantic childless life we had in the market:









Them.



And now I kind of feel like an asshole.

Oops.

A Startling Realization

Yesterday, just a few hours before my 18 year celebration of clean and sober living, I was thinking about the accomplishments in my life and feeling pretty good about them. Besides being a semi-excellent mother and happily mediocre wife, I've also achieved other great glories over the years, like rekindling my romance with running.

Another goal conquered? I quit smoking 13 years ago. Did I ever mention I used to be among the smoking? Except I started for a very original reason: I was trying to fit in and be cool.

And another great feat? I stopped eating meat (I made that one rhyme on purpose - my intelligence and wit know no bounds!) It's been about nine months and I'm feeling great. Also, I think pigs like me a little more. When I'm at the farm they only urinate in front of me now. No more defecation; they save it for the nasty bacon-loving omnivores.

Yep. It's pretty wonderful being The Maven. Just look at all I've done! It's amazing! Why, if you add it all up, I'm... I'm...

"Hi, my name is The Maven. I'm a sober, drug-free, smoke-free, vegetarian jogger!"

Oh, shit.

I am officially the most boring person on the planet.

I'm going to have to do something to spice myself up a little. Make myself cooler and more full of greatness instead of only tofu. Because, frankly, I'm not doing a lot to make people comfortable around me. What are we going to talk about? So many topics are things I can no longer relate to: drunken barbecues at grow-ops, for example.

Not to mention my house has been insanely clean lately. Perhaps "insane" is the wrong word, because we've not yet entered OCD country. It's just tidy, and I clean a good portion of it every day to maintain it. I believe that's known as 'upkeep' and is what most people do, but I only recently joined their ranks after leaving the 'only clean up when it starts to smell like a corpse or if you break a tooth tripping on something' club.

Also, I'm officially in the process of writing my childhood memoir, which I've been putting off forever because, well, my childhood was rather sucktastic in places.

Most places.

And on the days when I trudge up something rather yucky and expose it on a page that will hopefully be published for all to see, I may be rather untalkative.

So, this year, if all goes as planned, I will be a socially awkward, tidy, sober, drug-free, ex-smoking, meatless, health-conscious published author.

...Hear that? It's the sound of my social life deflating.



On the plus side, I managed to find a coffee mug that nicely matches my phone. Awesome, right? It ups my street cred a little, right?

... Right?

I'm desperately grasping at straws, here.

Running is for the Sadistic. And also me.

I've gone running - or jogging, if you'd prefer, as I'm certainly not taking this ample body down the road at full tilt - three times in the past week. There was a time in my pre-Spawnling life where I ran 4km every day, so I'm not exactly new at this sport. The difference today, however, is that I'm more aware of exactly what running entails both physically and psychologically. And, let me tell you, it's not pretty. Runners need to be equipped with a number of negative attributes in order to get hooked on the idea.

Allow me to explain in this handy dandy primer:

Step 1: Suit up!

The first thing to know about runners is that health is only secondary to their ultimate goal of looking hot. They may not even realize it themselves, but they are screaming to be noticed. If we didn't care what you thought of us, we wouldn't be wearing designer running gear, right? Right. And please don't give me the excuse that it's 'more comfortable' or 'has better support'. I'm also an attention whore runner, remember? I've played this game before; and while I can't squeeze my pudge into the cute Lululemon outfits just yet, I make up for wearing discount store brands by sporting my hot pink iPod, Roots carrying case and shoes that are so beautiful they've been known to make onlookers weep. Looking hot: it's just what we do.

Major character flaw involved: Vanity.

Step 2: The Stretch

Stretching is an important part of the before and after running rituals. And, in true jogger fashion, should never be done privately. The best place to stretch is where you'll get the most attention. Sometimes, like me, it's on your front step. For others, it's at the beginning of a trail. For true attention seekers, in front of a Wal-Mart might get you the fix you need. A movie theater also works if you time your stretch to the letting out of a blockbuster film. Why do we flaunt our stretches in public? Because we want you to know that we run. We want you to see that we're healthy and know enough about the sport to do it properly. Then, not only will you say 'Hey, look at that runner in the cute pants!' but you might also throw in 'and she's stretching, which is what healthy people do. Wow... Now I feel badly about myself. I shall have a great deal of chocolate now.'

Major character flaw involved: Grandiosity.

Step 3: The Warm up

Ever watch a horse race? All those eager animals have to be penned to keep them contained. When the gates are finally opened, they take off at breakneck speeds. Runners are a lot like horses, except we have two feet and wear clothes. Filled with motivation from all the attention and guilt-inducing we've done in steps 1 and 2, we feel ready to take on just about anything. But if we want the run to last a long time we need the stamina to do it, so warm up we must. It's not something we're proud of others seeing, but it's a necessary evil nonetheless. If another egomaniac runs by us he or she might think 'Hmph. Lazy power walker!' not realizing that we're cut from the same cloth. Thus, it's important to make your warm up as painless as possible. Do it right after stretching and in the area where all the other runners do theirs so it's assumed you're in the cool cats club. Or, if on a regular road and not a runner's trail (they're a lot like dog parks, but for joggers) then follow the same route daily, or at least until you start running. Then, either people will know you well enough to see you're warming up, or only a few neighbours and passers by will think you're a wannabe.

Major character flaw involved: Insecurity

Step 4: Full throttle

This is where runners begin their actual running, and, if done properly, can last a good while. Those like me, however, will jump back and forth between this and step 5, which is a little hard on the ego but must be done to preserve the run in the name of hotness. Full throttle running is when things are going very well. The hot pink iPod is on at a ridiculously high level playing 90's dance cheese, the legs are functioning as smoothly as a well-oiled machine, the feet are hitting the ground in perfect rhythm, and there's just enough sweat beading on the forehead. More importantly, everyone is looking, and you're almost sure it's not because these yoga pants make your bum jiggle. You could carry on like this forever. Forever! It's perfect.

Character flaw involved: Denial.

Step 5: Sort of full throttle

Ah, step 5. It sounds horrible to need to slow down and take a bit of a walking or light jogging break in between the more impressive running jags, but it's not all that bad. For one, it allows one to wipe the now excessive amounts of sweat from every inch of skin, to let the heart slow down before it implodes in the chest (good idea) and to stop the ridiculous gasping and wheezing sounds you just realized are coming from you and are not noise on the MP3 track. Oh, sure, you might look like a wimp for a minute or so as you gather yourself and wonder if you'd look as attractive passed out on the sidewalk, but that's just part of the game until you get much better. I've accepted it as just the way things are right now. It's the difference between exhausting myself after ten minutes or going for forty. I can do simple math, and I know there are sacrifices needed to achieve the larger number.

Character flaw involved: Egomania

Step 5: The brag

I'm going to skip the cool-down stuff because it's essentially the same as steps 1, 2 and 3 but in reverse, and you look awesome anyway because you're covered in sweat and are obviously exhausted; proof that you are, indeed, a runner, or perhaps a ridiculously bad walker. But all that stretching and showering and water drinking has an ultimate goal: bragging. It's time to tally up what you ran, make it look at as good as possible, and, while still high on those amazing endorphins, let everyone know what you accomplished today. I recommend social networking site status updates as they reach the most people. My updates on Facebook are usually 'ran another great 3k today! Better than last time, too!' and other such subtle remarks. But don't blame me: it's the endorphins. That amazing rush is what keeps me coming back to the torturous run. I hate it and love it all at the same time. I pant and whimper for what seems like an eternity so I can float blissfully alongside The Beatles' Yellow Submarine for an hour or two.

Character flaw involved: Addiction.

And there you have it. My primer on running. I hope it helps explain a few things.

Now I must be off. I have an appointment for the gremlins and must get ready for tonight's festivities at my AA meeting. 18 years clean and sober? And now I'm running again, too? Damn, I'm good.

Character flaw involved: pretty much all of them.

Not Touching My Boom

Yesterday afternoon, at the water park:

"Pixie," I say as we're sitting on the grass doing our nails while the gremlins build mud castles in the sand. "Want to see something hilarious? Spawnling says 'bum' like 'boom'. He'll run around saying 'I'm touching my boom!' and giggle."

I call my two-and-a-half-year-old over to show off his new talent: "Spawn, come here, please!"

"Yeah, mom?" Spawn shouts as he runs over to us.

"Hey, buddy. Whatever you do, don't touch your bum!"

Spawnling looks a bit confused. "...I not touching it."

Realizing my son hasn't figured out our reverse psychology game, I say "Spawn, whatever you do, don't touch your bum!" and add a nearly legitimate sounding "Hahaha!" for good measure.

Spawn's eyes narrow and his mouth turns up in a grin. Finally, he's figured it out.

But things turn so quickly I don't see the next play coming. He picks up an empty Diet Pepsi can. "I not touching my boom, mom!" He giggles as he puts the can on his groin. "I touching my peeeenis! My peeeeeenis! Look, mom! Look, Pixie! I touching my penis! I touching it!."

Spawnling: 1

The Maven: 0, as per usual. A formidable opponent, that child is.

How To Be Cool in the 80's

Back in my elementary and high school days, when I was being horribly teased and/or set on fire, I often fantasized about what it would be like to be awesome. Naturally, I figured if I was awesome, I would be rid of my tormentors and could even show them up a little.

The only problem is that I had no idea what awesome was. In fact, it wasn't even a word we used often back in the Jurassic period when I went to school. We used words like "cool" and maybe "bitchin'".

Or maybe not; I could just be wishing we used "bitchin'" because it's a great word. I'd like to try and incorporate it into my daily vocabulary if at all possible.

With seemingly no inner awesomeness to draw on, I desperately looked for images that portrayed what I thought I had to achieve in order to be accepted and admired. I looked to movies and television shows first, of course. And, as I discovered, in the 80's you had to do the following things to be awesome:

• Have a great deal of money, or at least be able to fashion a polka dotted dress together in your run-down ghetto house that would blow away all the rich girl's outfits at the prom, thus showing that you could be just as successful at attracting a cute boy as those blond bitches (virtually all mean and popular girls in 80's movies were blond)
  
• Have very hot friends who are filled with drama, but who love you, but will steal your boyfriend, but will confront you on your eating disorder, but will rat you out to the teacher for cheating on the math final
  
• Said friends are 35 but are supposed to be 17. However, it's important to ignore that fact and all pretend you're young and hip and don't need face lifts to play your roles
  
• Meet every day at a regular restaurant with a catchy name, like The Peach Pit, and an owner who is heavily involved in the lives of his teen regulars without being a pedophile - we think
  
• When going for geek, look like Poindexter, complete with glasses and suspenders, but be willing to revamp your entire style, shedding even the much-needed spectacles and pant holders, all to win the love of a beautiful cheerleader who mysteriously wants you more than all the hot jocks
  
• Be the guy who's rebellious enough to hold on to the back of a Ford pickup as he skateboards to school - late, I might add - while simultaneously spending most of your free time with a creepy old scientist who steals plutonium from terrorists and butchers a perfectly good Delorean
• Have a horrible accent, hang out with a guy with a completely different horrible (or horribly done) accent, and magically win a Karate tournament against - wonder of wonders - the bully at school who likes the same girl you do!
  
• Be naked, from the future, have big muscles and - I'm starting to see a pattern here - a horrible accent, which only accentuates the 18 words you use throughout your killing spree
  

So, basically, all I had to do was get a skateboard, a sewing machine, rip my backbone out so I could make speedy fashion and personality changes ethical dilemmas, and hang out with crazy old men who would put me in precarious situations.

I managed to try skateboarding a few times. I also accepted a ride from an old man once but he kept putting his hand on my knee and never once mentioned martial arts, so I got out of the car.

In truth, I had no idea how to be cool, but what I was really great at was finding all the reasons why I didn't measure up to my peers. I was probably a bigger bully to myself than they were to me, which lead to my suicidal tendencies, excessive drinking, excessive, well, everything... And thus began the downward spiral.

On Saturday, June 13th, 2009, I will have 18 years of sobriety. Believe it or not, someone can go their entire adulthood and the bulk of their teen years with nary a drop o' the spirits, nor a puff of the leaf, nor any other mood altering substances, and yet still manage to be this insane. I have proven it and am oddly proud.

I've been very pensive this week as I think about my entire thirty-two years on the planet, including the fourteen prior to hitting rock bottom. This happens before every sobriety anniversary. It's a good thing, because it makes me more grateful for what I have - three beautiful kids, a great husband, wonderful family and friends - because I wouldn't have any of this if I hadn't embraced recovery. I would, like, suck at life. Or maybe I'd be dead. And worse, if I wasn't dead I would definitely be harried and ugly with tattoos I can't remember getting and a really bad shade of blond in my unwashed hair. Gross.

Good thing I'm sober and hot.

More importantly, I want to thank the Powers That Be for bestowing upon me the greatest of gifts: the realization that I am actually quite awesome. Extremely awesome. Radiantly awesome. All on my own, without the need to be something I'm not, and without living in Beverly Hills. I don't need any external factors to make me the great person I am today.

...Although the new phone and hot pink iPod do add something. I mean, seriously - they make me look cooler. Now if only I could build a time machine I could then bring them back and hand them to Loser Maven, who could walk around school flashing them for a day. Nothing like saying 'It's like a Walkman that holds about 200 mixed tapes, and it's from the future!' to win friends and influence people.

Bitchin'.

Love Means Killing Yourself Jogging

Guys. Wow. You know, I joke about being popular and loved and everything, but 20 comments about my fat day? I can't possibly thank each and every one of you individually. You're too much. You're awesome. You're incredible.

You may start construction on my statue any time. And while you're working on it, think you could shape my ass to be a wee bit more muscular? If we're going to immortalize me for all time, let's do it in style, okay?

Honestly, I'm feeling the love and I am extremely grateful. My mom's post made me cry (stupid moms and their powerful words of wisdom) as did a couple of others. Some others made me sad because people who are obviously beautiful don't always have the best body image. Why? Why don't you think you're totally hot? You are. Embrace it! When I'm your size I'm going to be checking myself out in every reflective surface. I mean, damn!

At any rate, that day was what I needed to get on track. This week I hiked, I worked in the yard, I did some weights and I avoided buying any junk food. I did sneak in a few chips at a BBQ (mandatory) and some chocolate-covered fruit (a little compromise I came up with when I was in the mood for my once-upon-a-time daily intake of chocolate) but overall I've done well without complete deprivation. I like.

Today I didn't have to do The Denim Dance, which is basically me hopping into my jeans and then wiggling back and forth while sucking in my gut and forcing the button closed. Once that's done the zipper is a piece of cake, but at what cost? The buttons get very loose, and the muffin top needs to be hidden under a shirt with no waist (thank goodness for current fashion). Yet, this morning I slipped into my favourite pair of jeans with no problems whatsoever and just about humped the bedside table in delight.

What? You don't get the urge to hump things? Must be my dominating personality.

I keep checking myself out in the mirror, too. It's ridiculous. I'm noticing the shrinking double chin and, of course, the red hair. My life, at the moment, is all about the red hair. When I find my waist the red hair will step back to play a supporting role.

On Friday, Geekster and I attended a couple study at the University of Ottawa. Why? Because we want to help the next generation of lovebirds. Because we want to increase awareness of how relationships work. Because we want to help scientists figure out how successful couples co-exist.

And mostly because they paid $40 and it was a night out. We ran out the door when we were finished and had a nice dinner. Thank you, science!

The spouse and I spent about two hours answering questionnaires, playing cooperative games and trying to argue about important topics on camera. The result? We realized we're really bad at arguing as our communication skills are quite decent, and we've ironed out most of our differences over the last sixteen years anyway. Also, according to our answers on the questionnaires, we really love each other. Like, a lot.

A few of my friends are in new relationships and are in the cutesy-shmootesy stage. They get and receive dozens of emails, phone calls and texts a day saying how much Lovebug loves Teddybear. They get flowers "just because" and a lot of date nights where they get to find their new-ish partner's second favourite colour and, oh my god, it's the same as their own! It must be a match made in heaven!

After spending half my life with someone, I already know his second favourite colour, or I could at least take a very good guess. I don't find out something new about him every day, and most of our conversations over MSN involve asking if I can put the trash out or if he can pick up some bread on the way home from work. It's the reality of a long term relationship involving the hatching and care of gremlins and the paying of mortgages; the cuteness is replaced by "please pass the cereal box when you're done" or "did you really need to buy that?"

But the upside, of course, is that we've practically grown up together and thus are thicker than thieves. Even if we were terribly different at first, we've now grown into this festering mass of co-dependency. Other than the fact that I have hair and a few extra pounds on me, we're pretty much the exact same person. We like the same shows, we like doing a lot of the same things, we nod in approval to each other's musical tastes. We never argue about what to eat for dinner, whether we should brew decaf or regular coffee, and our parenting styles are practically interchangeable, meaning the kids are going to save at least half of what they could spend on therapy bills; The same issue twice over is way cheaper than two separate traumas.

Yep. When the university team has a look at our answers and recorded interview, they're going to see exactly what the future has in store for them if they continue to swap spit with the same person for many years. Also, they'll hopefully check out a couple of seasons of How I Met Your Mother, which I recommended a few times by looking in the camera. When arguing with your soulmate in the name of science just isn't happening, why not play a quick game of "Remember when they said this? Hilarious! Oh, sorry Camera. Have you watched that show? You really should."

I'm still a sucker for a good love story, however, and have been getting my fix visiting the websites of him and her. They're adorable. Almost sickeningly. In fact, I puke a little in my mouth every time I read of another fantastic/magical/glorious/fairy-dusted weekend (I try to eat something grape-flavoured first. Grape is delish even coming back up). They seem like very normal people, unlike yours truly. I probably scare them being all groupie like, but that's the chance you take when you put your life up on the internets for the world to see. You might end up getting an old married broad sighing over your sweet little nothings to each other.

Disgusting. That's what it is. Absolutely disgusting!

(I hope there's more tomorrow.)

Also, I have to mention that I just ran 1.91 miles. And by "ran" I mean jogged, and by "jogged" I mean about 2/3 of that, while taking walking breaks to gasp for air with my fat-laden, asthmatic lungs.

I'm going to call it "interval training", which sounds significantly better than what I just wrote.

Being a hot bitch is really hard work, you know.

In Which The Maven Feels Portly

I'm just going to put this out there: I'm having a fat day.

Picture the garden of Maven: It's lush and colourful and balanced. Sustainability is coupled with bursts of flare, and everything important grows where it needs to. Normally entire crops of Awesomeness take over if I'm not careful. It's a bit of a problem, really, but as someone once told me, you can never have enough awesomeness in your garden.

Alright, so nobody told me that. Does it really matter? Stop fixating on fictional life gurus and let's get back to the metaphoric garden.

Anyway, little seeds of insecurity get planted around the Maven garden from time to time. Normally the Awesomeness plants grow so tall that they suffocate Nititus Insecuritas, but under the right growing conditions, these pesky little suckers take root and hold on tight for a day or so.

This is one of those days.

The seed was planted on Tuesday night when I went out with a couple of the girls. Skinny girls. They would say they aren't skinny, but their waists are literally half of mine, so that makes them skinny in my books. They can shop in normal stores for clothes that look cute. I shop in plus-size stores looking for something to cover me up and tuck me in. The clothes might be nice, but they're twice the price and the selection is limited, and in the end I'm still fat. Where's the justice?

But no matter. That in itself wasn't a horrible evening. While I did notice my glumness when sitting in the corner of a store with jeans that probably wouldn't even do up around my neck, I picked up at dinner and had a great time. I have made it a priority to chose close friends who are supportive and non-judgmental. It's how I roll. And I can do that, being ever so popular and all.

The next morning was phone time. Obviously I needed a new phone to compliment my red hair. I am female, after all. I picked out this one, which also has one of those slide out keyboards that makes for rapid texting. One new celly and the addition of unlimited texts later, and I have officially become one of those people. And I like it. I like it a lot. Ka-chow!

What did the last paragraph have to do me feeling fat? Absolutely nothing. I just wanted to brag a little bit. Onward.

With my new cell in hand, I joined a couple of friends for iced coffee. Spawnling played near traffic until we bribed him with a giant cookie, which I believe will encourage him to go near the road more often now. (He gets his smarts from yours truly.) The friends I was with are gym goers who work out, eat well and basically take care of themselves.

I do not do two of those things. You can decide which ones.

In the end, I sat there feeling rather frumpy and dumpy and slumpy (bad posture, you know. Comes with not working out).

The seed that was planted now had some fertilizer. Fan-freaking-tastic. My Awesomeness crop started shifting over to make room for what was about to shoot up from the ground.

Today I went to a birthday party. It was a lot of fun, and, as birthday parties usually go, there were many pictures taken. And, as pictures usually go, there were some of me that made my skin crawl. Specifically, the ones from the shoulders down, where my stomach protruded in a massive mushroom cloud above my nice new capris as I sat stuffed into a lawn chair.

Control panties are a huge rip-off, and I want my money back.

There's nothing particularly wrong with these pictures. They portray me as I actually look. And that, I suppose, is the problem. See, when I take pictures of myself I usually stand in front of a mirror in good lighting and snap 25 photos that all look pretty much the same. Then I pick my favourite, throw a filter or two over it, alter the colouring, crop it a little and voila! A very natural picture of yours truly.

I do have a rather large spare tire. I know I do because I can see it when I look down. So I cover it up the best I can and try to only look at myself when I'm standing. I try to only take pictures of myself when standing. I try to step out of the way and/or hide behind other people and/or be the one taking the picture at any event, lest my spare tire be photographed and viewed for all eternity.

It's not like people don't know I'm overweight. It's not like they don't see it, or I don't see it. I guess I just don't like to see what other people see when I'm sitting around with my hands on my muffin top.

(I said muffin top. Top. Pervert. You're thinking of some other blog with a warning on it. That is not this blog. I only write somewhat inappropriate stories here, okay?)

I don't know what my issue is. Maybe I'm straddling the denial line and I occasionally get thrust over it, winding up in a place where I can clearly see that I'm not as healthy or pretty as I'd like to be. Maybe, like my husband claims, I see myself as larger than other people do, which would make sense seeing that I battled eating disorders in my teens and early twenties. Trading one addiction for another? Who ever heard of such a thing?

A couple of months ago I did something very brave: I stopped dieting. I stopped calorie counting. I stopped working out in the name of body hatred. I stopped beating myself up for my weight. I got smart and I began to let go. I told myself I could eat whatever I wanted whenever I wanted without guilt, while at the same time taking an honest look at why I was eating it. If it was because I was having a bad day - a stay-at-home-mom to three boys having a bad day? Nonsense! - I would try to be aware of that without judgment, and make a conscious choice to continue eating emotionally or put the chip bag down.

I gained about ten pounds.

I figured that might happen and is part of the healing process, but it's not exactly conducive to feeling good about myself, is it? When I first read the numbers on the (stupidstupidshittyawful) scale, I just about fashioned a noose out of rainbow licorice and did myself in on the spot.

Instead, I took a deep breath and promised I would trust the process.

Trust the process.

Trust the damn process.

Lately, for the first time in my life, I'm finding that I don't really want to eat junk very much. This is a massive change and something that I hoped would happen if I just let go. I'm relieved to know I was right.

I did something to reward myself: I added up all the money I used to spend on junk food which is, believe it or not, about $150 every month - still no clue how I got so chubby. Then I bought my new phone for just under one month of junk food expenditure. I then upped my monthly mobile bill from $22 to $42. That's $20 more than I normally spend, but still a whopping $130 less than I would spend on junk.

In the end, I come out $130 ahead, minus maybe the odd snack when the mood really strikes. And to be honest, it doesn't strike often now that I don't find chocolate naughty anymore. The naughty factor made it all the more appealing, like that badass guy who rides a bike. If he starts driving a Volvo he gets laid a lot less. Just sayin'.

I think I'm on the road to becoming a frequently texting, less mouth stuffing, healthier me. The crop of Awesomeness will hopefully shun the nasty Nititus Insecuritas plant, making it run away crying to the nearest chip truck. Meanwhile, I'll just keep working on loving me for me and accepting the numerous compliments from the crazies who think I'm, well, kind of wonderful.

And sometimes I believe them. Not today, but sometimes.

Well, usually. Almost always, actually.

I must get 6.5 hours of interrupted beauty sleep now. Thanks for letting me prune the garden a little. I do feel better.

The Red Fox

I would have written earlier, but I was busy making myself into a redhead.

My husband will be thrilled. He has a thing for redheads, including Alyson Hannigan from Buffy and How I Met Your Mother. I've had various hues upon my scalp over the years, including a rebellious shade of purple and an eye molesting hot pink. Red is a colour I've dipped my locks into a few times, but have always shied away from a longterm affair due to a lifetime of blemishes.

It's simple: if the hair is red it will accentuate red in the face. Guess what else is red? That's right: pimples.

You passed. You get a cookie.

But now I'm using one of those ridiculously expensive facial systems that treat the acne I'm not supposed to have because I'm in my 30's. It's working fairly well and, despite my mug's odd zit fit, lately I'm looking more like someone who can sport any hair colour she damn well chooses. And it's about time, too.

I asked Pixie if she'd like to come run her fingers through my hair this morning, which actually meant 'keep my toddler busy while I run my own fingers through my hair by bleaching and colouring my unruly coif, then come to Wal-mart and watch the boy systematically destroy the toy section while I get a cut. We cool?'

She fell for it. I am so good.

The end result is what you see above. And, although I don't quite look like Alyson, that's okay because she's married to some dude in Hollywood so my husband has absolutely no chance with her. He'll have to settle for me, the Red Fox.

Look out, here comes the Red Fox. Ka-chow!

Okay, that nickname just isn't working out the way I wanted it to.

Spawnling has been a bit of a handful lately, albeit an unbelievably funny one. The interesting thing about having a two-and-a-half-year-old with a rich vocabulary is that he not only thinks like a toddler, but can vocalize those thoughts very well. For example, today I wouldn't give him a third helping of grapes. (Organic grapes are really, really expensive. Alright?)

The Maven: I'm sorry, Spawnling, but you can't have more grapes. Do you want some toast instead?

Spawnling: No! I want grapes! Give me some!

The Maven: No, Spawnling. No more grapes.

(It's important to know that The Spawn likes to think out loud, and almost all his naughty thoughts and schemes begin with "Okay")

Spawnling: Okay, I will dump everything out of the fridge.

The Maven: No you won't.

Spawnling: Okay, I will yell at you: You can go put calories in your mouth!

The Maven: ... Um, did you just tell me I can put calories in my mouth?

Spawnling: Yes! I did!

The Maven: Um... Thanks. I think.

Spawnling: No. You don't.

*Sounds of Geekster cracking up in the other room*

This morning, before school, Gutsy wanted a car that Spawnling was using. I asked Spawn if he could give his brother a turn:

The Maven: Spawn, can you give Gutsy a turn with that, please?

Spawnling: No, I can't.

The Maven: I think it would be nice of you to give him a turn, don't you?

Spawnling: No, it wouldn't.

The Maven: Spawn, give you brother a turn for two minutes before he goes to school.

Spawnling: Okay. Here you go, stupid brother.

There were a few of you who, before the boy was born, suggested I call Spawnling something other than, well, "Spawnling". You said the name was not befitting of a sweet little newborn.

You were right.

However, newborns grow really fast and become toddlers. And most toddlers I know - especially this one - fit that nickname beautifully.

I like being right.

Rockin' the Texts and Templates

Like the stockings? That's me on my deck drinking a coffee. I'm so Punky Brewster meets Beetlejuice, aren't I?

Okay, that's not actually me. But it could be me if I were outwardly funky and had nicer legs, which is why I chose it to be the new look for my blog.

Just felt like switching things up a little bit. And when The Maven wants something technical done, she looks no further than the office-turned-hobby-sound-studio where her husband sits in all his glory amongst instruments and editing equipment we probably can't afford.

He owes me big time. I feel no guilt dragging him over to my computer on a Saturday night because I've impulsively decided to change my blog's template. It's what he signed up for, being married to me and all. He knew what he was getting himself into.

However, someone who didn't know what she was getting herself into was me, when I wrote Thursday's post about getting naughty on the celly. Who knew so many people would take me up on the offer to sex me up wireless style?

After I admitted my complete and utter devastation over Pixie's poor reply to my very first dirty text message, I decided to go make myself buff by doing some pilates. Obviously if I'm not getting any sexting action it's because I'm not hot enough, right? Right. A few core exercises would give me the body I need to get the dysfunctional attention I so obviously crave. Right? Right.

It was then, in the middle of the third set of crunches, that I had my very first sizzling phone message from none other than AngelMama, my pregnant and obviously hormonal friend. What a sweetheart to do that. So very thoughtful! I was touched. Well, not actually touched because it was over the phone.

Emotionally fondled, if you will.

("Fondled" is probably not the word I should be using, as rumours could circulate as to my part in her pregnancy. I swear that, while I do have a large penis, I did not contribute in any way to her condition. We are strictly friends who occasionally - and by that I mean once - send each other dirty texts.)

At any rate, it was great. I got what I wanted while feeling both empowered and progressive. Go team Maven! I threw down the weights and switched from yoga pants to jammies. Being healthy is for suckers and people who aren't hot by default, anyway. I required no more validation than that little bleep on my phone. Cherry popped and mission completed. Back to being a dull suburban mom who justifies her monthly cell phone bill by getting bi-monthly emergency calls from the school.

Breakfast came at 9:30 yesterday morning. I sat with two of my friends who are known to be some of those people. You know, those people. I ranted about them in my last post: the ones who are only interested in your physical presence in between firing off and receiving text messages on their expensive gadget phones.

The conversation went something like this:

Them: Read your blog. Are we some of those people?

The Maven: Totally. I mean, I love you guys and everything, but not all of us live by our phones. Some of us just have them around in case the school calls or... *phone vibrates in my pocket*... Hang on a sec. What? She wants to do what with my... ? Oh my. That's really naughty! Anyway, what was I saying?

Them: Was that just a *gasp* text message?

The Maven: Actually that was a sext message, if you want to get technical, because someone felt bad for me. But whatever; it was only one. Not multiples, like you guys, who can't breathe outside without your *phone vibrates in my pocket*... Uh... Oh. Ohh. Heh heh! That's naughty.

Them: *Looking at latest text* Let me see... I get the first part, but what does 'towel time' mean?

The Maven: Uh, no clue, but I'm sure raunchy and that's all that matters. Just so you know, this never happens. I never get more than one text, like, a week, let alone in under two minutes. Heck, I don't even have my phone charged most of the time.

Them: Uh-huh.

The Maven: Seriously! That was a total fluke. Anyway, tell me about your *Phone vibrates in hand*... Yikes. You can't even read that one. I probably shouldn't have read it, either. *Phone vibrates again* ... Wow. I'm just going to leave this on the table, okay?

Ask, and ye shall receive. And receive. And receive.

I even got another couple tonight. XUP told me my blogging is hot. She must know that the way to my heart is through my writing... Or chocolate covered almonds.

I also have to mention that Pixie did redeem herself as one of the Friday morning sexters. She lost her chance to be my first, but I think we can still salvage our friendship. She might need to buy me a few coffees to heal the wounds of rejection, but we'll make it.

I have had the funniest couple of days thanks to stream of texts buzzing their way onto my phone. Thank you so much, you gutter crawling perverts. You've not only caused me to laugh at innapropriate times in innapropriate places, but you've upped my street cred with Geekster. He's now seeing me as the sext goddess I truly am.

Or can be.

Or basically begged to be in a blog post that sounded so desperate people felt bad and gave me pity sext.

Alright, so I'm not very sexty at all. I get it. I hijacked the train into The Land of Make Believe and I'd like to hide out here for a while, if that's okay.

In my real life I drive a minivan, you know.

Enough said.