Fake nipples and Frankenveins

So I'm walking down the street the other day and some guy gives me a look. Then I realize what's happened. I'm wearing a hoodie under a thin coat, and hoodies have strings, with knots at the ends, which end up strategically placed near the nipple area under said coat. So it looked like I had giant nipples. Mystery solved.

It's strange what time off can do to a person what with the mental space that opens up when you're not caught in your daily routine. My boyfriend and I were on vacation last week in downtown Montreal. About mid-week, I decide to ask him for advice about something I'd been tossing around in my mind.

You see, I have a Frankenleg, or in other words, varicose veins, which apparently, is hereditary. I guess it's better than inheriting a high probability of getting breast cancer and having to chop off my boobs. Oh Angie... But I digress. It's not gotten to the point where the mere sight of my legs frightens little children but it's just enough to start being somewhat noticeable, to me, and possibly no one else. But still.

My family physician referred me to a vein clinic almost two years ago but I didn't really follow up because I saw it as some kind of possibly risky cosmetic surgery and, at the time, wasn't bothered enough by the tiny bulge in the back of my left leg to do anything about it.

Fast forward almost two years later, on a downtown Montreal street. The boyfriend thinks it's probably like getting a tooth filling - not a big deal. I sense he's right. And then I get sucked into the rabbit hole. I must have my leg fixed NOW.

I look up the clinic on the Internet and do some reading. The procedure to get rid of the frankenveins is pretty straightforward, like getting a tooth filling. It's too late to call the clinic that evening so I'm up early the next day making a long distance call because I want an appointment as soon as possible so I can fix my leg in time for summer.

"How about 3 pm on August 29th" says the woman from the clinic. "Sure", I say. Just in time for... fall.  I have to wait three months. I feel completely deflated. I mean, I made the appointment, which was good, but three months! Three summer months of shorts wearing! The horror!

At this point, the obsessing intensifies. The full length mirror in our hotel room doesn't help one bit. I don't have one of those at home so I don't see my full legs very often. But now I do, and I stare, and scrutinize and judge and am horrified. It utterly consumes me.

We see these super cool international dance shows while in Montreal and all I can think is "look how perfect their legs are. I wish mine looked like that."

It's strange how the mind works, once it decides to notice something, and focus on it intently. I would imagine that comes in handy when you're trying to achieve goals but not so much when you'd just like to turn off the switch.

Then my boyfriend asks me: "Has anyone ever pointed it out to you?" "No", I say. "When I spoke of it with friends, I actually had to show them my Frankenleg because they hadn't noticed anything". "Uh-huh", he says. Message received. Sometimes, the sheer depth of my superficiality scares me.

We need to talk about poo

You know, back in the day, when women didn't really talk about "that time of the month" and a girl got her first period, and she thought she was dying, because bleeding from a bodily orifice is usually a bad sign? Well, I experienced something very similar.

Unless you're a new parent, no one is talking about poo. For some reason, poo is taboo. No one likes talking about the plumbing, you know? And until recently, it wasn't at the top of my list, either.

Once upon a time, a girl is going about her morning "business" when she notices a red-coloured ooze emanating from the product of her elimination. It wasn't bright red but more of a diluted blood colour with a pinkish hue. Being the hypochondriac that she is, said girl feels absolute dread settle into every bone in her body as she is now convinced of her imminent death by painful and swift acting gut cancer... or something.

She then starts to rationalize, trying desperately to dig herself out of this black hole of despair. Perhaps it's those new "moist wipes" she started using which frankly, only serve to dry out the tender skin of such a sensitive area. That must be it. Dry skin, friction of substance exiting body through tiny, tiny space. The next day, the girl saw an improvement and was quite relieved. By the following day, the situation seemed to have resolved itself. Those damn wipes! So she stopped using them. Problem solved.

Two weeks later, it happens again. Out of the blue, for no apparent reason, and the girl can no longer blame the wipes. "Sweet Mother of God!" the girl tells herself. "I AM dying!" as she imagines her insides slowly seeping out of her derrière, bit by bit, as the cancer liquefies everything in its path. She decides it's time to call the family physician.

A week later, at the doctor's office, the girl prefaces the discussion with "I apologize for the nature of the conversation we're about to have." Luckily, the doctor puts her at ease right away. Apparently, she talks about poo a lot, par for the course in her line of work. This is good, the girl thinks to herself, and she begins to convey her tale of woe.

The doctor asks her if she's been experiencing any other symptoms to which she replies: "no". Actually, the girl feels very well, even better than usual since switching to a low-gluten diet. Hmm. The doctor checks "the area". No signs of trouble.

Then she asks: "Did you eat beets around the time of these strange occurrences?". The girl ponders the question and traces back her steps. "Yes! Yes, I did!". The doctor then informs the girl that beets can turn your poo the colour of, well, beets which is kind of a dark pink, almost reddish colour, which could, perhaps, be mistaken for oh, I don't know, BLOOD.

Relief washes over the girl as the true source of her abnormal poo is revealed. For good measure, the doctor sends the girl for blood tests, which come back completely normal.

The girl then decides to regale a few lucky friends with her shitty tale to which one of them replies: "Oh yeah, that happens. I eat a lot of beets." WTF? This is why it's important to talk about poo. 

How I accidentally Instagrammed my cooch

I get an e-mail from Twitter titled "Because you have more to show". Am I to assume Twitter is encouraging me to post photos of myself scantily clad, in provocative positions?

I mean, I'm no Demi Moore in a bikini in my bathroom, desperately trying to hold on to my failing marriage by proving how hot I am via Twit Pic, but I might gain more followers. Ok Twitter, you're on. I might crash your site. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Having to pee can kinda ruin a spa appointment. I was recently traveling on business and had a few hours of downtime so I scheduled an overpriced facial at the hotel where we were staying. Once our meeting concluded for the day, I was heading back to my room when a couple colleagues sitting at the bar spotted me and called me over. Come over here! Have a drink! I had about an hour and a half to kill before my spa rendez-vous.

Two cosmos later, I'm racing to the spa to get there on time. I'm a little tipsy due to the alcohol and general fatigue but figured this will just add to my relaxation. I'd gone to pee twice since arriving at the spa, before my appointment even began. On occasion, I can drink numerous cosmos without consequence. This was not one of those times.

About 15 minutes into my appointment, I realize I have to piss like a race horse. But I don't want to interrupt. I'm in some kind of spa tunic, under covers with a wet towel on my face. I don't want to piss off the spa lady. So I suck it up and wait it out.

The facial felt quite nice but let's face it, I was distracted by my bulging bladder. F*ck. After what felt like an eternity, the treatment mercifully came to an end. I headed for the lavatory. Ahhhhh....... sweet relief. I did feel incredibly relaxed and my face had a certain glow. So it wasn't a total loss. But for that much money, I really wanted to be present, you know? Damn those cosmos, they sure were tasty.

I must have been inebriated because I forgot to leave a tip. How gauche. I only thought of it hours later, in a haze of red wine and port, and figured by then, it was too late. I can never show my face there again.

Best quote ever: "This party is so lame, it makes me want to cut myself again."

Like I would ever Instagram my cooch, even accidentally. What is wrong with you people?

G-strings, hamsters and global warming

I realized yesterday I've become one of those girls, you know, the ones whose G-string pops up over their low-waist pants every time they sit down or bend over. Yep. That's me.

I've managed, however, to avoid the full-on plumber's butt 'cause, I mean, I have standards. They're pretty low (waisted) ha! but not trailer trash low. More like upper middle class suburban pot dealer low. Not that I deal pot, 'cause I don't, Mr. Policeman. (They're watching me.)

I bought a couple pairs of jeans at American Eagle the other day and got their AE Rewards card, so I get points whenever I buy stuff there, and I also get 15% off purchases during the entire month of my birthday. Man, these guys know how to turn you into a consumer whore 'cause you know I'm gonna eat that shit up and be there EVERY DAY of my birthday month. Suckers.

Did you know hamsters eat their babies? I thought of this as I was pondering how much I dislike menstruation. Go figure.

Know what I hate? When you get a flavored Starbucks latté and all the sweet stuff sinks to the bottom. It tastes pretty good until you get to those last few sips. Then, your face contorts as an unexpected onslaught of syrupy flavoring overwhelms your taste buds. It's gross. Starbucks, please fix this.

Why do people get headaches when it rains? They say it's because the pressure in the air shifts or something. But aren't we always under pressure, you know, 'cause of gravity?

If a fart is silent, does anybody hear? Like those dog whistles that only dogs can hear.

With about 7 billion people on the planet, why haven't we suffocated from our own gaseous emanations?  I mean, with that many people, someone's farting every second of every day. It's like the cows and their methane.

That shit is so toxic, it's causing global warming, mostly so we can scarf down Big Macs. If fast food didn't exist, there would be less cows, and therefore, less methane, leading to less greenhouse gases causing a reduction in global warming. Holy shit, did I just solve global warming? I ROCK.

She held her breath

So I'm watching 30 Rock the other night when Tina Fey unveils another of her comic gems: snart. What is a snart, you ask? When one sneezes and farts at the same time.

C'mon, no need to be shy about it, we all know it's happened to us at least once in our lifetimes. And with the force of the sneeze, it's possible even a little poop shot out too. Hmm. What would that be? A spnart?

Speaking of bodily functions, have you ever been sitting in your cubicle, minding your own business, thinking: "If I fart right now, it'll be silenced by my cushy office chair"?

Well, I've thought that, and this one time, I let one rip, right into my chair, only to have the sound rebound off the chair into the surrounding perimeter, causing a brief but loud cacophony, followed by silence. The person in the neighbouring cubicle must have heard something but politely went about her business.

When you have to puke and poop at the same time, how do you prioritize? Which do you need to find first? A sink or a toilet? I'm thinking toilet since shit would be way more disgusting to clean up than vomit.

Although, it would really depend on the content and scent emanating from the vomit. Maybe some puke is grosser than feces. I mean, I kinda know what to expect from poop but how am I supposed to remember all I've ingested in the past 24 hours that could come hurling back up? I can barely remember what happened this morning.

You know what really sucks? Having gas cramps when you're teaching yoga. First off, my distended belly looks like a second trimester baby bumb. Then, I have to keep my posterior cheeks squeezed fairly tight to prevent gaseous emanations from escaping as I lead others into enlightened bliss. It's happened once or twice when, despite my efforts, some squeak escaped and I prayed my students thought it was a creak in the floor.

Why do chicks pretend they never fart? You know what happens to people who never fart? Well, I don't either but I suspect bad things happen, that's what. I mean, do guys really think that "real girls" don't let one rip once in a while? I think they would prefer a fart buddy. I mean, how cool would it be for a guy to brag to his buds that he lit up blue angels with his girl last night?