Real Woman on the Run

Hot With A Capital T

Sun, 10 Aug 2008 16:26:01 +0000

Meet the latest girl group to hit the music scene.

Girlicious.

Chrystina. Nichole. Natalie and Tiffanie.

Singing catchy tunes like "Stupid Shit" and "Like Me". The website biography boasts the new group is "Hot with a Capitol T. And when you're that delicious, you become girlicious."

Just what the world needs. Another choreographed playboy bunny singing group.

The costumes they wear in the "Stupid Shit" video (yes, I wasn't being sarcastic - it really is the song title) consist of faux school girl uniforms - plaid micro-mini skirts that bounces up when they walk to show frilly white underwear. Tummy baring white button up tight shirts with ties and crests on the pocket and knee high socks. They sing through a chain link fence and growl at the camera, giving their best 'attitude' and sex appeal and rub up against the bars.

A quote on their bio gives a description of their music. “Like Me” is a Jazze Pha-produced urban-pop gem that is guaranteed to melt radio waves, the smooth-as-silk vocals popping from a thick, deep groove you can get low and “bump your booty to,” according to Tiffanie. “Stupid Shit,” produced by Beau Dozier and Stefanie Ridel (with Antin and Fair as Executive Producers), turns the heat up a few notches, flirting with raciness and a subtle raunchiness, and exuding an edgy sexuality that encourages you to “bang your knees, get low and booty pop.”

They have all the elements of modern day superstardom. Beautiful young women who can carry a tune performing a striptease without actually showing a nipple or taking off their panties. Okay - I am being a little hard on them. (the entertainment industry) I am quite certain they are perfectly lovely (and hard-working) young women who feel doubly blessed that they have found fame and fortune. And as 19 year old Nichole says, "We're really hot, too."

Sadly, for young women, that's the name of ..

It's The Little Things That Make a Beautiful Life

Fri, 25 Jul 2008 12:28:54 +0000

Going for a run in the cool of the night and feeling your legs burn and your heart pound.

A hot bath with perfumed soap, a yummy drink and a great book to read.

Squealing girls jumping through the sprinkler (although my neighbour might think they're annoying).

Stroking items off a to-do list.

Packing a bag and loading the van.

A fresh coat of paint on a wall that needs a change.

Great friends who call me, encourage me, challenge me and laugh with me.

Really talking to my almost 16 year old son (who most days thinks I am the single biggest freak on the planet) and reaching out to touch him without him recoiling like I have cooties.

Feeling like my jeans fit.

Having a best friend who knows all your shit and would never tell a soul.

The way the sun glistens on the water and the land is a gigantic patchwork quilt of greens, yellows, blues and browns.

A delightfully light lunch with mom.

Being invited to meet with friends for a drink on the patio.

Knowing that no matter what happens everything will be exactly as it will be... perfect.

The sun on my shoulders and uber-cool sunglasses.

Living a moment with intention, without assunptions, with faith, without expectations, with joy and without taking anything personally.

Breathing deep.

I'm on the up-swing.

My Shadow Self

Wed, 09 Jul 2008 13:27:10 +0000

I've been avoiding you.

All of you.

I've been keeping a secret from you, in the hopes that if I held my breath, kept the curtains drawn and the blankets over my head, eventually I'd come around and you'd be none the wiser.

But that's the thing about secrets. They don't like to be avoided. Or burried. They have a way of wriggling out from under you. And the harder you try to keep your secret under wraps - the more difficult it becomes to control.

"Anything you hide in the basement has a way of burrowing under the house and showing up on the front lawn." - Howard Sasportas

Secrets are dangerous, mostly to the keeper of the secret.

That's because the one who is keeping the secret mistakenly thinks that if anyone knew the truth, they might not be loved/valuable/respected anymore. Think of the abuse victim. The closet eater. The addict. The homosexual young person who doesn't feel as though they can tell anyone their truth.

Secrets are dangerous because they have to do with shame.

Shame is defined as a painful feeling arising from the consciousness of something dishonorable, improper, ridiculous, etc, done by oneself or another.

Shame is a poison that seeps from your mind through your body, invades every pore and leaves you feeling like an invisible plague. If people really knew the real you... you'd be abandoned, unforgiveable and unlovable.

Truthfully, secrets are most often nowhere near as bad as we think they are. We build them up to be so huge in our mind that the fear of being 'found out' is terrifying. The fear of someone knowing your secret can m ..

A Pound a Month for 13 Months

Fri, 27 Jun 2008 19:03:40 +0000

I enjoyed my yearly physical on Thursday. (Sarcasm, ladies.) I adore my doctor. He's a lovely, sensible fellow with dry wit and a very comfortable bedside manner. He's always very polite.

'Ok now Madam, here we go... cold, cold, cold.'

Once you've experienced the loss of all dignity and pooped on the delivery table during the expulsion of a 7pound 8oz baby (I'm over it now, that was six years ago... I think my husband suffered more shock at that moment than I), a cold speculum and an exam attendent (nurse) are nothing.

Spread 'em. Yeesh.

Much more disheartening was my pre-exam. Blood pressure - fabulous (132/74). Height 5'9 and 1/2 inches tall - (yes, most people think I am taller... it's my shoes.) Weight. (Oh for the love of - Ay - yi - yi... mamma mia.) The attending nurse compares this years weight with my weight at my last physical and we discover that I weigh 15 pounds more now.

Wow.

Whoop di do, you say. Kim, you look great the way you are. What's 15 pounds, you say? That's no big deal.

Set 15 one pound bars of butter on your kitchen counter and then tell me it's no big deal. That is one pound of butter stuck to my ass every month (plus!. 3500 calories. 16 ounces. Every month for a year. And not just caked to my ass - but around my thighs, my arms, my belly. My chin.

Ugh.

Not to mention - my omentum. (Watch Dr.Oz on Oprah anyone? - you'll know what a omentum is...) My heart. My pancreas.

What is it about seeing the actual number in black and white on the scale in front of you that is like someone punched you in the gut?

Bam. You're overweight by twenty pounds more than you should be. KA-POW! How's that feel? What's the matter, Kim? You look pale.

No shit, Dick Tracy.

Actually, I'm not ..

40 Bones, or 45??

Thu, 12 Jun 2008 12:22:35 +0000

I celebrated my 38th birthday last Saturday.

Woo-hoo me. I bought myself a pair of Tommy Hilfiger jeans from the Hudson's Bay Co. in Banff - and ONLY because they were a) long enough for my 35" inseam and b) because they were on sale for $55 - which I felt was reasonable for denim (given that the price tag originally said $109).

I received loving phone calls from my kids - and from three lovely friends that I adore... wishing me happy birthday and joyous moments for the new year and I relished the wonderful way being loved by my friends made me feel.

Then I came home - back to planet reality - and discovered a few things about my adult birthday years.

For example: One might consider the fact that I quite possibly have used up half of my life. Maybe more. 38 x 2 = 76. It is entirely possible that I will live to be 76. Maybe even 86.

So - I get back to my office Monday after time away with the man of my dreams (my husband) - start returning phone calls and emails to clients saying: "Sorry for the delay in getting back to you, I was away for a few days celebrating my birthday. Ya-da, ya-da, ya-da...'

One of my clients/acquaintances/friends (male) shoots me back an email that says - 'Your birthday?! 40 Bones or 45??'

Now obviously, he hasn't had lessons in the art of conversation with women. Especially women over 35. Either that or he is a horrible judge of age. Or he was out to tease me - which could be, too. (We'll see who's the jokester - next time he leaves the room when we're visiting I am going to spit in his coffee.)

Why was I insulted? Slightly. And I was shocked. Do I really look over forty?
Forty five???

More importantly - why do I think that there is something wrong with being over forty? - my sister Jenna, Alyson and Darlene ar ..

The Lap of Luxury

Fri, 06 Jun 2008 17:40:20 +0000

Here I am 'broadcasting' live from the Chateau Fairmont Lake Louise nestled in the forest. The location is over 110 years old and the entire hotel is essentially exquisite. Everything you see and touch is the essence of rich opulence. The art, the shops, the food, the PRICES. I've had the most marvelous day. I slept like a rock in a King size bed with the window open next to my head, high enough over the earth that the crisp snowy mountain air poured in and healed me while I slept. We jumped in a canoe and went across the lake and back. It is the most miraculous shade of blue; like the tropical waters you see in postcards of places you'll never get to. Just our luck, when we checked in the young woman said yesterday was the first day the ice was off the lake this year... Then we hiked almost 8 kilometres up the side of the mountain (my delight: I pushed myself to hike higher and further than I would ever have gone before due to my fear of being grotesquely mauled by a grizzly bear...) - high up into the dense bush on stiff mountain peaks where the paths are rocky and treacherous and the snow remains. When the clouds misted over us and snow appeared imminent, I forced my husband to turn around. We came back and grabbed a caramel mocha, ate dark espresso chocolate and then went for a swim - actually he swam (I HATE pools) and I meditated at the edge listening to the gentle splash of the water. Then I indulged in a glass of wine in a tub that is big enough for all four of my children with mirrors all around. I was initially horrified to see myself in 3D - like I want to witness my cellulite and stretch marks in surround sound... However hooray... be it known that when the room is worth 400 a night - the mirror make your butt actually look not entirely terrible. I was shocked. Tonight I am off to Walliser Stube for dinner at 8pm. Living in the lap of luxury - feeling horribly out of place - but completely content to fake it til I make it. To ..

No Map Required

Thu, 05 Jun 2008 07:11:08 +0000

Last February I won $1000 in gift certificates to stay in any Fairmont Hotel property worldwide. 16 months later, determined to use the gift certificates (the only reason I'd spend $399 a night on a hotel room would be because it didn't actually cost me anything) we're leaving tonight for Lake Louise.

I LOVE driving through the mountains. I LOVE the energy, the air, the life, the view. I love the way it makes me feel.

So I said to my husband as he left the house this morning, "I want to take the David Thompson highway tonight and travel through Rocky, Nordegg and then head down towards Lake Louise. We don't have a deadline.'

To which he responds. 'Okay, I'll stop at CAA get a map.'

"Why do you need a map?" I protest. "You've got a van full of maps. It's the mountains. There is only one road that direction... when it forks you either turn left towards Banff or right towards Jasper. You won't get lost. I don't want a map."

And so there is the truth.

I don't want a map.

Ever.

I don't enjoy planning. It's boring. It stifles my desire to explore and figure things out my own way.

Ask my mom, I called her on Monday morning at 7:50am from rush hour traffic in downtown Calgary saying, 'Okay I tried to find the Conference Centre twice but I think I need some help. Here's where I am - where do I go now?'

But that's okay for me.

I tried.

I failed.

I asked for help.

I figured it out.

That's the way I like to do my life.

I realize that it is not always the most effective way. Or the most responsible way. Or even the recommended way.

But it's my way.

And when I finally get where I knew I could get, without the map, the destination experience is that much sweeter.

If he brings home one more Alberta/BC map, I'm going to tie it around his neck like a cape and call him Super Nerd. (No offense to ..

Boob Crack

Sat, 24 May 2008 21:50:18 +0000

I will be 38 this summer.

I am acutely aware that I am too old for mini skirts. (The street sign on Stacy London's show 'What Not To Wear' says 'No Mini-Skirts After 35'. I have spider veins on my left leg this summer that I know I didn't have last year.

Yesterday, I tried on a dress (an A-DOR-able dress) and the hem rested about four good inches above a knee cap that suspicously resembled a potato that has been left in the back of a warm cupboard too long. Soft, wrinkly, with a couple of nobby things on it and sprouting whiskers. Yeech.

Other than the hem-line and Aunt Vera's legs, which I somehow inherited and she wasn't really my Aunt (I also got her large facial moles), the dress fit pretty good. It had solid shoulder straps in it, a delicate black bow sewn into the front and a great peek-a-boo slit in the chest, offering the illusion of cleavage without showing too much boob-crack.

You know, boob-crack. The space between the breasts that closes in and disappears about thirty seconds after you put on a bra, leaving more of a bum crack than a delightful valley between two solid, sloping mountains. (if you've been blessed with lovely tiny breasts, you may not be familiar with boob-crack).

Please understand, even though I may sound critical, I really do love and appreciate my breasts.

When I was sixteen they were outstanding really. Ripe and firm and perky with light brown nipples the size of quarters. When I got pregnant for the first time and gained 70 pounds my breasts of course, became the property of a nursing baby (and every nurse that grabbed them voraciously and tried to jam them into my newborn son's mouth).

My second baby took to nursing like a hotdamn. She nursed for one year exactly. My third nursed for a c ..

Over-Committed

Wed, 14 May 2008 19:33:33 +0000

There is no other way to say it...

I am a complete and total ass.

I am so pissed off at myself. Unprofessional. Rude. Forgetful. Delinquent. Childish. Inexcuseable. ARGH! There is absolutely no reason for my screw up. I am consistently pre-occupied. Disorganized. Free-falling in a world of deadlines and commitments, I am spinning out of control.

It pisses me off. Cause I did it to myself. I have overcommitted myself... to the point of jeopardizing relationships.

Not good.

Nothing is that important that personal or professional relationships will suffer.

What the heck am I trying to do? Or to prove?

A few weeks ago my dentist asked to see me regarding some ideas he had for the magazine for the readers. I said 'Suuuure. I'd Loooove to see you.' and promptly booked an appointment for the nearest Wednesday at 5:00pm.

What mother of four with two children in gymnastics until 5:00pm on Wednesdays books a business appointment for this exact time? This is the time marked on the daytimer: stirring supper. But Nooo. It's a perfect time for me, I said. And then I booked it and confirmed it.

Then I forgot it.

Crap.

So I sent an email. Sorry for the no-show Dr.AbsolutelyLovely. Forgive me. Can we try again?

Certainly he says. How about the next Wednesday?

Of course, I say. See you then. Thanks for the understanding.

The following Wednesday at 4:59pm - I was in the kitchen dialing the number to his office and leaving a voice mail message..."Hello Dr.AbsolutelyLovely, it's me, FreakyBusy, calling.... sorry for the short notice, but I cannot possibly make this appointment. Will reschedule."

Ten days later I receive a short email. Think I may have something ..

The Traffic Jam

Fri, 09 May 2008 18:44:29 +0000

Shamefully, I drive too fast.

The day long conference that I attended today, called Peanut Butter, Pearls and Politics ended at 4:00pm. I had it in my head that I could stop at Nutter's for my Greens Formula and be home by 4:30. (from doorstep to doorstep is 30km through city, freeway and then town) Once I hit the highway, if traffic and roads are clear I can make it to the city in about 15 minutes when necessary.

As I left the city, I heard Tim Day on KG commenting on the traffic conditions. He used words like "wierd" and "what's happening out there?" There was usual summer construction congesting the highway and traffic was plugged for a few slow miles, both main and secondary highways.

As traffic ground to a halt, I glanced nervously at the clock, 4:08... argh. I missed my kids. I wanted to get home. There were 11,000 vehicles in every direction around me and my speedometer read 22km/hr.

We inched along and ahead several hundred meters, I could see small sportscars zipping back and forth between lanes, making their way through the clog, pissing everybody off. The impatience was building. It was an energy you could feel. Stuck, jammed, clogged, angry energy.

Zing! Brainwave.

As I approached the Hiway 11 overpass to Sylvan Lake I called my husband and said, "Don't worry, but I am going to be late, there is a huge mess of a traffic jam on the highway. Hiway 2A East is backed up so I am going to head west, miss all this traffic and beat EVERYbody home!"

Na na na na na na! I am a genuis. I divert from the jam and pick up speed as I exit the freeway. 4:13. I am smart. You are dumb, I sing. Ha ha ha ha ha ha! I practically thumb my nose at them as I circle around and drive ..