Hot People Eat Muffin Tops for Breakfast

I know it's been a long time when blogger asks me for my password. And then I get it wrong. Twice.

I REALLY know it's been a long time when I have to check my blog to see what I last wrote about. You may (or may not) recall that it was about finally being comfortable in my skin.

But some recent events have suggested to me that perhaps I'm getting a little TOO comfortable in my skin.

It's been a fantastic summer - lots of drinks on the beach, lazing about on the water, and I've just finished up a really awesome vacation revisiting the east coast with my beau. Basically, the last month-ish has been an excess of nothing-much.

And it's (more than) starting to show. I went for a bike ride to a nearby park with my boyfriend yesterday. Though he was quick to point out that the bike I used wasn't a performance bike, was not meant to ride up big hills, didn't actually have brakes or speeds on it, this was not really enough to comfort me after I found myself in a heart-thumping, panting heap on the grass at the top of a big hill. Especially since I had actually walked the bike up the hill.

I'm finding myself backsliding and I don't like it. I'm busy, and as a result I'm sitting too much and eating too much food I didn't cook and the result is that sweaty, panting mass I described above. I thought I'd made some pretty foolproof resolutions in January, and by God, I'm going to stick to them come hell or high water or (most likely outcome:) frequent relapse.

I've started already - I've cooked three meals in a row with actual foods that came from an actual grocery store. I even put some in the freezer for later use. This is huge, people. And even though I spent most of yesterday evening sitting and cursing at my sewing machine, in the back of my mind I was thinking about going swimming today. And again later this week. And MAYBE for a jog. And this is the big thing. That bike ride (if you can even call it that) was a big wake up call for me. I've never been so obviously (to myself) out of shape. I NEED to do something. Not only because muffin tops are definitely not hot (and I'm less and less able to avoid them), but also because heart disease isn't either. And I see a lot of heart disease these days.

All of this brought me to one big conclusion. I need to get on that "do less" thing. Stat. Which means I'll have to use a word I hate to use. "No." And I don't mean that I need to learn to say no, and to put myself first, and blar-di-blar in one of those Oprah Magazine kind of ways. Saying yes has meant a lot of awesome things for me. I have not consistently had so much fun as I've had in the last year and a half of saying yes to just about everything that's come my way. It just mean I really have to consider the impact of saying yes. Everything I do, I have to resolve myself to consider whether saying yes to doing it will allow me to 1. make and eat actual foods 80% of the time, and 2. sustain the regular movement of my body in ways other than rolling over in bed.

Ok - let's do it.

Hot People Plan for the Future

Ok, before you start thinking that my penultimate post actually had some truth to it, stop panicking (like I would be). It's just that it's January, folks. Time to evaluate the past and plan for the future, hotness-wise.

It seems I was once again a steaming pile of failure at keeping my New Year's resolutions for 2010. Of the 5 that I had made, I managed to ACTUALLY only keep one - be employed. I've already discussed my feelings about plan ab-tastic and how it will continue into the future, but the remaining ones were sorely neglected. I can neither speak french fluently, nor reliably play any songs on my guitar. And though I downloaded all album suggested last year, and enjoyed them, I still have a soft spot in my heart for the truly terrible. Matchbox 20 and Hootie and the Blowfish still command a few bytes of space on my ipod.

But instead of abandoning these resolutions and languishing in my continued failure at being hot, I've come up with a cunning plan for this year's resolutions. I had some drinks with a few friends just over a year ago, and one of them finally said to me, "You know, the only thing that all hot people have in common is that they mostly just do whatever the hell they want." As a result, I've come up with 4 new resolutions that will catapult me, hopefully by January 2012, to a state of extreme hotness (or, doing-whatever-the-hell-i-want-ness). They will also, I believe, help me achieve those failed resolutions from last year as well.

1. Drink more. I have a two-pronged attack here. First of all, drinking more really means drinking more things that I like (and consequently, less of what's just ok). So, no more Rye & Diet Coke at the dance club in town just because it's an easy thing to remember. 2011 will usher into my life more wine, hard cider, and vodka/soda/lime. Prong two will involve making more cocktails at home in an effort to find my own signature drink. Plus nothing's hotter than a well-stocked bar, no? My liquor cabinet already features 4 different kinds of scotch. What else is a must-have, I wonder?

2. Eat more. This may sound counter-intuitive; just work with me here. I've spent much of the last year almost literally run off my feet. As a result, I make very few of my meals at home. As a further result, I have no leftovers to take to work. And as a concluding result, I frequently eat gross microwaved dinners for lunch, thus consuming pounds and pounds of salt and chemicals on a daily basis. So when I say eat more, I actually mean eat more FOOD. Like, food in the Michael Pollan sense of the word. This will be difficult, since, as I've mentioned, I'm pretty much run off my feet. Sooo....

3. Do less. The last 10 months, since moving to Northern Ontario, have been a massive exercise in insinuating myself upon the community. I did this by not saying no to anything (except the pipe band...and a few dates). Unfortunately, when you say yes to everything, people continue to ask you to do things, and you are often expected to continue to say yes. And the result is that you have NO TIME TO MAKE FOOD OR SLEEP OR WASH YOUR UNDERWEAR***. When all of these things happen at the same time, the result isn't hotness, as I'd hoped. It's usually that you walk around like a cranky-faced zombie all the time. Therefore, I've resolved to commit to only 3 regularly scheduled weekly events at a time, and will evaluate one-time offers on an individual basis, giving preference to those things that I REALLY REALLY WANT TO DO (I'm looking at you, dragon boat festival). Hopefully, this way, I'll have more time for cooking real food, doing real exercise, and wearing clean underthings.

4. Do more. I know what you're thinking..."isn't that in direct conflict with resolution #3?" Well, no. This one is about something different. In searching for that quest for hotness I've really had to consider whether an item or an activity was generally regarded as hot, or if it made me feel hot when I had it/did it. And when I considered it, I generally found that when I felt hot, other people found me hot as well. The necessary conclusion here is that I should do more things that make me feel hot. Like this:

<---- And also ziplining. And also skiing. And also making brownies. And since I've set aside time by doing less, I should have more time to do all this stuff. In conclusion, I'm a genius and I'll be hot in no time.










SERIOUS FACE -->


***Note: I've not yet worn dirty underwear. I HAVE stayed up till 3 a.m. doing laundry on a weeknight so I wouldn't have to wear dirty underwear though.

Hot People Admit Defeat

Alright - so you probably noticed a considerable lack of activity coming from this little corner of cyberspace. There are a few reasons for that.

But first, I have terrible news. Plan Ab-Tastic was a failure. I cannot say that my abs were rock hard by my twenty-seventh birthday. I can't even say they were on their way. I'm certainly not ready to post pictures. Sadness.

The good news is that I know why this has happened. The bad news is that I am solely and completely at fault here. In an effort to integrate myself into this community, a community I'm still reasonably new to, I took on a little too much. And by "a little too much," I mean that over the last two weeks, I've had commitments seven days per week. As a result, I've had little to no time for a. cooking actual food for myself, and certainly no time for b. moving my body any more vigorously than is required for playing the piano. Probably this has contributed to the anti-hardening of my abs, because if I want to be really honest with myself, my abs actually got softer in the last month and a bit.

Admitting defeat is harsh. I don't like it. However, if I consider the overall cost-benefit analysis, I think I gained so much more in terms of spiritual nourishment running around to rehearsals for eight billion different concerts and performances than I ever would have by losing the fat around my middle. So many people know my name now, and that was really part of the goal. I exceeded the legal capacity of my apartment with a party I threw for my own birthday. In the past month and a half I learned to play (quite well, also) 30+ reasonably challenging pieces on the piano - a talent I'd let go to seed when I was in university. So the time hasn't been a waste, even though I did waste a month or so of my gym membership.

And, really, just because I didn't succeed right away with this ab-tastic goal doesn't mean I really have to quit it altogether. I'm planning some trips in the spring and summer. Trips where I might be wearing bathing suits. Hrmmmm.....And I've also learned some valuable lessons about time management and saying no to things that I don't absolutely want to do. I am armed for the future, and a sweet-looking midsection is headed my way. Eventually...

Hot People Unleash Their Secret Weapons

WARNING: This post contains photographs of scantily clad women (me), brightly coloured undergarments and some coarse language. Also, I'm really bad at formatting when there are lots of pics. So it's kind of a mess down there. Small children and (possibly) my parents and younger brother should exercise their discretion.
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My period started yesterday. I know, too much information. However, I think many of the ladies out there will agree that very few things can so reliably make you feel gross and fat like Aunt Flo. I am no exception. My monthly inconvenience decided to coincide its arrival with some kind of clammy-skin-plus-fever-and-sore-throat plague and the result is that I want to lay about in my not-oft-washed sweatpants and watch chick flicks all weekend. Unfortunately, I had also resolved to go dancing. The obvious answer here is an attitude adjustment.

This whole thing has been about confidence. I know it, and many of my very helpful readers have suggested the same. It won't matter how hot I look, if I don't believe it, nobody else will either. But it's really difficult to just decide to believe you look smokin'. Sometimes you need a couple of secret weapons to give your confidence a boost. Especially when you've asked yourself to dance your ass off like it's going out of style and you spent most of your day wishing you could curl up into a fetal position on the floor of your office instead of actually doing your job. This kind of emergency calls for significantly more than just a few secret weapons and happens far more frequently than I'd like. As a result, I've gathered an arsenal of "things that make me feel hot" for just such occasions. Here's my top 10, in no particular order.

1. Mascara. I have really long eyelashes, but they're skinny. Mascara is like instant sexy-eyes. I derive a certain amount of glee from complaining about how after I've applied my mascara, my eyelashes transfer it to my eyelids because THEY'RE THAT LONG. My friends and co-workers are kind of getting sick of that, actually. That's like saying my boobs are too big.

2. Speaking of big boobs, this bra is also an instant confidence booster. Almost a year ago, I'd decided I'd had enough of shitty, ill-fitting bras from Sears. So I decided to get a bra-fitting. I always knew I was well-endowed in the mammary department...but turns out I actually have REALLY BIG BOOBS. Those puppies are F cups. That's right, folks, my bra size is 34F. Bet many of you didn't know those existed. As it happens, bras in size 34F are kind of like endangered species. If you've got big boobs and a small ribcage, you can't even FIND a bra at Sears in your size. No, no - you have to go to a special lingerie store. And special lingerie stores have special lingerie prices. I nearly peed myself when I looked at the ticket price on the first right-sized bra I tried on. It wasn't until a party a few months ago to which I wore one of my old faithful Sears bras that I decided I needed a change. My bra kept making appearances in the cleavage area of my v-neck. A helpful (and very intoxicated) friend tried to rectify the situation by, ahem, fluffing my pillows. As in, she put her hands IN MY BRA and pushed my boobs together. In the middle of the living room at the party. If my bra situation was so dire that my lady friends need to PUT THEIR HANDS ON MY BREASTS, I figured that the $200 I paid for that red number up there was totally worth it. And it was. See for yourself.

<-Old bra

And new bra->







3. This dress:

I always feel fantastic wearing this dress. That's because it feels like I'm wearing a giant t-shirt, but the cleavage is fantastic and the colour is hawt. I've had men carry my catfood and potting soil to my car from the grocery store when I'm wearing this dress. I went for a walk with my friend a few weeks ago and 5 out of 6 of the men we passed paid me a compliment. This dress is confidence.

4. Also, this dress:

I recognize that this dress borders on shress territory, so I always feel a little bit guilty when I wear it. But it was the dress I was wearing on that fantastic sailboat weekend, and I think the fact that I was comfortable wearing it is a sign that I'm much more comfortable showing a little bit more leg - a body part I've never been super happy with. This dress is a milestone, is what I'm saying. And I'm proud of it. I'm slightly less proud of my modeling abilities. Is my hand glued to my hip? And where are my irises?!?

5. Straight hair. And curly hair. My greatest assets in the hair department are my (now antique) ceramic flat-iron, and a good-quality (not necessarily expensive) curling creme. And conditioner. I grew up in a house with hard water and no conditioner. I can't even begin to describe the clown-hair I had growing up. Things improved when I began to dabble with 2-in-1 shampoos, but truly, my life was changed when I discovered the glory of conditioner. Having great hair is a huge asset when it comes to upping the measurements on my personal hot-metre. It also helps to have kissed hairnets goodbye for (I hope!) forever.

6. Brownies. I got this brownie recipe from my grade 11 English teacher and they are the effing bomb. I rarely give the recipe away because they really are one of my secret weapons. Everyone's happy to see me, because I bring it with the brownies. If EVERYONE could bring the brownies, I'd lose some of my magic.







7. Lacy panties. Especially these blue ones (Don't worry, they're clean). These are really my lucky panties. I wear them anytime I want things to go well. And usually they do. Related secret weapon: brazilian waxes. Every appointment day I wonder to myself if I'm crazy. The next morning I remember why I'm not. It never fails. It doesn't even matter that I'm usually the only one who sees the results of my painful quadri-weekly appointment. I feel like a million bucks wearing those undies in the week or two after my appointments.

8. Kick-ass boots. For several years I've mourned the fact that my calves are too "athletic" to fit into most boots with a shaft that comes up much higher than my ankles. The last couple of pairs I tried actually WENT ON MY LEGS. And they're supah hot. I bought this pair in Scotland, just off Princes Street. I really dig all the buckles. Then, I bought this other pair from a local foot-covering merchant. Not bad for rural Ontario, I think. A few friends say they're fuck-me boots. I'm not so sure, but I do know that wearing these boots, even though most of the time the awesomesauce is hidden under my stovepipe pantlegs, makes me feel kinda badass. Which I, at least, think is pretty hot.








9. Dentistry. Remember that hilarious story about my tragic front tooth? Having a dental plan made everything better. Before (note that I'm making NO bones about using a totally unflattering pic for the before - I'm at once hilariously jet-lagged, unmade up and moderately intoxicated in this pic): And after: Now that I look at the pics, my front tooth didn't look so bad before. But psychologically, it's made a huge difference. You have no idea how awesome it is to be able to smile with abandon.

10. Dancing. I switch on a little motown if I'm feeling blue. If I want to pump myself up, I turn to Gaga or Ke$ha. And if I want to feel super sexy, I'll toss on some old-skool rap. And do this:

Actually no, that's a joke. The point is, though, if I'm dancing, I feel awesome-tastic. In fact, once I shook off the crusty feelings of my flu and my monthly inconvenience, dancing last night made me feel so awesome that my night was, in fact, epic. More on that later, though.

Hot People are ON A BOAT

It's time for some good shit, hey? I thought so too. It is for this reason that I am pleased to announce that I can conclusively say I recently experienced one of the top 20 weekends of life a few weeks ago.

So here's the deal. I have this friend. He likes to call me on the fly. This often works out for him because I frequently have very little to do. This one Saturday evening was no exception. I was all ready to settle in for ANOTHER night of DVD, wine and candy I don't need to eat. Then he called. Within 30 minutes we were speeding across the Ontario/Quebec border. Within an hour, we were eating delicious local food & wine under a giant tent.

The tent was hot, so we went for a digestive consitutional outside. My friend, while spontaneous, is also "a lifer," in that he's spent most of his life in the area. This meant we met lots of people he knew in and around the tent. One of them just happened to be a friend with a 29' sailboat. Well, you know how much I love sailboats? I love them even more when they have gallons of sangria on board.

We drank, we caroused, we went for a midnight sail...but that's really not the point of this story. I don't know if it was the sangria or my new "don't analyze, just act" attitude (probably both), but a lot of shit went down that I was really proud of.

1. I spoke French. For serious. Well...Franglais. But my friend said he was impressed with me, so I'll take it. I've discussed with my boss the possibility of keeping a jug of sangria in the insulin fridge at work so I can see our francophone clients (I think that's the magic). She's considering it.

2. I danced my ass off. I garnered what I think were genuine compliments about my dancing skill. This means I should keep doing it...which is good, because it really is my first love.

3. I made out with a delightful Quebecois stranger on the dancefloor. I saw him, he saw me, we had a moment, some skinny blonde chick (bitches!...they are my nemeses) tried to cut in on my moment and, for the first time ever, I said "NO! This my MY moment" and blocked her path.

Further to this, I declined his suggestion that we move on to more comfortable surroundings. And I'm proud of that. My usual attitude is that THIS might be the LAST guy ever to want to sleep with me so I'd better go for it (Dad, I know you're reading this and cringing...keep reading...I'm making progress!). THIS TIME I thought: what would I rather do? Have sloppy drunk-sex with an attractive guy I'm never going to see again or sleep on a sailboat? I made what I think is the obvious choice, SLEEPING ON A MOTHERF---ING BOAT! We exchanged numbers instead. Then I forgot his. I'm not waiting anxiously by the phone either, rest assured.

4. I went swimming in my underwear. The fact that I was willing to bare my midriff in front of people I just met made sleeping in my clammy undies totally worthwhile. I don't even care whether it was enjoyable for everyone around me. 6 months ago, I would never have let so many strangers at a time see so much of my skin. I guess that means I like it better. Huzzah!

...And the magic just kept on coming. Though I had to drive to Sudbury on 4 hrs sleep the next day, I got to see my cousin win gold in his event at the provincial canoe/kayak competition. Also, the radio keeps playing songs I dig.

Oh, and did I mention I went to Scotland right after that? No? Well, it was awesome. It had castles and shit. More on this later, I'm sure.

So, everything's coming up Miss T these days. Whoever's in charge of this: keep up the good work. Let the good times roll.

Hot People Like Diet Cherry Cola

I've had two things on my mind lately. Well...three things...but the third one is really more of a private conversation than a public mind-drool, so I'll wait until the time is right for that one.

1. Stuff that I want.

2. Stuff that I like.

So, I had a wicked jones for a diet Dr. Pepper tonight.

***This is not the point. This is that thing I do where I talk about something mundane and then relate it to some deep part of my internal being and then blow everyone's mind (or, maybe just mine)

Anyway, I had a wicked jones for a diet Dr. Pepper tonight. I was eating some homemade shortbreads (be jealous!), and they were a little too short for the hot weather and I needed to wet my whistle with something other than expired milk. As I walked over to the Mac's, I thought the good Dr. might have a delicious blend 23 flavours that would do the job. I was really hoping one of those flavours was aspartame. Unfortunately, Mac's milk could not deliver. I knew I was asking too much; who am I to think that I should be able to get a calorie-free beverage in my preferred flavour at the only retail establishment open after 10 p.m. four nights a week? I'm currently drinking the full-sugar version, which is, as we speak, boring tiny holes in my teeth and then somehow depositing the excavation materials on my waistline.

The same thing happened when I tried to make hot artichoke dip a few months ago. Canned artichoke hearts? Hilarious notion! I had to settle for hot spinach dip. It was tasty, but not exactly what I was looking for.

Ok...so, what I'm getting at, is that this town just doesn't seem to deliver on exactly what I want. I can get what-I-want-adjacent, or two complementary halves of what I want...but never the genuine article, it seems. And I think you know what I'm talking about here. I've been pretty relationship-focused lately. Even when I let good ole rational brain in to say something cogent about trying to make friends and have a good time, underneath it all, I'm really hoping that every interaction I make is going to lead to something lasting (by this, I mean, more than a few weeks) and, let's face it...coital.

Alas, I recently came to the conclusion that this isn't going to happen. At least, not in the foreseeable future. All signs point to the apparent reality that I have entered a period in my life that I've lovingly monikered the ERA OF EFFED UP PLATONIC RELATIONSHIPS. A bird's eye view of my recent dealings with the opposite sex will show you this: it's LIKE we're dating...except we're definitely not dating. This is despite the fact that sometimes their self-described physical type looks an awful lot like me. This is despite the fact that sometimes their self-described personality type sounds an awful lot like me. And for a long time, this was really confusing to me. WHY would people more or less describe me, to my face, as the kind of person they really want to date, if they don't actually want to date me?

So, on the weekend, a friend of mine clarified it for me. I described one of these effed-up platonic situations, and he said, "Huh, so you're the incase of emergency, break glass girlfriend."

And then the lights turned on. And suddenly, I was enraged. I am the safety girlfriend. When all other options have been exhausted, they know I'll do a reasonable job as a pinch-hitter girlfriend. And that's why these dudes keep dangling carrots in front of me and then pulling them out of my reach just before I grab onto them.

On to the stuff I like. In particular, I mean stuff I like about me. I've been thinking a lot about that question my friend asked back when I couldn't cry (Problem solved, btw. This song did the trick. Bawled my face off).

I think it's an important question to be able to answer. So important that I was discussing it with a few members of my family. My mother disagrees. She thinks that people shouldn't be able to answer that question unless they want to admit they're full of themselves. In fact, her response was so visceral that she had to get up out of her chair, to illustrate that she hates people who haven't got a problem saying "I am SOOO great! I LIKE myself! I'm good at walking (she marched on the spot to illustrate this point), and I'm good at smiling, and I'm a good person!" And frankly, I think I wouldn't like them either. Because I'd be jealous of them.

But that's because I'm not very good at smiling. Observe. (In the interest of full disclosure, the drink beside me is mine. And it was tasty. The bottle of pills is not mine. That's cat medicine. I don't know how it tastes).

Seriously, though. I'm already full of myself. I have almost 100 pages of text broadcast through cyberspace devoted wholly to myself. Wouldn't it be great if that full-of-myself-ness had a positive spin to it?

So, instead of thinking of all the things I don't like about myself (like my smile, and my acne, and my fat ass, and...wait, right...that's what I'm NOT doing this time), I really should think about the things I like.

So, at first I thought I liked the fact that I'm 100% genuine. I do not know how to bullshit. But then I remembered how my 0% bullshit policy gets me into trouble A LOT. So, I scratched that idea. Then, I realized that the thing I like best about myself is the fact that I'm pretty effing resilient. I've had a lot of shitty life, and a particularly bad run the past few months, but I keep getting up and coming out swinging. I like a lot of other things too. I'm looking pretty curvy these days, and I have really nice eyes. And hair. And boobs. (Please ignore the mess on my coffee table. And my shitty furniture)

Ok - back to that back-up relationship thing. Yeah, that makes me mad. And I'm realizing that I ought to like myself way too much to be THAT girl. So, while a small bit of me still burns a candle for some of these dudes, when and if whatever emergency arises and they decide they want to break that glass, I've gotta think long and hard about whether being behind that glass is EXACTLY WHAT I WANT.

And in the meantime, I'm going to have to resign myself to going without exactly what I want. I can compromise on my chilled cherry-flavoured cola beverages every once in awhile, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to compromise on this anymore.

So, good sirs, I am pleased to be friends with you. But there's no need to continue to lead me on. I'm going a different way.

Hot People Don't Paint Themselves Into Corners

When I was a student, I learned a lot about behaviour change. That's basically what dietitians do, actually. We help people change one of the first (and therefore, most habitual) behaviours they adopt. If it was easy, I'd be out of a job. Or at least, that's what I tell my clients so they feel more at ease with me.

Well...the thing about hotness, I think, is that it's not really about the way I look. If it was just about that, I'd have stopped writing this long ago. Or at least, I'd have stopped around the time that I moved here...since my downstairs neighbour tells me on a semi-daily basis how good-looking I am. I do not tell him how much he looks like John Wayne's long-lost cousin from Hicksville in return, but I think it every time. Anyway, the hotness thing must really be about my behaviour and my attitude. And I know better than most how hard those things are to change.

Case in point: My discussion of my listing tendencies crossing wires with my romantic life really got me thinking about how the lists are kind of getting in the way of the rest of my life as well. Last week, I sat at home, mourning the fact that all of my friends had plans that night. In order to fill the time, I made another list. Actually, it's way more ridiculous than that. I filled in my brand-spanking new daytimer. Seriously. I spent my Thursday night planning each day of the next year of my life. And sometime midway through that evening, I realized that what I was doing was REALLY effed up. Really. This obviously made me really upset. I frequently lament the fact that I don't have the social life I wish I had. I don't think it's because I'm some socially inept creeper (although, I did spend 8 years doing intercollegiate competitive debate...so perhaps I'm entirely wrong about that). I think it could have something to do with the fact that when I get into a social situation (except, of course, when I'm already a little bit tipsy), I feel like I have nothing to add to the situation. When I realized this, I also realized that rather than keeping the daytimer as a contingency for a dry spell in my social life, I was doing it as an excuse not to get myself out there. This is a depressing notion, and I've been pretty sad lately as a result.

Let me tell you a seemingly unrelated story. I thought of it the same night, as I was chopping jalapenos to put in a delicious mango salsa. The last time (or at least the most memorable time) I was chopping jalapenos, I was home alone back in Halifax. I was making supper for me and my then-boyfriend who was working until 10 or so at a restaurant just around the corner. The knife I was using must have been kind of dull, because as I was chopping, jalapeno juice was flying everywhere. And a big juicy drop of it landed directly in my eye. I'm sure you can guess that the resulting pain was, well, excruciating. And I'm not even sure excruciating really covers it. It was...AAAAAAAUGH...pain. And I panicked. I didn't know WHAT to do. I grabbed an ice cube, stuck it directly on my eye, and staggered my way, depth-perceptionless, around the corner to the burger joint where my boyfriend was working. Since he was working for at least another half hour, and I felt as though this was something that needed to be dealt with immediately, I stole his tips for the night and grabbed a cab to emerg. I could have gotten the cab for free, as it turned out, because a girl holding ice to her eye and asking to be driven to the ER in the evening just begs to be pitied. Probably because she looks like someone's taken the boots to her, and not because she's a culinary dolt, though. When I got to emerg, the triage service asked what had happened and upon hearing my story responded with "Ouch, that's gotta suck." Yes, I thought, it sure does. Now please get me to some kind of eyewash station. Give me some kind of antidote to this burning, burning pain. I learned that night that there is, and I quote, "no medical treatment for jalapeno juice in the eye." This was the last straw. I turned, stomped out, possibly flipped the bird to the triage service for failing to take pity on me, and promptly began to sob. With the first teardrops to leave my eyes, the burning pain immediately subsided. Huh...so there's no MEDICAL treatment for jalapeno juice in the eye, but there is a perfectly natural, holistic treatment. Just start bawling.

As I was remembering this story, I realized I couldn't remember the last time I actually cried. I came very close, a couple of times, recently. Once was when a friend asked me what my favourite thing about myself was and I genuinely couldn't think of an answer. The other was when I considered that, though my current dating situation has hurled me into a kind of tumultuous tug-of-war with myself, it is immensely better than the given-up, dead-feeling person I was towards the end of my last relationship. And perhaps a good cry would be just the thing to release all this pent-up depression I've been feeling. But, I don't know if that would get to the root of the problem. I've got a (this time, emotional) burning feeling again, and I know something's gotta give if I'm going to get rid of it.

So here we are back at the daytimer. I feel like I need to break out of my protective shell of plans and lists. And I don't know how the heck to do it. I'm really not good at being impulsive, and when I am, it's usually not very good for me (I'm REALLY good at buying candy on impulse, for example). On the other hand, if I consider my romantic life - in an effort not to have that dead-feeling again I've been making a conscious effort not to do things the same way. In fact, I'm considering dating in ways I never, ever thought I would. See: not wearing the proverbial pants ALL THE EFFING TIME, and obviously, also, restraining from labeling and listing. And I think my strategies are working there, to at least some extent. Perhaps I can use this success to motivate me to change in other areas of my life. At least, that's what I'd suggest to my clients if I wanted to help them decrease their potato portion.

One thing I know for sure is that I have to break down some walls, or I'm never going to get out of this corner and get what I want.

Hot People Contain Their Glee

First of all, I'm learning that not a lot of heterosexual males around these parts share my devotion to that television show. Alas, I indulge that guilty pleasure alone, ensconced in the comfort of a throw blanket in my office staring, eyes-wide, at my computer screen.

But that's not really what I mean. I had a date last night (this time I KNOW it was a date). I was pretty effing excited about a. the date in general...cuz...I mean, well, you know how it's been, and b. the person with whom I was having the date. He's pretty cute. And pretty sweet. And I'm pretty sure the date went really well. And...well, see here's the problem.

I am having a REALLY hard time playing it cool. I feel as though my previous experience hasn't really prepared me for this "dating" thing. Having had one major relationship spanning ages 20-25, much of my formative dating years were missed. And that relationship began kind of like this: First, we didn't know each other. Then we knew each other and we were (more-or-less) in a relationship. There wasn't really that getting-to-know-you dating period where you know you like each other but you don't spend every waking minute together, which is where I'm pretty sure I am now. Since that relationship ended, sure, I've had dates, but since I think REALLY highly of myself and have super high standards (maybe THAT's why I'm still single) I really just wanted those dates to be over and never happen again. So I can't even draw from previous fledgling dating experience because it nearly always flopped from the first moment.

I'm also a little concerned about the hotness goal now. I've been as much as told that I've "attained hotness," but as I've said before, I don't feel really good about deciding that I've reached a goal because someone (even a boy I really like) else told me I'd done it. That's not to say I didn't REALLY enjoy hearing it, but I think you know what I mean.

As a result, I'm pretty much totally at a loss. I am simultaneously deliriously happy, terrified, tentative and reckless. And I'd really like all those feelings to ensconce themselves within my psyche in a manner similar to my ensconcement of myself for private Glee viewings. I think they're failing at this.

Hot People Clutch and Shift Gears

So, I may have been a wee bit dramatic last time about the world's flatulence, and more particularly, where it's been directing it. I think I really just had a whole bunch of reality check all at once and it was, as always, particularly unpleasant. I've always really enjoyed living a fantasy life.


Much of my non-work attention has been placed directly on my romantic life lately (yeah, still having trouble with that boys thinking I'm fantastic does not equal hotness deal), but I've gotta say, it's been making me kind of sad lately to focus so much of my time on that. Most of the men I've made friends with here are either taken or explicitly not interested in me, and even my attempts at booty calls with old guy friends elsewhere have turned into EPIC fails. But while all of this is kind of sad for me, and probably really entertaining for all of you, I've realized lately that I should be paying more attention to my (non-relationship-related) wins.

Case in point, I just graduated. And not only did I graduate, I did it with first class honours. And I won an award of distinction, presented to me by Halifamous person, Alexa McDonough (she shook my hand!) I don't know what makes me distinct (well...I don't know WHICH of my distinctive qualities was the winning one), but hey...sweet.

And I learned that I'm one of very of few of us graduating who has a job she's REALLY happy doing, and lives in a town she's REALLY happy with (for serious, move to Northern Ontario. Do it.) When I learned how many of the girls graduating were still looking for jobs, or were working in jobs outside of the field, it was like a huge pat on the back for me that I've managed what I have.

Most notably, plan ab-tastic has been in full swing for about two months now. A bunch of my friends made a point of telling me how fantastic I look. While my appearance wasn't the only "hot" quality I had originally been aiming to improve, I've learned that I respond really well to positive feedback, so it's nice to get that. I've lost several inches since I started sweating my ass off and pumping iron on a regular basis (the gown really shows off the results of all my hard work, no?) and I'm really proud of that - though it would be nice if I had a few pairs of pants that ACTUALLY fit. I can see my obliques now! I can say with relative certainty that plan ab-tastic is at the point of ab-tisfactoriness. Anyway, please keep noticing. It makes me feel like I'm ACTUALLY succeeding at this hotness thing, which makes me want to keep doing it.

After returning from my grad, I went to a fashion show put on by my personal trainer, featuring a bunch of ladies from our local ladies' figure and bodybuilding team (yeah, that's right, Northern Ontario is effing awesome). And while it's not as though I REALLY want to be a figure competitor or bodybuilder (two months of steamed broccoli, raw almonds and plain chicken breast is not my cup of tea, thanks very much - also, no cups of tea, which I cannot live without), watching these ladies, some of whom are grandmothers, strut the catwalk in bikinis looking TOTALLY RIPPED made me feel really inspired (although it might have been a buzz from the wine I drank and the fact that I got to merengue a little). I went on a 30 km bike ride today. Over gravel road. There were three unleashed, angry-looking dogs and a lot of very persistent bumblebees. It was really hard, but I had a new sense of determination that I've been missing for a long time. And this time it wasn't really driven by my sense of revenge, and I think that's a big step for me.

Hot People Have Their Reasons

Maybe it's the perpetual cycle of cruel teasing sunniness followed by inexplicable snow, rain and cloudy weather. Maybe it's the cosmic coincidence that I woke up both slightly hungover AND with my monthly inconvenience and could do little more this morning than haul my sorry ass from the bed, to the bath (standing up in the shower was just too much for me today), to the couch to watch a children's film and drink copious amounts of milky tea. Maybe it's because my new hairdresser alerted me to the presence of grey hair in my coif last week, and now every time I look at myself in the mirror, I keep thinking I see huge chunks of grey. Maybe it's the fact that, though I was invited to something party-esque last night (social life! huzzah!) and got pleasantly tipsy, tipsiness yesterday always results in feelings like this today.

I don't know what it is, but I'm kind of in an emo funk (imagine the fusion of THOSE musical genres...blech...well, that's how I feel). I've been writing this stuff for over a year now - and I think I have improved on the hotness front. I think I'm a lot more interesting than I was just over a year ago...for serious. It's been hard work, too - or at least painful - what with the brazilian waxes, unfortunate skin reactions due to experiments with makeups, face creams, and cleansers, and constant attempts to get my bicycle up hilariously steep hills in an effort to make my ass look sweet. But what am I doing this for? And for whom?

This whole thing started as a way to feel good about myself - and to a certain extent it's worked. But I still find myself feeling like this a little more often than I'd like. And what have I really got to show for it, anyway? A handful of slightly regrettable one-night stands (some only regrettable because they never got past that one night), a few pounds melted away (but really, only a few), a better handle on the application of makeup, slightly more flattering clothing and a seriously twisted co-dependent relationship with online dating sites.

And when feeling good about myself didn't seem to be motivation enough, I added spite to the mix - remember plan ab-tastic? I'm 100% sure that decision was all about making dudes who'd taken a pass on me experience palpable regret when they realize they missed out on the hot, hot bod I will, of course, one day have.

But now I'm pretty sure that I'm measuring my self-like by how much boys like me. And I think it's been that way for quite some time. AND I think that's not really very hot at all.

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Incidentally, I think I discovered, through observational study of behaviour, the secret to my not really caring if particular boys like me. Guy friends: if you suspect I'm interested in being more than friends with you and you'd like to leave that particular queue (cuz I'll be honest, there are more than a few of you out there), here's what you should do. Do something forgivably dick-ish to me. Seriously. I mean, not super dick-ish - unless you also want to stop being friends altogether. "Accidentally" tell me I look fat in those pants, then subsequently apologise. That kind of thing. I'm pretty sure this is a no-fail plan.
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So, back to the original question - why am I doing this? For whom?

I think it's kind of a cliché and sell-out-y to decide I'm hot when some guy I think is kind of cute decides I'm hot for me. It's got to be for some other reason.

In the last four months, almost 500 people have read this blog almost 1500 times. I'm not adept enough with my analytics program to know if that's a lot of people or not, but those are pretty astounding numbers to me. But why? Seriously, what are you reading this for? Because if I'm inspiring people, then I think that's hot. Even if it's just because I'm funny - that'd be ok too. Hot people are funny. Could I get some help with my crisis of conscience, or should I just pack it in?

Hot People See the Signs

No, that was not just a reference to another hilariously bad song of my youth (oh...Swedish Pop...so campy). I was back in Halifax over the holidays and over the time I spent with some of my friends I realized that I really do need to be a big girl soon. Last time we chatted, I was talking about how I really need to be a big girl...and I've gotta say, I'm off to a bad start.

Although my resolve to have better taste in music has gone well thus far (I've downloaded all but one of last installment's suggested albums...I'm listening to one now...I am such a hot music-listener), my first instinct when at HMV was to make a beeline for the Glee soundtracks. Not that Glee isn't excellent television viewing...but for serious...how many 14-year-old girls also bought not just vol. 1 but vol. 2 as well? How many? I mean...Finn's just so dreamy, so how can you blame me, but still!?!

But my hilarious taste in music isn't the only thing I've been having trouble shaking. I've spoken a few times about my penchant for debating (and also my complete acknowledgement that it's a sport for NERDS!!!). Without going into the details and the ins and outs of parliamentary debate, it is an activity that has been with me since my first day of frosh week (when I was accosted by a girl telling me I looked intelligent...she had me at hello) and has continued for the last 8 1/2 years. Some of my best and oldest friends were made through this activity and I owe it a lot. Unfortunately, the trade-off that comes with having these great friends is that I find myself the oldest person (by far) at social gatherings, telling stories of debating debauchery past, only to realize that I'm talking about a time when they were still in junior high (and increasingly, under the age of 10...eep). To illustrate, I was invited to an illicit New Year's Eve party. I only discovered the host's Mom didn't know about it the next morning, after a significant amount of destruction had occurred. It's really an "I get older, they stay the same age" kind of thing...which would be find if I was just contributing my time and expertise to the craft of competitive debate. Unfortunately, I sometimes find myself attracted to boys who make me feel, when I think about how old they are, like this:

(Get it...I'm a cougar...hilarious!).

Sometimes, it's hard to remind myself that I am not impervious to the powers of time and that I DO get older, despite my best efforts. Sometimes this results in childish behaviour in hilarious attempts to recapture my vigorous youth, like buying Glee soundtracks, or kissing boys with ABANDON.

My friends say that hot people do whatever they want, and I've gotta say that I definitely wanted to do both of those things. But I also really want to be an adult. Stat.

Last week, these colliding desires faced off in real life. It was kind of messy. I agreed to judge at a high school debate tournament hosted by my old club...you know...just one last shot in the arm. Although many of my very best old friends were there, I found myself increasingly surrounded by people reminding me of how old I was...like...I was alive when the Berlin Wall fell or I remember a time before the widespread use of cellular telephones. Truthfully, they were just being evil. At the same time, I knew that in three days I had an interview for a big girl job.

It was super difficult to reconcile my wish to stay an adolescent forever with my wish to actually grow up and do something constructive with my life. So difficult that it actually made me sorta depressed (and cranky...sorry guys...). At some point over the evening's post-tournament social, one of the party-goers reminded me of something that's just amazing for drowning ones' sorrows. This was my first of the evening:

To be perfectly honest, I don't know how much I had to drink that night, and there are some patchy parts of the evening. We know this is not a completely new phenomenon for me.

I am sure of a few things.

1. I definitely drunk-dialed my Dad's girlfriend. I did this for two reasons. For one thing, I thought it was 12:30 a.m. and not 2:30 a.m. I was wrong. For another, I thought she was out with my Dad and not at home sleeping. Wrong again.

2. Drunk Handsy Miss T made an appearance. My old friends are familiar with her; she's the me who gets in her cups and then puts her arm around everyone and stands too close and leans on people. Especially when they're boys. Typically I just cite drunkenness and an inability to control my extremities due to the extreme liquor-soakedness of the motor control parts of my brain. But let's be honest. I'm flirting. I've always been flirting. I've always known I was flirting. I've just never admitted it. On that evening, though, I was called on it. However, instead of sputtering about how it's the booze, I came clean. I said it was fun. And that it didn't mean anything more than that. And it was true. And super liberating to say it. And I felt pretty smooth (perhaps in real life it wasn't smooth at all...but my memory of it is the most important thing). I feel like hot people are unapologetically flirty, and often without an agenda. Even the grown-up ones.

3. I grossly overused a number of stock phrases. I need to stop saying the following: "You're my faves" (said to anyone who amuses me...pluralised so other faves don't get jealous...whispered to people for extra effect when I really want them to know I appreciate them) and "Fair..." (response to any statement for which I have no adequate response, or any statement with which I disagree but for which am too drunk to formulate an articulate counterargument). I hope nobody was following me around with a tape recorder that night.

I'm not entirely sure how I got home, though I'm sure it was at the hands of a very understanding and benevolent cab driver (or, at least, I was missing a cab-fare-ish amount of cash from my wallet in the morning). I'm sure you're expecting that the next day was distinctly unpleasant for me. Not so. When I awoke, I was, though a little slow on the draw, miraculously unhungover.

I take this as a sign...or a gift...or a gift-sign. That was the last time I am allowed to do that. It was my last hurrah of ridonkulous drunkenness. The powers that be are trying their damnedest to make my coming-of-age as painless as possible, despite my best efforts to make it hurt so bad.

Incidentally, when I did go to that job interview, I did act particularly adult. So adult that they offered me the job. And I'm gonna take it (resolution #2, complete within 20 days...score!). This means another move...but probably not for a few weeks. In the interim, I'm taking this time as a period of last hurrahs. Just as that night was my last night of sloppy drunk Miss T and the Glee Soundtrack was my last bad music purchase, the next few weeks will be spent enjoying the now guilty pleasures of my late teens and early twenties, so I can say goodbye to them in style and embrace my new life as an employed, adult (and hopefully, one day) hot person.

Hot People Don't Need to Share Everything

I was in my favourite city last weekend to visit friends, go to a house party, and more or less just bust out of here, when I asked my friends I hadn't seen in a while what they thought of the blog. Most of the responses were pretty positive, but one friend asked me about the frequency of posting...he seemed to think I had a schedule. Another friend corrected, telling him that the thing about blogs is you only write them when stuff happens.

And that's the problem with living where I live. My roommate calls it No Funswick and she's more or less correct. To put it into perspective, one of the more popular drinking establishments here is called "Cougars." To put it into even better perspective, our cougar-clubbing expedition did not include a stop at "Cougars." Yeah...that's where I live.

As much as I loved going to Calgary, and back to Halifax, it really wasn't good for me because when I returned here I realized how much I would much rather be just about anywhere else. But, for my friend who wanted more posts, I'll illustrate why I go for quality rather than quantity. Here's my last few weeks in the port city:

Happenings:

Work - this is actually going quite well. It's not actual work so much as a work term required in order to practice as a professional in my field. If this was not going well, nothing would be.

Bike Rides - continued failed attempts at getting up hills. I started this because I was going to ride in a charity bike tour (because hot people do nice things for other people) but decided instead that hot people don't embarrass themselves by attempting to ride 96 km when 20 km is a challenge, nor do they find themselves lost, alone and dehydrated on the sides of country roads. Therefore, I ride only because my roommate reminds me of my hotness goals and that bike riding is my only form of physical activity - and also because going downhill is the shit.

TV - most days I watch it. I'm particularly partial to the offerings on Slice, and Law & Order: SVU reruns.

Finding neat stuff - I realized yesterday that the ditches on the sides of the roads are full (FULL!) of wild strawberries. I ate one the other day and it was really good. I am a full-on daughter of nature. I also found $3.25 in change on the corner where the bus stop is, and nobody around to claim it. Somebody's lost bus change is now my load of laundry. Score. Today I found a cat's eye marble embedded in the dirt path to the grocery store. In my elementary school days, this would have been a prize of value second only to one of those super jumbo marbles. I'm not sure why marbles were such a prize at the time, since none of us actually knew how to play marbles. I only ever used them in our marble run, which, while awesome, did not require "special" marbles like a cat's eye to function properly.

Musings:

Is straight hair hotter than curly hair? I can have both, but straight hair requires much more work. Fewer people have really curly hair (uniqueness is hot, yes?), but I always get more compliments when my hair is straight. Is that just because it's a different style, or because it's hotter?

Is it cool that I'm a bit of an outdoorsy type (see Finding Neat Stuff: wild strawberries)? Is that a universally attractive feature, or does it appeal only to the similarly outdoorsy? Because seriously...I'm pretty proud of the fact that I know a bunch of different types of birds and butterflies, can tell you most of the time what berries are edible, and am pretty awesome at starting bonfires. I think the fact that I'm the resident bug-killer in our apartment takes away from any hotness I might have (perhaps I should start refusing...hehehe!), but I'm really not sure about that other stuff. Is reeling in a three-pound bass by myself something I should brag about? Would it be better to be more demure?

How the crap am I going to get out of here? I'm moving again (to Ottawa, this time) in a month and a half and I really haven't a clue how I'm going to get there. U-haul? Van? Rental car? Sell my stuff in a yard-sale? Stick it on the side of the road? Thumb my way? Help!

AND - is it ill-advised to look for jobs out west solely because I think I'm hotter there? My friend is moving to another city, one where his girlfriend lives, but the GF is actually his fourth-place reason for moving (meaning that really she's his first reason, but he wanted to have other very good reasons also). Hrmm...
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And now you understand my dwindling post frequency. Although THINGS are happening, and I'm having actual THOUGHTS, I'm not sure any of them are really worth writing home about. Unless you found my marble story REALLY interesting...

Hot People are Completely Hairless

I waxed my eyebrows earlier this week, although I don't know why I waxed them. First of all, it wasn't exactly as though I had a couple of furry caterpillars crawling across my face in the first place, and secondly, I'm generally not doing anything where the state of my eyebrows really matters. The only men I've so much as SEEN over the past month have either been crusty old (or handsome, but married - OR handsome, but unattractively full of themselves) doctors, gay nurses (I know...not all male nurses are gay...just all the ones I've met), and of course, denim guy. Call me picky, but none of those guys really turns my crank.

Also, it hurts. A whole bunch.
This picture is of embarrasingly poor quality and was taken AFTER the esthetician had moisturized the area, AND I had bussed home. So really, it doesn't give the full picture. However, directly after, I looked as though I had some sort of tribal henna tattoo or cattle brand applied to my face...sort of like this:Now, my face is constantly exposed to the elements. Surely, in all these years of snow and sunburn and expired makeup, I've developed some sort of shield for the pain (And believe me, it was still very painful). But it occurs to me that some women wax other parts of their bodies. They wax parts of their bodies that (hopefully) are not constantly exposed to a constant onslaught of snow and sunburn and expired makeup...parts of their body that are very...sensitive.

The reason I'm so concerned is that beach season is pretty much here and I foresee having problems with "foliage." There's really no good way to get rid of it. I have a problem with shaving...first of all, it's a weird angle...and I don't REALLY want to be fooling around with a razor in an area with which I can't make DIRECT eye contact. There are creams...but again...sensitive area...corrosive creams strong enough to MELT HAIR??? The last thing any of us wants down there is a chemical burn.

So my last choice is waxing, which brings with it a few concerns as well. First of all, it pretty much necessitates that I allow a complete stranger to (A) stare at my "bikini area" (what a great "family-friendly" expression) for 30 to 60 minutes, and (B) inflict pain upon it in exchange for money. There's just something a little messed up about that. Especially since there are only a select few who have seen my "bikini area," and that was under the express conditions that they NOT inflict pain upon it (and for the record, I did not pay them).

I'm also still very concerned about that cattle brand. How long will it stay? How hard will it be to walk?

Obviously, I'm not quite ready for the goo, press and pull down there just yet...but I'm thinking by August, I'm going to have to give it a try. Pain is beauty?

Hot People Definitely Don't Go Cougar Clubbing

While there's something to be said for being one of the five prettiest girls at the club, sometimes it just doesn't mean that much.

For example, last night my roommate and I were invited out by a woman nearly twice our age to go out with some of her friends. My roommate unknowingly accepted an invitation out to the club because she thought she was being invited for dinner...not one to pass up free food, she accepted before she knew what she was getting into. Since we've been pretty much caged up in our apartments for the last few weeks, I thought it would be fun to tag along anyway...you know, see the sights of our new city.

Ok, so I should start off by letting you know that we were looking pretty fine (I think so anyway...). Observe. I was pretty proud of my outfit choice and my continued makeup skillz (note my use of blending brush in this gratuitously narcissistic self-portrait)
Don't I look intense? Yeah...but anyway, I understand that I may not look hot just yet by many people's standards, but you really just have to understand where we were. First, meet our chaperone.
We were greeted first by her mushroom cloud of perfume (I say mushroom cloud because it was strong enough to knock us over when we opened the door to her car), then by her delightful hairdo. From this angle it looks almost reasonable, but let me tell you, from the back view you can see that parts of it stand a full four inches above her head. FOUR INCHES!!! It was amazing to behold...not to mention nearly impossible to smother my gleeful laughter at beholding it. She, and she alone, must be the driving force behind Vidal Sassoon's continued success in the world of hairspray.

Upon realizing who we were spending our evening with, I decided that there was really nothing for it but to get completely drunk'd. This may have been my greatest mistake. By the time we got in the cars to go from our hostess' fine abode (it really was quite nice) to "the club" I'm pretty sure walking (let alone anything that might involve any sort of gross motor skill) was more or less out of the question.

I said at the beginning that we were among the five hottest people in the bar. I think your introduction to my hostess has put that into perspective, but if it does not, perhaps the fact that the result of me trying to look sexy (at least I think that's what I'm trying to do here...the two drinks in one hand really adds to my appeal, no?) had only negligible effect on my standings in the hotness rankings.

That being said, I learned many things last night.

1. The DJs here will play anything you want if you first bait them about how the DJs where you're from do it better, then subsequently provide them with hugs (I'm not really sure that EVERY hug was worth the songs he played).

2. The stripper pole is harder to use than hoe-bags in shresses make it seem.

3. Even if you dance with the best looking single guy in the club, it doesn't really count for much if he's clad head-to-toe in denim. (I actually also danced with another man who was much better looking, but my roommate was too intoxicated to use my camera properly, so unfortunately, no record was kept of that delightful encounter). I'm not sure what we're doing here...

4. ALWAYS have a quarter in your pocket for when shit gets real (or in this case, you start to realize that you're not only among the prettiest, you're actually also among the youngest people around, by a sizeable margin). It's also helpful to remember a cab number or two.

So in conclusion, our first night on the town was a moderate success, but I think we'll try somewhere a little more age appropriate next time...and possibly will forego hearing Flo Rida's "Get Low" if it means I can keep my hugs to myself.

Hot People Acknowledge Their Limitations

Okay...so I know I said I would bike come hell or high water...but my knee still really hurts and it's really cold out. I don't want to overdo it.

So...when I said Monday, I really meant next Monday. And I also really meant next Tuesday, because I'm out of town on Monday.

Cool?