Hot People's Life Imitates Art?

So, remember this?

I finally got my pictures and permission from the photographer. THIS is what all the fuss was about.
If this picture is to be believed, my boyfriend's mother should have been grandmother to octuplets sometime mid-March. Luckily, it isn't to be believed. The prosthetic belly used in this play was made by and worn by women who have never been pregnant. I stuck it on. We looked at it. We thought maybe it should look bigger. We put more padding on. And then we decided it was more for comedic value than realism.

Last week, one of my clients congratulated me on having gotten married recently. When I looked at her with this face...she said she'd heard through the grapevine that I'd gotten married. I have not gotten married and just magically forgotten to blog about it. I've not gotten engaged. I've not talked about either of those things with any party who might want, in future, to be involved in that with me. Trust me. If I had, it would have made the blog.

I'm quite sure, almost completely without doubt, that she thought I was getting married or had gotten married because of this:






















And if this picture is to be believed, then one must also believe that I got married on four separate occasions to the same man, not wearing a wedding dress, but with one draped over me. And one must also believe that I would marry a man who's idea of a life partner is one who dresses like this:






















With a pink, pie-patterned apron and clashing blue patterned knit cardigan, and matching blue knit stockings....AND thinks that THIS is the best way to do makeup:



















Just look at the foolishness I've wrought with that lipstick and rouge.

One aspect of small-town life that's been difficult to adjust to has been everyone being totally and unabashedly inquisitive about my relationship status. It's totally legit here for people to ask you when you plan on marrying your boyfriend of 4 months. I handle these questions by responding with this face.

Like a hot person would?








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Photos courtesy of Cal Knight Photography.

Hot People Move (or, How I Spent My Summer Vacation): Part 3, Bike

As I'm sure any faithful reader has gathered, I like to cycle, and despite being in the hilly Canadian Shield, I'm finding these hills much more manageable than the ones in New Brunswick that begin at sea level. Again, make no mistake. I am not a "cyclist" (except, of course, when it makes me seem extra heroic or athletic to say so). I don't own any fancy shorts or spandex tops. I can't cycle 100km/d ad nauseom and I don't have one of those super hero-shaped helmets. Mostly, again, I like to go fast...usually downhill, because it's less work that way.

Cycling around here also comes with lots of scenery, and wildlife...especially if you don't mind seeing two-dimensional chipmunks and rabbits (helpfully flattened by the tire of a local F150), with occasional partial internal anatomy, or Jackson Pollock-esque renderings of leopard frogs. Sorry. That was gross.

Anyway, I've been cycling a lot here, training for my 20km commute to work this fall (yay bike paths!) and attempting to undo all the dessert-eating I've been doing with my grandmother. My greatest feat thus far has been a 37km loop. Hardcore cyclists (such as those I allude to in my illustration of the sort of cyclist I am not) will scoff at that, but it's my longest ride to date and I'm proud of it (so nyeah).

It was, however, not without incident. The trip started with some pretty, and familiar scenery. However, just before I turned into new territory, I heard a loud and unfamiliar sound. I soon realized I was being chased by three (rather angry sounding) unleashed dogs who appeared to believe that my ankles looked like they might be tasty. I had to ride for my life, and I outrode them! When I was sure I was not going to be eaten by a pack of rabid dogs (three's a pack, right?), I stopped for a rest and admired this cabbage patch.

I soon turned again into even less familiar territory, at which point the pavement ended. The dirt road that followed seemed to be covered with looser and looser sand...to the point where I amused myself with the notion that I was riding through the Guinness World Record holder for longest outdoor sandbox. Seriously, you could have made some sweet castles with that shit. My amusement was also tempered with the fear that at any moment I would be met by an Ed Gein or Michael Myers lookalike, brandishing a chainsaw, who would drag me to some cabin in the middle of the forest to carry out some sinister and unspeakable deeds on my person. Houses on this road, you see, were few and far between, so only the trees would be able to hear my scream (and, presumably, the rabbits, chipmunks and frogs not yet dispatched by the tire of a pick-up).

Fortunately, I emerged from the forest unscathed to the intersection of Rockingham (I say intersection rather than village or community because it consists of a stop sign and an historic church) From there I continued my thereafter mostly uphill battle (which I gave up on the last leg of the UP). While the view at the top suggested I'd reached lofty heights, the ensuing downhill, though fast, was not as satisfying as I'd hoped, and when I'd reached the last intersection of my trip, (upon which a stand of red pine once stood, until obliterated by the great tornado of aught-seven), my legs were more or less ready to fall off, despite (or perhaps because of) their knowledge that there were only five more or less flat kilometres to go.

Anyway, I reached home with the knowledge that this feat was also achieved...and it feels pretty good to have been a country girl driving on the 401 through Toronto without fear, and to have sailed my grandmother's Laser without falling out or getting stuck in a reef, and to have taken my longest bike-ride ever despite the (real) threat of hungry dogs and the (imagined) threat of chainsaw-wielding homicidal maniacs.

My return to a city (an unfamiliar one) is impending, and if my quest for hotness (I achieved some goals, right? Hot people do that...) seems to be going too successfully, I am sure my new habitat will provide me with plenty of opportunity for blunders and mishaps on the road to being hot. Fear not.

Hot People Move (or, How I Spent My Summer Vacation): Part 1, Car

This is part 1 of a tale of my mastery (?!) of three forms of transportation.

I undertook to travel from rural central Ontario to the great mecca of steel and pollution known as Hamilton to visit one of my oldest friends (and the newest addition to her family). This caused my mother a great deal of stress because rather than using my normal method of complicated pick-ups and drop-offs, depending on the kindness of strangers, with train or bus interludes, I elected this time to rent a car, which meant I would have to drive by myself on the 401 through Toronto. The fact that I maneuvred her car (while she was in it to bear witness) through torrential rains that seemed as though someone was standing on the rof of the car dumping bucket after bucket of water on the windshield (turns out I was driving through a tornado...true story) was of no consequence to her. Nor were my repeated statements that I had driven in Montreal on countless occasions (unless, of course, you can count past two). All she would tell me was that it "wasn't the same."

Well, perhaps I'm foolhardier than most, and perhaps I timed it perfectly to avoid rush hour (more likely), but the trips both there and back were more or less uneventful (Except, of course, for the horrifying experience I had returning the vehicle, in which I uber-failed at backing into a parking space while my Dad watched with an expression of extreme disappointment in my driving skills). The visit was also pleasantly without incident. We ate, watched movies, and I bought this cute jacket for the baby.

...Because hot people buy hot jackets for their hot friends' babies so that they may also, one day, be hot. Incidentally, this picture had the only smile in the bunch, which was unusual for such a smiley baby. As it turned out, he had a diaper-full which when discovered explained the lack of grin. I wasn't grinning either. And, although he was lovely and made me less afraid of babies (since it appeared that simply wrinkling my nose would make him giggle), I also learned that I can certainly survive a few more years without one of my own...unless, of course, they start making odor-free models.

Hot People Cut Their Losses

So, I never got that coffee date, and really I wouldn't mind except for the absolute DRAMA that went along with never getting that coffee date.
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Dear Single Men: If you don't really dig seeing a girl again, do not - I repeat - DO NOT immediately add her to Facebook. This gives her the impression that you are interested in her. Trust me. I've been there. Recently.

But if you do, and then she subsequently asks you for a coffee date, there are three acceptable responses.

A. Accept the coffee date since, hey, she may end up being the love of your life (please do not misunderstand - I do not want to be the love of anybody's life right now - certainly not when I'm only going to be living in this vicinity for another three weeks, max...I'm just trying to get across that it really probably wouldn't be SO bad to accept the date).

B. Say up front that you had a great time the other night, but you're just not that into a date right now (this, while initially hurtful, is probably your most gallant option).

C. Do not respond to the message, and several days later quietly delete her from your friends list (this is your second most gallant option, because while it will result in 3-7 days of false hope and incessant facebook-checking, at least you're not technically leading anybody on.)

The WRONG thing to do is to accept the date and then provide her with a phone number that does not actually belong to you. That is just hurtful. I'm OBVIOUSLY speaking in hypotheticals here and am not bitter in any way.

Love, Miss T
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Since I had kind of a shitty week, I thought I would indulge myself in a little bit of retail therapy. By shopping for bathing suits. Clearly, I am a genius.

So, while I have been riding my bike pretty regularly over the summer, and managed not to fail at getting up the biggest hill on my ride yesterday (it only took me two months!), I discovered today that there's still quite a bit of butter on my body. These pictures speak for themselves (Warning: I decided some months ago that the next bathing suit I bought WOULD be a bikini, so...yeah...avert your eyes if you wish).
I guess this isn't so bad except that I tend to do things other than stand perfectly still with my arms up slightly trying to hold a camera out of the way of the picture. I hate to think of the rolls and folds that might result if I ever leaned forward. Eep. More work on the bicycle is in order, I suspect.

Also - I never EVER thought I would curse my breasts. Sometimes they like to peek out of tops that I thought were work appropriate and suddenly make them work inappropriate, but they've never done anything terribly harmful to me. I suspect, though, that if I were to wear any of these bikini tops (most halter ties), I would have a half-inch-wide trench dug into the back of my neck due to the weight of my very ample bosoms. The suit on the bottom right actually made me afraid they might try to escape out the bottom. Say hello to my underboob.

I actually tied everything quite tightly for this shot, so you can see how little support this top had, leading me to the conclusion that nobody makes a bikini top with boob support for the affordable department store shopper.

Yergh. Cearly, I came home empty handed. In the meantime, I've decided that the next few weeks are going to involve much more intensive bike riding, possibly a trip to a much fancier bathing suit store (I already had a very serious chat with my visa on the bus ride home), and also some deep contemplation about whether this actually is the summer for a bikini.

As for coffee dates, I'm sure this wasn't my last chance ever.

Hot People Don't Run After Eating Indian Food and Ice Cream

'Nuff said, I think. (But since this is a blog, I'll say more anyway)

The Indian food was ill-advised from the beginning. I've had this craving for samosas for-EVAH, and on Friday the urge was just too great. Unfortunately, living about a block away from one of the greatest Indian Restaurants of ALL TIME (possibly not ALL time, but it has take-out, so I'm not picky) does not help you resist this urge.

This would be fine if I had only ordered samosas...but since I knew I had a weekend in front of the computer banging out case studies and strategic plans, I thought "Why not? Why don't I order a full meal?" So I did...I got appetizers, bread, main and dessert. My reasoning was that, since I'm single, I can do whatever the heck I want. I only have myself to worry about. I'm not a slave to anyone else's tastes. I'm not a slave to anyone else's pocketbook, either!

(interesting fact: my pocketbook certainly can't sustain impromptu Indian food Fridays for more than...really...ever - therefore, I am a slave to my own pocketbook...a very bad slave)

Against my better economic judgement, I ordered a delicious full-course meal. Again, this would be fine - if this particular restaurant offered single servings - which it doesn't.

So I've been eating Indian food all weekend. My mouth is thanking me, absolutely. I love, love, love Indian food with its spiciness and its many, many aromas. My stomach, however, has been very angry at me all weekend.

Why I thought it would be a SUPER idea to shake up my angry stomach by going for a run is a mystery to me. Why I added ice cream to the mix is like a mystery within a mystery. A super secret mystery, if you will.

My extreme laziness over the past few weeks (see: Miss T FAILS to ride her bike EVER), as well as my relative office-chair-boundness over the weekend inspired me to go for a run this evening. When you read this and imagine my voice, it may sound nonchalant, as though I could go for a run anytime and it wouldn't be a big deal. This is not the case. When I go for a run, I work up to it. I tell people about my plan to go for a run in order to be sure that they know I'm a serious amateur athlete (if I were saying that out loud, I'd have trouble stifling my laughter - and you'd probably have to smother a giggle with a well-placed cough or two). I keep my used running clothes around until people come over in order to prove to people that I have, indeed, gone for a run (this is not true...but it is an idea I might try sometime).

While I was running, I was pondering the contributing factors to my recent purchase of the Indian food and my resulting discomfort and I realized that I bought it because nothing was stopping me from buying it. I bought it because I WANTED IT!

***Trite, uber-lame self-realization to follow - WARNING!!!***

And THIS made me realize that the only thing keeping me from reaching my goal of hotness is me, now that I only have myself to look out for. I'm the only thing keeping me from doing anything. Like with the Indian food, I can do whatever the heck I want. I just have to want to do it.

So now that I know that I am the only thing that can get in my way, nothing can get in my way (except, empirically speaking, me)! Naysayers, be damned! Laws of physics, be damned! Sleep, be damned!*



*For those of you who ACTUALLY know me...I promise not to become a speed freak so I can study all night to ace my finals while at the same time practicing for my audition for a spandex pop trio, although we all know that I would be so excited (and so scared) to do both of these things at the same time.**

**I cannot take credit for this fabulous SBTB reference. If you deserve thanks, you probably know who you are.