New Year’s resolutions & the junk food junkie

New Year’s resolutions are fabulous to make—once you’ve had your third glass of champagne on December 31.

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It’s like when you’re all tucked into bed, thinking about getting up early to jog. I’m going to get up at 5am, I’m going to run 10k, have a smoothie for breakfast, and just be a better person.

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Then the alarm goes off, and it’s as if those intentions belonged to another person. Following the brouhaha of the holidays, those resolutions were made by a different person, all boozy and jacked up on butter tarts and boxes of chocolates. Sure, it’s a great idea…but I’m not actually going to do it. Come January 2, all you want to do is slip into a month-long turkey coma.  Better yet, send me away on a cruise ship so that I may return when it’s spring, all tanned from napping in the sun.

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Once all semblance of the holiday season has passed, what remains is the carb bloat that gives you a fat Elvis glow—or whatever the opposite of glow is. Kind of like when a cheese platter is left out too long and it gets kind of…sweaty.  That’s the one good news about the recent cold snap, layers, layers, aaaaall the layers. I’m like Oprah over here: YOU GET A LAYER, YOU GET A LAYER, EVERYBODY GETS A LAYER!

Of all the resolutions going, “Dry January” just feels like punishment. When the scale is higher and the bank account is lower than you’d prefer—a glass of wine is absolutely in order. Of course, to each their own with the resolutions and best of luck to those setting and maintaining intentions. I’ve always loved the notion that we can reset our internal clocks and try our hand at being healthier, happier human beings.

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Why try to tackle these changes during a dull and blah time?  On the other hand, what else is there to do? What better way to battle the misery of January by implementing small improvements that will set you up for success for the rest of the year. Although, are these goals like civilizations that crumble by the time we get back to December—and then does it become a vicious cycle? Are we stuck on the futile hamster wheel of gain and loss?

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For me, food and weight management is the albatross around my neck. I’m a steadfast foodie, and am quite passionate about all things yummy; and those yummy things are equally as passionate about lurking in my fat cells permanently. As much as I detest the expression, “a moment on the lips, forever on the hips” is painfully apt.  Linger over the flavour my friends, there’s about a 1000 burpees worth of calorie burning coming your way.

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Throughout the holiday season, I was an active participant in healthy choices. I was hydrated, eating balanced meals, walking briskly and taking yoga classes. Bolstered by the Herbal One’s Little Black Dress challenge, I was cruising through holiday parties unscathed. I did attend one function with a mammoth cream puff buffet, partnered with a vast ocean of delicious options. You could really give those cream puffs some personality. I did not partake, but admittedly, stared at a co-worker the same way my dog watches me eat. It was captivating.  Tantalizing even.

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I personally think it’s better to not even have a taste. It ignites a furious hunger that wants to devour an entire pizza, dipping slices mercilessly into ranch dressing. I simply can’t have just one French fry—I want aaaaaaall the French fries. If I go down that route, you’ll find me lurking around food courts and fast food restaurant parking lots hustling customers for deep fried goodies like a panhandler looking for change. Got a fry to spare? I just need a taste man.

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My sister-in-law’s visit from New Zealand was my culinary downfall.  Our Sun Peaks holiday was not a ski vacation, but more an arctic eating tour. Sure, there were salads, but they were swiftly trumped by other caloric delights.  It’s my responsibility as host, and as a Canadian, to find the best restaurants in the area. That’s just good manners.

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There was a day that included pulled pork poutine, movie theatre popcorn and a plethora of curry.  Every bite was a masterpiece. Until I stepped on the scale the next day and my eyes bugged out of my head like I was a cartoon character. Yowza, that got out of hand quickly.

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That’s the thing about indulging—it’s Christmas—it’s the time to do it, relaaaaax, enjoy yourself. Everyone is giving you permission to treat yourself. Everyone else is doing it. But you alone how to deal with the post-holiday damage control. Except, now you’ve got a taste for that melted cheese dripping in gravy and it makes a crisp salad on a frosty January evening look like a total chump.  But—there’s something about your underwear hugging you a little closer than normal to make you think: Wait. What? But I had salad that time…as a starter…for poutine. I may have gone off the rails a wee bit.

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It’s a balancing act. Lose track?  Reset the intention. Yoga classes and the 60-day Barre Kamloops challenge will keep me off the couch for January and February. The fabulous gals at Herbal One are so kind; they’re always willing to pick me up from the food court and deliver me to Poutine Rehab so I can get through my gravy detox, and learn to love salads once again.

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Thanks a million to the infinite internet for all those nifty images

Everyone’s A Critic

Yesterday I was having coffee with my fabulous friend Vivi.  I blogged about him once, about a play he was in.  “Did you see the blog?” I asked him.  “I did…but I really wish it had been more about me…you mentioned me, but then you just made it about you”. (Of course I made it about me, you bitchy queen, it’s my blog). Well, what do you think of the rest of the site?  “Um…I didn’t hate it”.  “You didn’t hate it? That’s all you’ve got?”  “I mean I didn’t regret reading any of them”.


So what you are saying is I wore an adorable pink hat and a lovely brooch to the Olympics, and you don’t regret seeing me in them? Okay Vivi, maybe you are not used to the delicate feminine ego, but you’ve really got to work on your phrasings.  Here are some fun examples of how those words can cut like a knife.

Girl: “I love you”.

Guy: “Um, I don’t hate you”. 

Yea…that is not definitely not love, and it’s not really not like, it’s in this brutal purgatory, that  is the worst place ever–ambivalence.

Girl: “Last night was so amazing…did you enjoy yourself?”

Guy: “Yeah, I mean…I don’t regret sleeping with you”.

Again, in a different context, that too would be one heck of a blow–there’s a lot of things that I don’t regret having to do…but then again I do not enjoy doing it.  What I want from my readers is to enjoy each piece, and go on with their day, happy to have read the daily entry.  And maybe you just won’t be one of those people.

But this is good to know…not everyone is a fan, but everyone is a critic.

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Vivi’s the kind of man that likes comic books, fantasy and fiction–surely the musings of a young woman finding pieces of herself in everything from plays, books and movies must not be his cup.  In fact, we’ve been in bookstores together and his interest in anime and “Walking Dead” comics was lost on me.


Being friends doesn’t mean you have to share interests…and you don’t have to like my blog to be my friend.  But it’s a lesson in having thicker skin…I suppose I’d rather muster up absolute loathing, rather than a disinterested shrug.  It’s that blasé vibe from an animated diva that makes me wonder what the writing is really worth.

ImageImages Courtesy of Google

I’ll Have What Zelda’s Having

This morning–it is pink bathrobe and a hangover.  Had a Strongbow or two at the pub with my friend Robin, and once home I thought to myself, ‘it’s my day off, why not drink more?’.  And so I did, partying late into the night…which meant that I blissfully passed out on the sofa at approximately 830pm. In truth, we were watching an old episode of Saturday Night Live, with Tim McGraw Luda and T-Pain, so who can blame me for drifting off?  Ben nudged me once or twice…”Hey, are you sleeping?” “No, I’m not sleeping…it just feels so good to close my eyes”

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I woke up after ten, Ben had fallen asleep as well–and we found our way to bed. This morning I woke up with a start, my head pounding, my mouth dry.  I can see from the light under the door that Ben hasn’t left for work yet, so it’s not even seven in the morning. I come out in my bathrobe, my hair askew, my face puffy, and generally looking how I feel.  The kitchen is a mess, and while I imagine that food would help, it would involve doing dishes, and that seems like an awfully large obstacle to overcome to make breakfast happen.  Writing feels a similar mountain to climb–I just kind of stared at the screen earlier, not really comfortable with the forming of works and phrases, so instead I try to look up photos of a boozy Judy Garland, and instead come across this wonderful list of boozy artists and their hang over cures:

How fun, from Ernest Hemingway to Hunter S Thompson, Dean Martin to Zelda Fitzgerald, the answers range from twelve amyl nitrates mixed with beer, speed, and frankly just more booze mixed together.  Robert Mitchum invented the Ramos Gin Fizz, which is a mix of gin, lemon juice, lime juice, egg white, sugar, cream, orange flower water, and soda water–which was said to be a favorite cure for the likes of Frank Sinatra and Jim Morrison.  Actress Tallulah Bankhead drank a combination of champagne and stout in the wake of a hangover, but she once wrote: “Don’t be swindled into believing there’s any cure for a hangover…like the common cold it defies solution”.  (Well maybe don’t drink directly out of a shoe…that might be your problem girlfriend).


Zelda Fitzgerald’s cure was my favorite on the list;  she had such a lovely little boozy routine. Before she started getting her 11am lemonade and vodka on, she’d go for a swim. Then the day would be spent drinking, reading, writing, and exercising at her ballet studio, before filling her garter flask and going out in on the town with F. Scott and co.  (Self destruction and mental illness aside, doesn’t that all sound just a little bit fabulous?).


The worst hangover I’ve ever had was after a night of Jager-bombs and Karaoke with my friend Shannon in this small town bar.  I was so drunk that I called my fiance from the parking lot, not knowing where I was.  I later woke up on the lawn of Shannon’s mother’s house, and endured an epic struggle to get up off the dewy grass, open the front door, climb and pass out on the floor, next to the couch where Shannon was sleeping.  The next day, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t drive home, I couldn’t drink water–I was in a hell of my own making.  At least Shannon felt comfortable taking part of the blame–“You know, I feel 45% responsible for this”, she said I was dry heaving on the side of the road, on the way to the lake.  She decided that a swim would be my cure, and I agreed, but didn’t know how I could make it to the water…even though it was less than a five minute walk.  But once we reached the baptismal waters, I stripped off my dress, walked right off the pier and the cold water brought me back to life.  After the lengthy soak, I was able to stomach a meal, drink some coffee–and I felt…better, but I wouldn’t be back to drinking by 11am, that’s for sure.  Nor will I today for that matter…and I didn’t drink a fraction of what I had that night–I’m just much older is all.  I did sleep a little bit more, before being awoken by the sound of the steel-capped five year old upstairs that really must leap and bound like they’re Billy Elliot before endlessly dragging furniture around the hard wood floor.  I got up reluctantly, drank some coffee and thought more about my own hangover cures…we don’t have a pool here, and I miss the days in Australia, for a good swim can cure just about anything.  So once I finish here, I will wash the dishes, make some bacon and eggs, go next door and box that noisy little bastard around the ears.  And certainly that could be just as good as a Ramos Gin Fizz and a refreshing dip…though right now I’d much rather just jump off a pier.

ImageImages Courtesy of Google