<friday october 24, 2003 - 2:15 p.m.>

Last night I wore my killer tall black power boots and my ValVill tangerine plaid wool skirt, (along with some other things) to a meeting for an organization for which I volunteer. But first I had to go grocery shopping.

I like to shake things up.

The boots make me about 6'2". Suddenly I could see the tops of hard-to-reach shelves. Suddenly I was taller than most displays. Suddenly I had to bend down to pick out the green onions. Suddenly I was seeing the world from a perspective that was a solid four inches higher than my own. Cool.

I rocked. But it was hard to drive in those things. I sped down the Queensway, blissfully unaware that my boots were acting as a kind of lead foot. I already planned what to say to the arresting officer.

If she was female, she would truly understand. All I would do is point to my boots. They would surely speak for themselves.

It was my turn to make playdoh for nursery school this week. During the cooking process you have to add food colouring to the dough. Last batch I made was light purple. This time I thought I'd make orange. After all, it's almost Halloween and all.

It's hard to gauge how much food colouring is required in order to achieve the desired effect. To start off, I added a bunch of yellow, then a couple drops of red. The end result? Flesh-tone playdoh.

I rolled it into a cylindrical shape and put it in tupperware. It looked alarmingly like a child's thigh.

I joked with Emma about it on the way ("guess what, you can make your own nose today!"), and later with the teacher. I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm a nutbar. I'm also sure everyone rolled their own fingers and other assorted cylindrical body parts. I hope I didn't create a situation.

It was my turn to be the helper mommy today. It was fun, but it also ate up my whole morning. There is work that needs to be done, a kitchen that needs to be cleaned, cookies that need to be eaten!

Have a good weekend everyone. We're getting our pumpkin(s). More updates to come later.

andrea

<wednesday october 22, 2003 - 10:34 p.m.>

Yoga on Tuesday night was particularly harsh. Our instructor made us practice the same family of moves over and over and over. While I struggled to keep my balance I kept having this image of the muscles of my limbs (both arms and legs) dissolving into pools of shredded overcooked stewing beef-like substance and pooling into my feet.

If was pretty hard not to think about the pain. No matter what I did, it was still there. I walked home all jiggly and tired.

Last weekend I made an attempt to buy proper yoga clothing. I can't do it in gym shorts anymore. (Long time readers will recognize that if I'm going to sweat, I need to sweat in style.)

I tried on a few pairs at Winners. Pricey things, and way way too tight. I wondered what was going on with the garment industry. A size-large was practically cutting off the circulation in my thighs. How could I possibly do a decent Hanumanasana ? (Kidding.)

It seems they are now making track-pants on the skinny side. No more hiding in folds of warm towel-like fabric, no siree. And they aren't called track-pants either. That term has a bad rap now, thanks to people who ate, slept, and shuffled around their trailer homes in nothing but pilly things with that elastic cuff at the ankle back in the 80s. Nope, the new version now falls under the category of Athletic Wear, regardless of your status as an athelete. And there's the rub.

The cold truth about these stretchy pants is that only .4 percent of the population looks passable in them. I'm not one of those people, and I'm not a large person either. There is no hiding anything here. They magnify every bump. How could they look ok on anything but a broomstick?

I have been half-holding out for something a little more substantial. I didn't want these kind of pants. I was looking for something that left a little more to the imagination.

So I went to Walmart.

<cue sound of the Gong Show gong>

Not to sound snotty or anything, but I grew up in a household where it was verboten to wear track-pants and related sweat material in public.

As I pushed through the racks and felt the fabrics I couldn't shake the feeling that I was shopping for pajamas, and then planning on wearing them outside and in front of other people that I know.

I combed through the selection. At first I was unable to find anything that didn't have the word ANGEL or YAHOO or YABBA DABBA written across the @ss. Why Why Why would I want someone to read something written there?

I found one pair that was unmarked with a word or a symbol or shiny satin pockets stitched on the side. They were khaki green with pink stripes down the side. I grabbed a large and a medium and headed for the fitting room.

Note: If you want to emphasize anything in the hip area, take my advice and get pants with stripes down the side. They will outline the bulge for everyone, and quite clearly.

But I swear to you there were nothing else available. It was this pair of yogic hotpants or nothing. I bought them (at least they were on sale) and slunk around Walmart in a depressed and zombie-like state. Walmart does this to me on the best of days. I bought cookies, two Christmas presents (!), boots for Emma, some other crap, and all of this added up to $140.00.

<sigh>

andrea