Born this Way

20140707-085744-32264425.jpg I’m not really in the habit of weekend recap posts, but yesterday as I hauled shelves from our fridge in the garage into our backyard, where I sat and scrubbed exploded-beet, while wearing a sunhat, rubber gloves and a tube maxi dress yanked up and tucked into jean shorts, it dawned on me that this weekend doesn't really fit anywhere into normal.

The maxi dress? Avoiding tan lines.

The jean shorts? Trying to avoid beet-back-splash from the hose.

The exploded beet? Do I really have to get into that one?

We live in the suburbs. Our backyard is a television of sorts for the neighbours. It probably looked a little like a massacre happened in our house and I was too stupid to conceal it by cleaning up the evidence in the laundry room tubs in our basement.

I have to re-wind a bit to Saturday around 3 pm when I had my second dress fitting. Yay! Except not yay in the least. You might recall the first fitting. It was a weird experience. I showed up on Saturday with a  smile on my face. When she opened the door to let me into her house, I said cheerfully “Hi how are you?!”

Good.” Was her response. And then she slammed the door behind me.

Clearly she was lying.

At any rate, the fitting ended with me in tears in the car sitting in front of her house. My dress in a pile in the back of our Honda. I’m trying to keep my cool as I explain to the dress shop that referred me,


Fast-forward: Dress-shop brings me in, sets me up with a new seamstress. Lovely lady; goes by Hung. Hung says we’re good to go and will have the rest of it wrapped up by August 1.

And then it’s 8 pm Saturday night I’m filing into Bluesfest and by 9 pm Lady Gaga is on a stage in front of me owning a thong-body suit:



And suddenly the night is beautiful and clear. The sunset is perfect. Enter feeling of calmness, happiness, erasing memories of basement where Lebanese woman was yelling at me about gaining weight.

Sunday was a new day, as Sunday often is.

It’s productive. I made the world’s most moist chocolate cake. With rich coca. Zucchini. Chocolate chips. It’s vegan. It’s to die for.

It’s now in Cliff’s stomach.

(why don't I learn?! Why do I never learn.)

It’s 7pm I’m on the phone with emergency vet services:

He’s about 90lbs.”

I dunno he looks fine. He’s starring at me right now.”

Well it started with a ¼ cup of coca…. Yea but he only got about ¼ of the cake.”

Well everything on the internet says he’s going to die and go into kidney failure.”

Ok vomiting and diarrhea? I’ll call you back if any of the above happens.”

It didn't. And we've all recovered. I realized this morning while in the shower that I still had some of the beet back-splash on my legs. And that’s when it hit me that it was just the strangest sort of weekend.