Dancing Cheeks to Cheeks

Don't lose your lunch over this. The other night we were setting up for the bath. One tired baby and one napless 2 year old combatant. It was my night in the pub. I removed my crusty gardening garb in anticipation of tubly delights to realize I was without clean clothes.

No problem - I live down the hall. Off I went to my bedroom for some styling loungewear. I stopped suddenly in front of our double French doors. The curtains were open. Turns out our cross-alley neighbour Albert was having a BBQ. Turns out our room is highly visible from his deck.

I promptly lay down on the floor. I was now visible only to myself in the bifold mirror doors of Mo's closet. Let's just say it has been a while since I've had an exercise regimen (unless trembling counts). Turns out I've grown an extra ass. Not as big an ass as the one with which my body is equipped, thankfully. After all, this is just an ass for an ass.

It is possible the only thing more undignified than having some spare ass hanging out back there is blogging about it.

This has caused me to reflect upon my relationship with ice cream. There is little I enjoy more than relaxing at night and eating a tub of ice cream. Not a big tub, just the criminally small tubs produced by those genial publicity-seeking ice cream making guys. I am powerless over Ben & Jerry. I'd like to blame them, the happy cows at their imaginary hippie-cow farm, global warming, my parents, or anything at all for my problem, but I cannot. I am unable to resist the cold creamy goodness of ice cream. I can't even discuss the local gelato god without drooling. Pear and gorgonzola... lavender... blackberry... maybe lust is the correct word. Gelato lust.

I hate to do this, but I have to go cold turkey. It is bad enough I am losing my hair. I don't want to be bald and have two asses.

More to follow.

PMO