I now pronounce you ... who?

It's a wonderful thing to be a teenager and a 20-something and know everything.

I vowed as a young girl that I would never, ever have a baby. I was a career woman.

My mother would tell me that one day, when I was older, when I met the right man, I would change my mind.

"Never!" I swore.

Well, OK, she won that one. I do have a babe now. I think it's a good way to tell if you're with the right man or not. If you meet him and instantly want his baby, it's a good sign. I have lots of girlfriends who said they weren't sure they could call their honeys their soulmates, or they weren't sure they wanted to marry them, but they were sure, 100 per cent, that they wanted these men to father their children.

But now comes yet another dilemma that one reaches when you're 30 and engaged.

To change your name or not to change your name. That is the question.

The feminist in me wants to keep my name.
The romantic in me wants to change my name. There's something wonderfully romantic, sweet and dedicated about having the same name as your man.

So, what to do?

I know women who changed their maiden names to their husband's name and then, years later, after spending a lifetime regretting it, changed it back.

I also know a couple of women who decided not to change their names when they got married and then, years after being married, decided they wanted the same name as their husband and children and so they took their husband's name years into their marriage.

Hyphenation seems to be the hot style these days but I'm just not into it, purely for aesthetic reasons. If I had the kind of last name that rolled off the tongue when paired with another, then maybe, but I don't. So that option is out.

Of course, I could take his name and have a professional name and a personal name.

At work, I'd go by Sarah Crosbie.
In the grocery store, I'd go by Sarah MacBarah.*

Oh, decisions, decisions.

What to do?

* Name has been changed to a silly name that rhymes with "Sarah" mostly for fun, but also not to out the Fiance totally. :)

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No longer have a BF

Did you hear?
I fell off the face of the earth.
Well, that's not totally true. I just fell off the blogging world.

It's sorta like this: Tomatoes have always been my favourite food. I eat them on everything: bagels, potatoes, tacos, eggs, cheese. Then, starting in 2007, I just stopped buying them. All of a sudden they were acidic and just not that tasty.

Back in February, when I stopped blogging, it was beginning to feel like a chore. Family and friends were e-mailing and calling to question why I wasn't writing enough. More! they demanded.

So, of course, I gave them less.

Blogging, for awhile, seemed acidic. It was making me tired and irritable and I just didn't feel like doing it.

Today, for some reason, I felt like typing a tad.

So, I'll give you the quickie update and I promise to give you more in the days to come, OK?

1. Ran my first 10-kilometre race last weekend in 1 hour, 53 seconds. Damn those 53 seconds.

2. Went to the Ontario Newspaper Awards last month. I was nominated for best humour writing for my columns that appear in the Kingston Whig-Standard. Lost to a dad from Guelph who penned a piece on his vasectomy. I'm psychic though. I just knew I was going to lose to him. Still, I got a nice runner-up trophy. And I looked pretty. And looking pretty is all that matters. :)

3. Little Man is the cutest baby in the world. Fact.

4. Thought I was going to win the $38 million Lotto 649 last month. Obviously I didn't.

5. No longer have a BF. Shocking but true.

And, I still don't like tomatoes.

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Was it a lovefest?

So, it's Sunday night. Almost time to get ready for the new week to begin, which means that your man has run out of time to right his wrong of forgetting to call you on Valentine's Day, send you flowers, take you out for dinner, or surprise you with a little mirrorball hanging above your bed so that your world is full of stars.

To give you hope that there are romantic men out there, I thought I'd share the card the BF got me for Valentine's Day.

"When I met you, I wasn't planning on falling in love. I wasn't planning on feeling so attracted to someone ..."

You know what? This is too hot and heavy. Click on the link below and I'll let you read the rest.

Sorry guys. In the end, I decided the card was too XXX-rated for the blogworld to see. You'll just have to trust me, it got a 10/10. I do suggest however that if you royally screwed up, you make this Wednesday Valentine's Day instead. Can I give you a suggestion? Play James Blunt's Goodbye My Lover and dance with her in the livingroom. She'll love it. I promise.

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Crosbiemania in The Vancouver Sun

It has been years, years I tell you, since I connected with someone instantly.
The last gal I really fell for was a sweet little blonde thing, very pixie like, named Amy.

Amy and I instantly bonded.

I knew I liked her, and we'd be BFF, when she told me she'd just farted - just a day or two after meeting her.

Well, that was five years ago.

Today, she's a reporter, music reviewer and columnist at The Vancouver Sun.

She's a talent, I tell you. Someone give the girl a National Newspaper Award already, would ya?

Anyway. This week, on Tuesday, she wrote about blogging (and me) in her column, Match Point.

Here you go.


Headline: Humour, writing blogger's gift to all
Section: Arts & Life
Byline: Amy O'Brian


There was a time when bloggers baffled me. Not that I gave them much thought or felt compelled to either like or dislike them.

It was just that I didn't know any personally -- at least, none that I was aware of -- and I was a little confused by those who felt the need to post their venomous rants or details of their daily activities on a website for the world to see.

So it was with significant curiosity that I first ventured to my friend Sarah's blog. We'd been doing some sporadic

e-mailing while she was pregnant last summer, but after she had the baby and I asked for photos, she directed me to www.sarahcrosbie.com.

I was initially slightly offended because I wanted to think I was special enough to warrant a specially e-mailed photo.

But once I discovered her blog, I became hooked. I checked for updates almost everyday, feeling weirdly guilty, as if I was cyber-spying on her, even though she'd put all these rather intimate details of her life out there for the world to see.

I never bothered asking her why she did it. Before going on maternity leave, she had a weekly column in the Kingston Whig-Standard, where she wrote about the BF (boyfriend), wrote about her pregnancy, and shared light stories about love and life's annoyances with her readers.

But then, last week, I saw an article about a new book by University of Calgary Prof. Michael Keren, who argues that bloggers live in an isolated, lonely and mostly make-believe world filled with superficial relationships.

The not-so-positive assertion prompted me to finally insist on a live phone conversation with Sarah, rather than e-mails and blog updates. I was curious to see whether she agrees with the good professor.

"This is why I do it. This is the honest answer," she said in her ever-coy voice from her home in Kingston.

"Because there are people who can do great things in the world, like my mother, who's a genius teacher, or doctors who can save people. Other than being really good at being in love and baking a great banana bread, I don't have a lot of talent.

"But I think I'm sort of funny and I think I can write fairly well and so that's kind of my thing that I can do and give to people. Even though I get accused of being egotistical or full of myself or I just want to see my name in print, I actually think maybe there's a couple people who it makes them laugh, it makes them smile."

There are more than just a couple of people reading Sarah's blog. According to blog-tracking website Technorati, hers is about the 2. 6 millionth most popular of the approximately 55 million blogs out there. Pretty impressive.

But Sarah modestly says it doesn't matter how many people read her blog, as long as it brightens the day of one person.

One of her favourite e-mails was from a woman who wrote to thank her for making her transition to Kingston a little easier.

"She sent me an e-mail saying, 'This is going to sound quite silly, but I just wanted to thank you for your writing because you made me feel a little less lonely in Kingston because your life always seemed a little bit crazier a little bit more outrageous than mine.' "

She gets plenty of nasty comments too, but deletes most of them -- only posting the more moderate ones that she can respond to.

"I don't know if they hate me, but they dislike me strongly.

"Some of them are so ridiculously snotty and mean and depressing that I just delete them because I don't think it's doing anyone any good to put them out there. The misery on blogs just fuels more misery."

Luckily for Sarah, the interactions she has with her readers do not form the foundation of her social life. She writes when her boyfriend is at work and her baby is asleep, knowing that she has plenty of meaningful relationships outside of her blog.

But for those who don't -- for those who use a blog as a means to connect with others, why not? Why judge them when all any of us want is to be heard?

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Boobs in the bathroom

Listen up, non mothers.
I want to preach to you: Enjoy your ability to do whatever you want, when you want.

Your life (and I know because I used to have it) goes something like this: "Like, hey, BF, wanna go away for a romantic weekend?"

"Sure, lovely lady. Let's go."

"Great. I'll just pack some orange chocolates and a change of underwear and we're off!"

And then you get in the car and you leave.

Here's how it works with a baby: "Like, hey, BF, wanna go away for a romantic weekend - say, maybe in six weeks?"

"Sure, lovely lady. Let's go. We just need to see if your mom can babysit that weekend. Will you be able to pump enough breastmilk? Will we take the carseat to your parents? You need to start pumping now."

"Great. I'll just pack some breast pads, the playpen, his activity mat, the diapers, the bum wipes, all his outfits in case he poos through them, his soother, his Vaseline, his Fisher Price cellphone, his favourite stuffed green lion, his sleeping blankets, his nursing blankets, his diaper rash cream, all the stored breast milk, the bottles, the sterilized nipples ... "

The past few weeks were the most tiring in my life thanks to the breastpump. Yes, it's a genius invention. Without it, I wouldn't be able to leave Little Man. But when you're pumping for a major event - we were going away for 30 hours, which meant I needed 10 to 12 8-oz bottles of milk - you have to pump whenever the babe isn't eating.

So my day went something like this:

Wake up.
Feed baby.
Pump.
Feed baby.
Go to the gym.
Feed baby.
Pump.
Feed baby.
Pump.
Have dinner.
Watch CSI, while feeding and pumping, one on each breast.

I've heard breast milk described as liquid gold. Every drop you lose, it's like throwing $100 down the toilet. It's heartbreaking just to lose a drop, which is why I had many mini meltdowns during our romantic weekend away.

Here's the thing. You can't just breastfeed and then stop doing it for two days and because I was feeding and pumping so much, I'd become a Dolly Parton impersonator. You have to pump to keep your breasts from being engorged.

So this is the story of our romantic night:

Fishnet stockings clung to my legs and my green satin skirt, which I wore on our very first date, twirled around my knees every time I walked over one of Toronto's heating vents. Very Marilyn Monroe. For the first time since August, I'd done my makeup and I put on my prettiest, little black shirt. My hair was done and I'd even put on my dangly earrings (see previous post for photo).

We'd gone to the theatre district early so that we could have a long dinner, the three-hour kind we used to have before baby. We found a little dark Italian place, Verona, and got a small, intimate table at the back of the restaurant.

For the first time in a year, we ordered a bottle of red wine, a Kingston Estates Shiraz. I felt pretty and happy and I was loving the fact I could indulge in a lot of wine, knowing I didn't have to feed Little Man for the next 18 hours.

We shared our favourite appetizer - escargot, these ones done with shredded bacon, some shallots and onions.

The BF had gnocchi and I had mustard seed-crusted sole on top of a mushroom risotto.

The whole night I felt like we were in a Stars Wars movie. There was a force field around us and no one - not coworkers, not friends, not family, not mustard poo diapers - could touch us. We were invincible and invisible. And it was wonderful.

After dinner, and much intoxicated talk, we walked to the Princess of Wales Theatre to see Chicago, starring Backstreet Boy Kevin Richardson. I loved him since I was in university. He was my favourite boy. (His favourite colour is teal blue). But truthfully, I wished we had skipped the show and just stayed in our own Little Italy because the show wasn't that good and the BF makes my heart skip much faster than an average pop singer trying to pull off the role of razzy snazzy lawyer, Billy Flynn. (Played by Richard Gere in Chicago, the movie with Renee Zellweger and Catherine Zeta Jones.)

After dinner, we made our way to Bluepoint Oyster Bar for another BF and Sarah tradition: After dinner drinky drinks and creme brulee. (Not as good as the dessert at Clark Day's Aqua Terra or Jason McMillan's at the Athlone Inn in Gananoque but still lovely.)

Our creme brulee and chocolate martinis came to our table and I excused myself.

It was time, I guess you could say, to slip into something more comfortable.

By more comfortable, I mean smaller, less heavy boobies.

I took my purse with me and headed to the bathroom at Oyster Bar.

Thankfully no one was in there.

I went into the stall and faced the toilet. I rested my purple purse on the back of the toilet - yes, it's dirty but I was buying another one that weekend anyway - and pulled out the pump.

I straddled my legs over the toilet and began to pump.

I had to give myself a little motivational talk to get going because what I was about to do was heartbreaking: I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.

Usually when you pump, there's a little container or bottle on the end of the pump.
This time, there was nothing.

I started to pump and the breast milk started to flow - straight into the toilet.

I must have pumped at least a cup, or a cup and a half, into that toilet.

As I stood there, watching my liquid gold being flushed away, I laughed at the fact that everyone else in the restaurant who saw me saunter away from the BF and head to the ladies room, thought I was going to freshen up. Add a little lipstick. Maybe fix my hair. No one could have imagined me in the bathroom splashing baby food all around the toilet.

And just to add insult to injury: When I was done, and I had tucked the breastpump back into my purse, I tried to flush the toilet.

Nope, broken. I had to stand there, in that dark stall, and stare at my precious, precious milk just floating there, so sad. So alone.

The chain had obviously come off the toilet's stopper in the tank because the handle had no pressure.

Well, I obviously wasn't going to lift the tank lid off and fix it so that I could flush it.

Do you know what kinda sick things people do in Toronto bathrooms?

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Yes, they're real

Sorry, I've been too busy to write fabulous posts the past few days. The BF whisked me away for the weekend. Sordid details to come in a day or two. But I can say this: This is me and the girls, all dressed up for a romantic dinner.

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Ridonculous, yet paradealicious boots

The next time my father's in town, I'm going to introduce him to Sharon Monson.
Many of you know her as Kingston Mayor Harvey Rosen's fiance.
I used to know her as the woman with funky hair. It's mostly red, with a sweeping wave of platinum blond in the front.
I will now refer to her as Queen of Kingston's Santa Claus parade.
The boyfriend and I took our two-and-a-half month old baby to his first parade on Saturday night to see his older sister strut her stuff down Princess Street.
First, we watched a man try to throw his child on top of two Bell Canada phone booths so that she could see Dasher, Dancer, Prancer and Vixen.
Then, we saw MP Peter Milliken and MPP John Gerretsen wave to the people.
Props to you Mr. Speaker, for your blinking Christmas lights necklace.
Next in the Christmas procession was our mayor. He was in the festive spirit, wearing a Santa hat with a jolly white pom-pom.
And, in a Tammy Wynette moment, Sharon Monson, was by his side smiling, waving, smiling and waving and more smiling and waving.
As the happy couple strolled past us, I caught a glimpse of her feet.
"Ha ha! She's one of us!" I thought to myself.
Sharon was wearing footwear that would horrify my father. Sharon was wearing pointy-toed, high-heeled boots.
Not comfy but ugly Uggs.
Not comfy but ugly Crocs.
She was wearing stylish boots that were completely inappropriate to walk the route - but they were paradealicious.
I'm a short girl. I'm five-foot-four and three quarters of an inch tall. I never made it to 5"5.
I've also battled the bulge most of my life. I've been 125 pounds at my skinniest and 178 at my largest. And 173.5 at my most pregnantest.
Wearing pointy-toed, high-heeled shoes makes me, and you, appear longer and leaner. It's true. Just ask Stacy London of TLC's What Not To Wear. (Hey, I've got a lot of time to pass while I'm breastfeeding the babe and watching The Learning Channel is pretty much like reading. It's educational, you know.)
I never, ever take my high heels off.
I wore four-inch heels up until a week before I went into labour.
And now that it's boot weather, I rarely take my knee-high suede boots off.
They're an appendage to me, no different than my arms or legs.
But as rapper-turned-Hollywood hero Will Smith once infamously said: Parents just don't understand.
Whenever I go home for a visit, the first thing my father says to me is, "Sarah, take your boots off!"
I wear them inside.
I wear them while I'm lying on a couch watching TV.
I wear them while I'm making dinner, doing laundry, expressing milk.
I wear them while I'm going clothes shopping, even though as my parents point out, out it would be easier and faster to try on pants if I just had to untie a pair of running shoes than roll up my pant leg, unzip the long boot, and slide the boot off.
I sort of see where my parents are coming from here. I must be losing one-eighth of a second every time I try on clothes. I'm losing years off my life!
And yes, call the bad parents patrol - I wear my boots when I'm out with my son, lugging him around in his carseat and in walking him in his stroller.
You'll probably remember the media frenzy that happened last May when Britney Spears almost dropped her son, Sean Preston, while she was walking to her limo. Tabloid magazines and parenting groups jumped on the boo boo.
"She could have cracked his head open!" they screamed.
Many of Britney's detractors pointed the finger at the pop star's too-high shoes.
Her shoes, they said, were inappropriate mommy footwear. Her shoes almost caused chaos.
Soon, magazines were running features on which celebs wore safe shoes while carrying their children and which celebs wore bad, evil, too-high shoes while carrying their babies. Newly married Katie Holmes got two thumps up for her white runners. Not sexy, but gosh, were they practical.
Can you just imagine the horrors Sharon could have caused with her pointy-toed, high-heeled boots on Saturday?
She could have tripped. She would have grabbed Harvey for support and then taken him down with her.
The sheep, yes, there were sheep in the parade, would have trampled them.
Mayor down! Mayor down!
The police, firefighters and paramedics would soon be called and they'd all have to lose their spots in the parade lineup to attend to the mayor. The walking chicken mascot from a downtown fried chicken place would end up in distress from all the commotion and start nipping at the children there to see Santa. To save their children from the killer chicken, stressed-out parents would start pelting floats with their canned goods that were meant to be donations to the food bank. And soon, the news of the pandemonium would get back to Santa, and he'd grab his reindeer and the wifey and high-tail it back to the North Pole without any of our city's wish list letters.
The whole parade could have been ruined because of Sharon Monson's high-heeled boots.
But, as the cool kids say, let's not be ridonculous.
Santa safely made his way down Princess Street and I'm sure Sharon made it to the end of the parade unscathed.
Sure, the big red guy is the heart of the parade, but for us mommies in the crowd, the ones who refuse to wear mommy jeans and mommy shoes to match, Sharon was the sole of the event.

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Stuffing The Bra

Kids under the age of 18, listen up.

I've found the boy for you.

He's cute, he's sweet and he didn't blink when I hijacked a change room at SportChek from the BF the other day and ran in with a massive bag full of discounted Halloween Smarties and breast pads.

We'd gone shopping to get a jump on Christmas shopping.

Halfway to the mall, I started to think, "Darn, I feel thinner. My breasts feel smaller. Yup, all that working out is working out for me."

Then, I realized that for the first time since Aug. 30, I was without my pads.

I'd forgotten to tuck the oh-so sexy breastpads into my bra.

"Do you think I could take my socks off and stuff them in there?" I asked the BF.

His look said, "NO. NO. NO."

(It's not as if I haven't done it before around the house when I've been too lazy to go all the way back up the six steps to our bathroom but this was out in public. It seemed too risque. Still, don't tell anyone.)

I was in a panic about the pads until we got inside the shopping centre and I saw the setup for the Santa photographs. Soon, I was thinking only about putting my Little Man on Santa's lap and having all the elves coo about how my son is a cutie patootie.

Soon, we were in shopping heaven until I felt that familiar sensation. It's a dull throbbing that signals the flood gates are about to open in a few minutes.

I left the BF in the sock aisle (sorry, kiddies but everyone gets a pair of socks for Christmas) while I ran to get new breastpads.

Then, I got arrogant. I checked my shirt. Nope, no saucer-size stains.

"More shopping!" I declared.

It was off to SportChek. It was buy one item, get one for 50 per cent off.

Just as the BF picked up a few things to try on, I felt it.

Niagara Crosbie Falls.

My shirt - just on the left side - was soaked.

"Ask the guy if you can try something on!" I said to the BF.

"Now!"

The nice sales guy opened the door for the BF and I rushed in with my bag of orange and black Smarties and one massive purple box of breastpads.

I don't know what he thought I was doing in there. I didn't have anything to try on so I can only assume he thought:

A) I was going in there to stuff my face full of chocolate;
B) I was trying to shoplift something;
C) I was looking for a private place to, well, toot. (Hey buddy, you smelt it, you dealt it);
D) I was a new mommy who, for the very first time, soaked through her shirt in public.

I thought when I came out, and the BF went in the changeroom to actually try on some clothes, the sales guy would tell us to come find him if we needed any help. Instead, the guy took an interest in my baby. (What teenage guy is interested in some chick's child?)

"Cute kid."
"Thanks," I said, crossing my arms so the spillage wasn't visible, making me look very hostile for a woman out Christmas shopping and holding a very cute boy.
"Boy or girl?"
"Boy," I said.

"Maybe he'll be a hockey player?"
"Nope," I said, "his dad and older brother play hockey. Too many practices and games. And it's expensive."

"It won't be expensive if he uses his brother's equipment," he replied.

OK, normally I'm all for the chitty chat but the guy had to see my boob stain and you don't really want to talk when you're dripping milk down your shirt. So I decided to shut him up.

"Actually, I'm really hoping my son will grow up to be a flautist."

"Ha ha! I win," I thought.

The sales guy looked at me and smiled. I thought it was time for him to walk away.

"That'd be great," he said, "I love music. I'm a big jazz fan."

I smiled to myself. Yes, this was perhaps one of the most awkward moments I've ever had, but I also realized that I'd either found the most suave teenage sales guy in all of Kingston or a potentially hot boyfriend for a sweet kid.

He asked me about my baby. Engaged me in a conversation about children's hockey. Likes jazz music?

How to find him? He's the kid with the eyebrow ring.

(And kid? Thanks for not making me feel all weird and stuff. I'll buy my next pair of running shoes from you.)

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My BF puts the 'Mc' in McDreamy - Pt. 2

Are you lovin' it?

Here he is! The BF in his full glory.

He's my Mac Daddy, er, Big Mac Daddy, I guess is the correct phrase.
He's no small fry.
I guess I should feel flattered that he's with me: He knows his buns so I guess mine are alright.

What? Don't you see him?
He's the smiling guy; the cute one.

This picture was taken in March, 1975 at McDonald's where the BF worked for six years and worked his way up to assistant manager. (Yes, back in 1975 I wasn't even a sperm yet. I was just a glint in my parents' eyes. I didn't come into this world for another two years.)

And don't tell him I told you but the BF also had a Dodge Monaco back then - and, get this, - he had the words BIG MAC put onto his car by a professional sign company.

If you see the BF around town, ask for a smile.

After all, they're free!

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Chocolate Baby Einstein

I really want one of those massive blowup snowglobes. You know the ones, little bits of fake snow, probably Styrofoam, blow around an inflatable bubble, while snowmen sit on a circling carousel?

There's about five of them in front of Canadian Tire on Gardiners Road.

The BF says we can wait until after Christmas to get one on sale for next year.

I think if he really loved me, and appreciated the fact that he does not have to breastfeed 12 freakin' hours a day, he'd buy me one.

Anyway.

That was an aside.

(If you loved me. You'd buy me one.)

But back to business.

The other day, while we were at Canadian Tire looking at outside lights, Henkel knives that are half price this week, and baby running strollers, we met perhaps the nicest, friendliest, most inquisitive sales girl.

I had three Advent calendars in the cart.

One each for the teenagers and one for Little Man.

"Ohmigod? Is that your baby? He's sooooooooo cuuutttee!!!!!!" she squealed.

"Ohmigod! How old is he? He's so sweeeeeetttt!!!!"

"Ohmigod! What's his name?"

"Ohmigod! Did you buy him an Advent calendar? That's so nnniiiiiccee!"

I smiled at the girl.

I'm used to strangers stopping me at No Frills, Canadian Tire, Starbucks, the voting station today, to tell me how scrumptious my babe is but this girl may win the prize for most interested.

"Ohmigod! He's soooo cuutteee!!!!!" she repeated again, as she followed us around through housewares.

"But wait a minute. Is he old enough to have chocolate?"

"The kid is two and a half months old, lady," I thought to myself.

Is he allowed to have Advent calendar chocolate?

Ah, no.

I smiled to myself as I left the store.

I probably would have wondered the same thing when I was 17.

OK, OK, I would have wondered the same thing last year.

But that doesn't make me a bad mother who doesn't deserve a snowglobe.

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My BF puts the 'Mc' in McDreamy

So, my inbox has been bombarded with requests for me to post a picture of the BF.

I've been hesitant until now mostly because he's so HHOOTTT that I fear if you log on to www.sarahcrosbie.com, your computer may, in fact, melt.

But, because there are so many requests, I can no longer ignore the basic concept of supply and demand.

So, tomorrow morning, Tuesday, I will post a pic of the BF.

As Nelly says: It's gettin' hot in here. So take off all your clothes ...

And on Monday: Is it safe to feed your two-month-old Advent calendar chocolate?

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Don't Cha Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me

I've used it as a rainjacket. So has the BF.
Once, it was a picnic blanket.
I think I used it to wrap breakables once when I was moving after I ran out of wrapping paper, Kleenex, toilet paper, bubble wrap and towels.
Once during a big fight with the BF, I got all defiant and refused to sleep in our room with him. Thinking, 'I'll show him,' I took the couch. (The first and last time that's happened, I'll tell you.) I was so stubborn that I refused to go back in our bedroom for blankets so I just pulled out all my jackets from the closet. It may have been in that pile.
But yesterday, something miraculous happened.
At exactly 9:45 a.m., I used my running jacket as, wait for it, a running jacket.
Well, a power walking jacket is more like it but it was the first time I've ever used it for exercise.

I got it for Christmas in 2002.

As part of Operation Smokin' Body, I have joined a power walking/conditioning class.
If you're pregnant or you've just had a baby, you should check out a group I found called Body Now 4 Mums run by a lovely drill sergeant named Tracie Smith-Beyak.

I didn't even know Kingston had a training group that focuses on pre and post-natal workouts until I saw a picture of some women (rock on, girls) working out in my very own paper.

Every Wednesday, we lunge, squat (damn you squat! - hey, doesn't that sound very Lady Macbeth-ish?) power walk, walk stairs, stretch and have some gab time.
And it kicks the crap out of me. Just cause ya pop out a babe eight weeks ago doesn't mean Tracie - who, by the way, did 2,000 crunches last week, which is double the amount Former Abs Queen Britney Spears used to do in a week - is going to be kind.
She kicks our butts and let me tell you ... mine spread out during pregnancy so I need some serious butt kicking and toning.

So, why go through the torture of working out just weeks after giving birth:
1. You have a responsibility to yourself to look and feel good;
2. You have a responsibility to your child/children to look and feel good;
3. You have a responsibility to your man/woman to look and feel good. This one actually may be the most important because - stay with me, folks - if you don't look and feel good, your man/woman won't dig you, want you, do you, which means, you won't feel good - so what's the point of working out halfheartedly and not seeing any results? Nothing really. That's why I like the thought of Tracie going all G.I. Jane on my butt over the next few months and going full throttle.

No man says "Hey! I've got a great idea. I want to be with a frumpy hag, who only wears pink flowered track pants, which hopefully hug her mommy belly and are so tight, her underwear is cutting each bum cheek in two. Maybe, if I'm lucky, she'll never do anything with her hair. She'll only wear it in a ponytail in a big scrunchie. (A shoutout here to Carrie Bradshaw.) And, if there is a God, she'll buy and wear Crocs in every single colour. But most of all, please let her be 17 pounds overweight and totally out of shape. A guy could only be so lucky ...")

You were hot when you met him/her and so you have a responsibility to keep your hotness. Forget aging gracefully. It's all about the god damn lunges.

Don't you think fewer people would have affairs if their lovers didn't let themselves go?

I do. Maybe that stings, but it's a cruel, cruel world, people.

Next week, I'll be back in my running jacket, hoofing it up the stairs and lunging my heart out.

It's survival of the fittest.
And here is the rest of it.

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A Letter to All You Second-Time Around Daddies: You're Bootiful

I fell in love with my man all over again tonight.

Thank you, Halloween.

I've never been a fan of the Oct. 31 spooktacular. Stupidtacular, was more like it.
I love playing dressup, but adding warts, lumps, bumps? Not my thing.
Usually I put on a miniskirt, some fishnets, some bangles and tell everyone who asks: Yes, I'm Pat Benatar.
Really, I'm Sarah Crosbie in a miniskirt, some fishnets and some bangles.
Yesterday though, was different.
The BF is Halloween obsessed. Is there a clinical term for someone consumed with the orange and black holiday, I wonder?

For weeks, he's been buying bits and pieces for our house: A furry black spider. A fog machine. A skeleton. A baby black spider. A tombstone.
Weeks ago, he came home so excited I thought we'd won the jackpot. Ah, no. He merely wanted to tell me how we were going to have sound effects at our home - thunder and lightning.

Yesterday, in Kingston, it rained almost the whole day. I was sure it was going to thunder and lightning for real and it would ruin the BF and all the kiddies' excitement, but the rain held during the precious hours from 5 to 9 p.m.

So much work went into decorating our home, I'm sure it was the best one in town.
The BF had a million wires running from the inside of our house to the hedges outside which concealed lights and speakers so he could simulate thunder and lightning.

A giant spider hung from our house - and controlled by the man, the wizard, behind the curtain.

A skeleton spun around our front porch - created from two oscillating fans.

Would, could our little display weather the storm?

But it didn't matter to me if it rained all night and no one showed up; just seeing the BF put it altogether was worth all the money, time, energy and sweat that went into the project. He says he does it because he loves scaring the kiddies. I think he also did it because I'd never seen his haunted house. I also think he did it because his children love it. And because his new son, though he's only two months old, had never seen anything like it.

Which brings to me what I really want to say: Our elaborate Halloween setup made me realize just how hard and demanding it is to be a second-time-around daddy.

Us younger gals who fall in love with these men (and there are many of us) demand that:

A) They love us;
B) They commit to us;
C) They stay faithful to us;
D) And, if we want them, they have children with us - even though if they're in their 30s, 40s or 50s, they've likely already had children.

Sure, it's a compliment to these guys that we want their children.

Many of us want their babies because we have the privilege of already seeing what they're like as fathers.

The BF is already an outstanding father. I saw that the first time I had breakfast with him and his son. We were sitting at Dennys, eating pancakes and eggs, and the BF kept his arm around his son's shoulder the whole time.

It was then that I knew he was a stellar father.

So, these guys fall in love with younger women and they instantly know they have to make a huge sacrifice. Instead of living the stereotypical life of an older man - sleeping in, visiting the kids at university, wining and dining, travelling and, I need to say it one more time, sleeping in, these guys are doing it all over again.

Waking at 4 a.m. to help with feedings. Buying baby toys. Talking about what kind of day care we want. Being thrifty while we survive with one less paycheque while I stay at home for a year. Waking at 4 a.m., 5 a.m., 6 a.m. Changing mustard poo diapers.

Decorating another house for Halloween - and now knowing you'll be doing it for the next 17 years. When you're 64.

To all of you who are brave enough (crazy enough? maybe you're senile already?) to do this all over again, thank you.

What would our lives be without you?

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