chicken dinner

I have a little problem with competition. Namely, I prefer to win in a disgusting shameless manner.

In elementary school the trigger was those f-cking Olympic Hunger Games (disguised as Canada Fitness), that killed at least one 12 year old every year. In the grandest understatement of all time ever, I never did well. Well, one year I did run the last 3 long laps around the gravel field in just my socks as a giant f-ck you to the establishment (and the bottoms of my feet RIP.)

Every year no matter how hard I tried, I achieved NO air in the long jump, somehow jumped BACKWARDS in the standing long jump, and ultimately weakly received a Participation ribbon, which was quickly scrunched up and thrust deep into the crumbs of my knapsack.

Balls. It sucked all of them.

As an adult I turned that streak of frustration into a bit of a problematic swath of non-ironic DESIRE to win at EVERYTHING. Charades, Cranium, Poker, Bingo, Scratch & Wins, Christmas parking spot Twister at the mall, online contests. I wanted it all. I wanted it now. I wanted it so you couldn’t have it.

Charm city.

I had a kid. I gained a lot of weight. I lost myself. I muted me, thinking this: big girls with visible addictions shouldn’t be loud or rude or want anything. Rein that big want for win in a little bit. Like a picture taken from up and to the right, it makes you more attractive.

(Is it getting stale that for every story I tell, I work in the weight? Probably.)

But here’s where it all ties together, in a plait that Heidi would give her left goat for.

I have hacked and slashed my way through the bad places. I have changed how I move and how I eat, and I won. After years and years of ignoring it, my body forgave me and it has embraced these changes in a way I’ll never stop being grateful for. That is a victory that I honestly never thought was going to happen. Impossible to fathom back in my sh-ttiest spots where I was resigned (oh if I could shake that girl) to being slow and low and quietly hating myself forever.

Since last September, on that day where I ate less sugar and the day before I started to run again, I write a little differently. I like myself, and that sentiment certainly flows nicely down my fingers and into the words I dish up here.

I believe in myself. I believe I can tell you all my stories. Your love and support elbow drops me in all the right places. I hear your love. You relate, you laugh, you share, and when you connect with me it gives me high heels made of balloons that never pop that I wear and feel like I have so many more reasons to keep writing. (Would you buy those shoes as described? I sure as sh-t would.)

This year I was nominated as one of's Top 30 Vancouver Mom Bloggers. Did I nominate myself? Yup. That part of me who likes to win hasn’t been totally neutered. But the very best part is that others nominated me too.

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They know my site is not beautiful. My header is an image I found on Google. It’s a struggle sometimes to find the time to post here more than once a week. But I love you for being here. I only write when I have something I need to tell you. And I think that you know that.

There are 47,000,000 blogs in the world (give or take 47,000). I’m one. Finding my genuine voice and staying true and becoming the storyteller I always wanted to when I was 11 years old, belly down on shag carpet inhaling musty Trixie Belden novels, this is

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A grafted combination of that girl desperately trying to do one f-cking push up on a sticky blue mat in a squeaky gymnasium, and the girl she became who knows every word she types that you read is Gold.

This is me, win or lose. This is me, write or wrong. This is me. Thank you for being here while I worked through understanding this: participating in my own life is actually the greatest and loftiest victory possible.

(If you’d like to vote for me, and no twist here, of course I’d f-cking love to win, click here. You can vote now and vote next week too. You’re amazing. Thank you.)