Miles Davis and Me

I made many ill thought out decisions in my youth because of my unhealthy attachment to boys, including (but certainly not limited to) becoming a summer camp counselor, knitting a giant sweater, enrolling in a church youth group and agreeing to take a singing role in the school production of Oliver Twist. For about 20 minutes in high school, I had a wild crush on a fella named Matt. I appreciated his crooked smile, unkempt hair and adorable freckles. We both played the trumpet in Ms. Gautier's music class. He was in the band. I thought our mutual joy of opening the spit valve and spraying the hapless woodwind nerds was fate, so I joined the band too. Really... the band.

For any of you that know me, you recognize that my brain does not necessarily work in typical ways. I tend to view things in extremes... if I'm hungry it's likely that my liver has been eaten by my left lung in the struggle for survival and I'm going to turn yellow and suffocate before I can get up the stairs to make myself a sandwich. If I'm cold it is probable that in the time it takes me to find a sweater the limbs on my upper torso will freeze and chip off like icicles, rendering me armless for all of eternity. If I hear a noise in the night I am convinced that someone has broken in and the neighbours will find us a week later, murdered with the new matching placements and stackable tupperware nowhere to be found. I find myself surprised each time that these things don't unfold the way I had imagined them... but then I move on, wondering when the next circumstance for adventure will arrive. I think this must be how I viewed boys. Every crush had its own unique story and purpose. Let's take Matt for example. In my head, one day Ms. Gautier would go crazy and me take hostage in the creepy closet where the black metal music stands were kept. Matt would rescue me by serenading her into a trance (not unlike a cobra being lulled into submission) by channelling his inner Miles Davis. When Ms. G was adequately tranquilized, I could then be freed from captivity. I now realize my partialness for boys was not based on the boys themselves, but rather they were a natural occurring symptom of simply wanting to believe in things which nobody else could imagine. In the case of Matt, it did not take me long to figure out that his freckles were really acne and Ms. Gautier's kidnapping scheme would likely never materialize... but though I was fickle about boys, my word was my word. I was committed to the band, kidnapping or not.

I realize that celebrating the Divine or learning an instrument were not bad things, the only issue was that once the crush was over, I was signing up for something else... onto the next story. By grade 12 I was essentially, an incredulous bible reading, off-key singing, bloody fingered knitting, kid-loathing camp counseling, tone deaf singing, matching band outfit wearing, trumpet playing twit. Had I actually taken the time to learn (and retain) something from all of my antics I may have ended up a Nobel peace prize laureate for my selfless work in establishing various musical Christian ministries for orphaned children in arctic climates. If I had to do it all over again though, I would not change a thing... well except perhaps I would have played the flute instead. I hear those kids have more fun at summer camp. Live and Learn. And dream.

Online Fishing

A portion of my job requires me to develop marketing strategies and communication plans for new programs and initiatives. In each instance of a new program launch, language needs to be clear and contain a strong call to action from the selected recipient; in other words, the key to marketing something successfully is identifying your target audience and deciding on focused key messaging to increase your chances of receiving a positive response. I mention this because recently, a girlfriend of mine has informed me she is considering developing an online dating profile and has asked me for some help. I have never had my own profile, so before agreeing to assist her, I felt it necessary to do some research into what a good profile contains.

In my reviews I noticed that the majority of women (aside from the people who are open and honest about their intention to simply 'hook up') are posting in the hopes of finding a mate; someone to connect with, striving to eventually remove their profile because they have met their soulmate and have reached the apex of emotional utopia with their Plenty of Fish 'catch' or found a hot-pot of wunderlust caused by the love eruption they unearthed in their Lava Life experience. Keeping this goal in mind, it makes sense to me that people would want to advertise themselves in the most clear and concise manner possible. Doing this would ensure anyone responding to the 'advertisement' would not be under any illusions about what kind of gal you really are; again, clear messaging to attract members of the intended target audience. Instead of uncovering a network of single people gathered together, sharing a common goal... I was boggled at what I discovered; how on earth could a man buy any of the BS these women are trying to sell?? Let me share some of the confusion with you now:

Riefer does not use drugs
NaturalGurl has an interest in tanning
RipeMangos is interested in 'words with meaning'
SexyMommie69 just started pharmacy school and is not into one night stands
DDdelicious (double d delicious) likes to be taken seriously
SEXySquirrel hates bugs and vermin
KittenMittens is sophisticated
LeXXus is very mature and unpretentious

Perhaps the key is picking a an appropriate screen name. It sets the tone for your overall profile and is the first impression potential mates will have of you... for example, if you say you you are only interested in 'men who will respect you' (another very popular term... on par with not wanting to play mind games, loving a good glass of red wine and appreciation of fine dining) don't call yourself, 'LiquorInTheFrontPokerInTheBack'. Make sense?

I do have to admit I was more than a little wooed by 'buttapecan69'. This woman was honest and forthcoming, right down to naming her favourite kind of ice cream. Butta posted a photo of herself wearing bright fuchsia lipstick and boasting a large strawberry tattoo on her cleavage. She says she is a 'career driven Marketing/Entertainment/Executive Administrator and has crazy work hours'. Personally, I can not imagine a more creative way to say, “I'm a stripper who has recently put on a few pounds and has been demoted to collecting cover charges at the door”.

Its not that I am judging these women. In this day and age, advertising yourself online is not only a viable option but certainly the most efficient way to find a mate. It's just that I am confused. Why waste time making a phony pitch about yourself? Why can't these women just be genuine and forthcoming about what they are all about? Maybe I am wrong, but if I was a man trying to wade through all the already difficult waters of all that is female, I would certainly appreciate a little help along the way.

In the spirit of honesty and targeted messaging, my profile would look something like this:

HEP HIV & HERP Free
I don't cook. I will not pick up your crap or iron your shirts; I assume you are an adult and are capable of doing these things for yourself. I am not especially emphatic or friendly and I am not interested in becoming responsible for healing any issues you may have because your mother didn't breastfeed you in your infancy. I suffer from occasional night terrors and unpredictable bouts of road rage. My feet smell in my slippers. I have been known to bust out into spontaneous rap about nothing in particular and have a tendency to invent my own words in everyday conversation and expect that you know what I am talking about . Though I am only 35, I am easily confused and may possibly be in the early onset stages of dementia. I have been to a Jonas Brother's concert, and rather enjoyed myself. I believe Polysporin is the cure for most aliments. I rarely wear make-up. I have an exceptionally low tolerance for stupidity. I like to quilt and have been known to spend hours wandering happily around fabric stores feeling up the flannelette. Red wine gives me a headache. And yes... sometimes I am being 'like that' because I am in fact on my period. I am not opposed to eating ribs or chicken wings on a first date. I am looking for a man who can appreciate the value in being with a woman who knows the difference between a Phillips and a Robertson head screwdriver. Must have your own money. Mouth breathers need not apply.

It may not sound like much on paper, but at least they'd wouldn't be wasting their time thinking they were communicating with a Molly Maid-ish, sommelier sex goddess who watches UFC in a thong.

So to my friend, if you still want my help... call me. If I don't hear from you, I will assume you are scoping out some nature trails for the long autumn walks you don't actually take or perhaps brushing up on the classic novels you will never read or at the very least planning your trip abroad because to date, your love of travel and adventure has taken you as far as Sleeping Beauty's magical castle at Disneyland when you were 12. Happy dating.

Shimmy-Shimmy

The only dance move I can properly execute is the ‘shopping cart’, and even with this one I morph into a spastic flailing freak complete with a wicked groovin’ overbite. I will also on occasion shout out an ‘oh yeah’ (like the Kool-Aid guy who busts through the wall) or a ‘whoo-hoo’ right before the chorus. It's like a disease... I am completely unable to control my body or contain my hooting. In the past I have made attempts to bust out different moves from my internal dancing arsenal. I took ballet as a young girl and as a teenager I considered myself a committed fan to Monika Deol and Electric Circus. Back then I was young and impressionable, something should have stuck with me... but nope.. I just can't seem to get my swerve on.

One of my best friends Nicole, besides being a jaw-droppingly beautiful girl, is a total dance machine. It seems reasonable to me that because we go out together, we should be shakin our money makers together as well. Either she really loves me, or she enjoys my idiocy because with me beside her, in comparison she looks like a finalist on Dancing with the Stars. I have pulled her down to the floor on many occasions after losing my balance trying to do that twisty-type move that seems to really compliment AC/DC's classic "You Shook Me All Night Long", I have accidentally shoved her into other people spilling their drinks and I even hit her once... square in the face with one of my wildly thrashing arms. I think I may call her tonight and apologize. Again.

I think more songs that have standardized dance moves should be introduced. What is the problem with the Macarena or the Bird Dance? With those dances, everyone has an opportunity to trip the light fantastic without feeling like Elaine from Seinfeld. I suppose the question I am asking myself is why do I keep trying? I mean sitting here on my couch I am aware and cognisant of the fact that the strangers (along with the people I love and adore) who are smiling and laughing at me while I'm on the dance floor are not expressing their joy at my gracefulness but when I am out, with my friends and Mr. Jack Daniels, I just can't control myself. I feel like the pull to the stage is too much for me to resist. In my head, the disco ball is spinning just for me and the crowd is chanting, "Leona, Leona, Leona" and it is like... my human duty to go out on to the floor, spank those planks, and fill my rightful spot on everyone's dance card in only a way that an uncoordinated, over-bite donning, shimmy-shimmy shopping cart pushing white girl can. You're welcome.

20 minute workout

There have been many times when in the middle of the day; I have ‘found’ hidden items in my clothing such as underpants or socks stuffed in a pant leg. I have gone out wearing my slippers because I have simply forgot to put shoes on. I think we have all gone to school or work with our clothes on inside out or backwards and I regularly wear two different socks because I can never find the mate and we all know the joke of the woman leaving the bathroom with a few squares of t.p. stuck to her shoe. These things are tolerable and even typical for most of us (well at least for me) … yesterday however was a different story. Bare with me.

I am growing out my hair and right now it’s going through a awkward stage. It looks bad up, it looks bad down. It’s just generally very bad hair. Yesterday morning, I was at my wits end with my hair so I put it up with 2 bobby pins and headed off to work. Mid-day I was working when my hair fell over my face. I tried to put it back up and noticed that I had lost one of my bobby pins. I found a rubber elastic in my desk (yes, very chic I know) and was good to go… no problem. After work, my daughter and I went tobogganing. We took the dogs and went for a walk to the back fields and had a great time. When I was a little kid, I would toboggan for hours.... slide down the hill, trudge up the hill. No problem. I am older now, and a little beefier and walking up the hill is far more arduous. By the end of our playing I was pooped. My legs and butt hurt! We went home, made dinner , did homework, watched American Idol blah blah blah.

About 9:30 I really started to notice the ache in my legs and butt from the exercise. I stood up and stretched convinced that because of my 40 minutes of sliding I now had legs of steel and an arse so firm a quarter could quite handily bounce off it. I told Jason about my new ass – quite surprised that he hadn’t already noticed the difference on his own – and when he looked at me quizzically, I grabbed hold of a cheek and told him to find a quarter so I could demonstrate the coin bouncing, quite confident and cocky in my newly developed buttocks and Suzanne Sommers thigh-master legs. Much to my dismay however, instead of proving that I should be on an at home workout video with people enviously throwing coins at me and ducking from the ricochet… guess what I discovered instead? Anyone???

The freaking bobby pin! I had a bobby pin, hiding out in the crack of my ass all day! Well, you can imagine my shock. Jason started laughing. Like that laugh that where you lose all control of your muscles and collapse into a heap. I could not understand HOW I walked around all day with a bobby pin lodged in my ass. And then it occurred to me. I do not have firm buttocks. I have buttocks that permit me to walk around all day, unaware that a foreign object is jammed between my cheeks. Needless to say, for the rest of my life whenever anyone in my house needs and extra hand to carry anything, the question will be posed to me: ‘Leona, do you mind carrying this for me”? It will then be followed by gales of laughter. I must accept this fact if I am to continue living with my family.

So, the next time any of us leaves our house in our slippers, goes to work feeling a little less than ‘put together’ or is teased for wearing a sweater inside out... go into the bathroom and check your ass. If you find nothing there be grateful. Walk out into your office with your mis-buttoned head held high knowing that there are definitely worse things than discovering a wayward nylon stocking stuck in your pant leg.

Fermented Revenge

I work in a relatively large place. Three times a year we converge for all-staff meetings to discuss relevant issues and topics for our organization. Yesterday during one such meeting the awful and mysterious public fart presented itself in all its repugnant wonder. Whilst I was quietly gagging in the back row of the packed auditorium it occurred to me… this has happened, at least once to each one of us… and as gross at it is… it really is hilarious.

It comes in many forms, the public fart. The one that is brewing when you are in a job interview or in a meetings with clients and finally after seemingly forever it slowly oozes out and everyone know it’s there but nobody acknowledges it, the loud one which you feel you have no choice but to blame on your children, the silent deadly one that sneaks out in the cracker aisle which you hurriedly run away from with your shopping cart in tow hoping that it doesn’t follow you all the way to canned soup and pasta or the dreaded bathroom/toilet one where you are doing your business in a private stall and it echoes for all to hear; reverberating across the metal walls, reaching decibels beyond the actual capacity which any mere mortal fart ever should. I think the public restroom fart truly is the worst kind for people even though it really should be the most socially acceptable of all the types. I mean in that instance we just hide out in the stall until the last of the other bathroom dwellers are gone… we sit and listen intently for the hand washing water to stop running and the auto dryer to start so we can then stand up and flush and leave the stall without everyone seeing who the perpetrator of the atomic woofer really was.

Granted, there are people (like Jason, my betrothed) who wholeheartedly embrace bean bombing and enjoy terrorizing unsuspecting members of the public. I can recall recently a trip to the local hardware store where Jason and I went our separate ways, me looking for birdseed and him off to find deck screws. I eventually found him laughing to himself and when I asked him what was so funny, he regaled me with a crop dusting tale (crop dusting: where you walk and fart, dusting an entire area with your scented scream) where he witnessed each person's reaction and facial contortions as the waft hit them. I told him it sounded an awful lot like fart pinball to me, especially with the visuals of each person's head whipping around trying to find some scent-less air pocket in which to embrace. In saying this, perhaps loving your own trouser coughs is primarily a man thing. I can't really see a man hiding in a bathroom stall after a particularly juicy flaming corn-hole expression. Come to think of it, it was only my brother and his friends rooting around in the bathroom cupboards looking for aerosol cans of hairspray in an attempt to be the ultimate winner in their blue angel contests.

One of my dear friends, I will call her Lori, up until a few days ago was in complete ‘methane denial’. She is quite proud of the fact that in her decade of marriage she has allowed less than ten (10) gaseous excretions to escape the confines of her steel trap sphincter in the presence of her husband. On New Year ’s Eve we attended a house party. Lori had a bit to drink and in the process, temporarily surrendered some of her typical meticulously in control body functions. At the end of the evening Lori bent over in an attempt to put her boots on. She was unsuccessful with this endeavour and instead fell head first, ass up into a blue recycle bin and in the process, unknowingly allowed an enormous butt thundering ripper to escape her cheeks. The next day, when I (gleefully) reminded Lori of this incident, she started weeping from embarrassment. I told her that she should be proud of herself. Lori did not simply break wind she successfully broke through a barrier which most of us tend to suffer from; fartophobia – the fear of farting. Everyone farts. Everyone laughs when someone else farts. Finger pulls all around in your honour Jason and Lori… thank you both for your selflessness!

Perhaps 2010 is the year where we can all stand proudly in the supermarket where we have just cut the proverbial cheese, where we stride proudly out of the bathroom stall when a particularly obnoxious air biscuit has been expelled… where you let one drop in the auditorium during an all staff meeting and instead of hiding your head in shame, you stand proudly and look at the people in the back row covering their noses and exclaim, ‘Yep that was me sucka’… drink it in!’

Getting lucky in the kitchen

I was 8 when I started making lettuce, mayonnaise, pepper and salt sandwiches. My father referred to them lovingly as ‘air sandwiches’ and at one point refused to let me eat them unless I slapped a piece of ham on there too; therein started the beginning of the end of my commitment to culinary excellence. No way was I ever going to slap anyone’s ham because I was instructed to do so… in my view, regardless of the protein item in question (baloney, tube steak, ham etc) meat slapping was then, and still remains a private and personal choice.

When I was 18 I went on a road trip to Daytona beach. We intended to tent camp while we were there but on the first night we were hit with several tornadoes. We had to round up some cash to move into a shady motel and because we had only brought enough money for camping and booze, there certainly was not enough money for food! It was on this trip I discovered eating Chef Boy R’Dee, cold and out of a can was the most cost efficient and easy solution… heck I could even use a plastic fork… no dishes! I wondered… were the tornadoes a personal message to me from God? Did the Almighty himself want me to know that eating could be just this simple? 79 cents a can … no fuss no muss.

My standard of culinary commitment essentially is: ‘what do I need to do to ensure my family does not get scurvy?’ I mean really, what should the standard be? I have never seen a love-meter in a family home which only rises when homemade ravioli stuffed with organic chicken and foot stomped red sauce is served. I can certainly appreciate when someone takes the time to prepare a delicious meal, but I most often find that the person who prepares is sits at the dinner table, hands neatly crossed in front of them not eating until everyone has taken their first bite. The cook sits in wait, remaining silent and stoic until the inevitable compliments and accolades come flowing in one by one from the diners. Only then will the cook smile and pick up a fork after professing, “oh it was nothing really”. Gross. More than once I have watched this happen and when it’s my turn to praise I will start coughing and waving my hands in an ‘don’t worry I’m okay’ kind of way , before the obligatory praise consisting of ‘mmmmm… yummy’. I love the look on the cook’s face when they think that their meal has made someone choke or gag. Immature perhaps but if feeding an ego is the purpose, then I just can’t subscribe. Personally, I would hate to define myself through other people’s opinions about the appropriate firmness level or saltiness of my red snapper.

Ironically, my children and I have bonded significantly through my complete inability to cook well. My oldest son and I still laugh about my attempt at a recipe I took out of the 4 ingredient cookbook. I only had 2 of the ingredients so I tried to wing it. We now refer to that evening’s meal as ‘meat blob’... need I say more? More than once I have beat the fire alarm with household items such as brooms and hockey sticks as it seems that even the simplest act of me turning on the stove to boil water sets off the alarm. In every instance, these situations send my kids into gales of laughter. What other family activity brings together children more than a joint appreciation of the incompetence of their parents? Yes, I am useless in the kitchen… lucky me.

My shrunken head

I fully understand the human condition and the basic desire to know that there are people worse off than ourselves. In a sick and twisted way, knowing these things make us feel more content and okay with the fact that we are all dysfunctional in some way. I mean, I’d be hard pressed to meet one single person who hasn’t laughed to the point of near incontinence when Maury Povich emphatically announces that though he is the 6th person tested, Darnell is NOT the father of Bon’Qui Qui’s 7 month old daughter, Sha’ Nay Nay. I myself never tire of the inevitable booty slapping dance of joy from Darnell which is always followed up with Bon’ Qui Qui’s subsequent knocking over the chair and hysterical running off stage because she was 100% sure he was the baby daddy. It’s funny.

In saying this however there has to be a line of decency and I think TLC has officially crossed it with their new reality show entitled, ‘My Giant Head’. I mean really… people in North America will watch with bated breath as the 650 pound virgin strives to get his cherry popped, loyally follow the train wreck that was Jon and Kate, weep for poor Kiniki who will never sing Grease Lightning again unless Dr. Drew can cure his addiction and cheer for the half ton mother to finally be able to play with her children after the stomach stapling surgery… but a giant head? C’mon! Have we really sunk so far that our entertainment requires intentionally turning on a show about some guy who’s head won’t stop growing? My initial question of course when I heard about this show was, “well how big IS the head exactly”? Sickeningly, I wondered, can he fit into cars using the regular sedan size doors or is the sliding door of a mini-van the only option for him and his gargantuan head, can he only wear button up shirts, does his stylist charge double for a wash and cut? I suppose the answers to these questions will be on the show, but for some reason I just can’t bring myself to watch this particular brand of misfortune. Perhaps this topic just hits a little too close to home for me because my ex-husband has a freakishly large head (no offence intended to him) or maybe it’s because my own head is so small it borders on consideration for shrunken status… but my moral code, regardless of how loosey-goosey it’s been in the past, will just not allow me to do it.

Maybe I have reached the threshold for my reality TV capacity. What ever happened to shows like Cheers where people could connect with Norm’s desire to escape Vera or Cliff’s unhealthy co-dependence on his mother? Even kids shows … I used to race home from school so I could see what the new drama on Degrassi was going to be… How will Spike cope with being a teenage mom? Will Wheels finally meet his absentee father? Are Arthur and Yik able to repair their friendship? I can honestly say that the reason I didn’t try acid in high school was because I didn’t want to pull a ‘Shane’ and dive bomb off the roof believing that I could fly. Yeah, Degrassi… that was a show!

Have we really lost the ability to imagine and create our own realities? Is being entertained by the oversized cranium of Mr. Sain Mumtaz easier to do than to accept our own ailments and issues? I don’t know about the rest of you, but I think it’s fair to say that in my life there has been more than one thing that could have quite handily been made into a reality series and somehow I managed to find my way out just fine without TLC... well fine-ish at least! Sure, from time to time I exploited Darnell and Bon’ Qui Qui to make me feel a bit better, but whatever. I really do hope the doctors find a cure for Sain’s exploding head… perhaps he’s Sha’Nay Nay’s daddy. Somebody ought to call Maury.

Resolve THIS!

As a personal rule, I do not subscribe to the whole idea of making New Year’s resolutions. I mean, if I recognize that I need to improve or enhance some aspect of myself, does setting a date to start the improvements mean that I am simply content with being mediocre, or even irresponsible until the magical date of January 1st? “Oh sorry Dave, I can’t help out with community kitchen initiative right now. Call me in January though when I will believe feeding the impoverished of our community is important. I hope the soup turns out well. Merry Christmas to you and yours.”

Though I recognize that self-improvement is important and fundamental to the evolution of both ourselves and society as a whole, I really wish the framing of it would not be under the guise of a resolution especially because the propensity to dismiss the life transformations, after only a short while, certainly outweighs the likelihood that with the magical bonging of the 12th bell at midnight on December 31st, you will simply want to call your mother more often, give up Tim Horton’s coffee and put that $2/day away to start sponsoring a child in Africa, sign up to deliver meals on wheels to shut-ins, stop smoking, give up Cheetos and lose 50 pounds.

Can’t we just all agree that if we can do one thing better each day than we did yesterday we should be proud of ourselves? There are people in our world who strive each day to eat green vegetables, to not allow their vehicles to idle for more than 10 seconds, to be accepting and tolerant of those who are discriminated against, find ways of helping the seemingly helpless and to give a voice to the disenfranchised. These people do not wait until January 1st to make their health a priority or support global social justice. If I may be so bold as to sum it up with a quote from one of the most awe inspiring and motivational people that I am aware of in our modern day:

“I might as well be gay. And not just because I love rhinestones and Barbara Streisand. But because I'm a sensitive person who is supportive of gay people the same way I'm sensitive to grossly obese people and ugly people.” – Richard Simmons

Now if that gem doesn’t jazzersize your inner guru into action, regardless of the date on the calendar… I don’t know what will! Happy New Year !

So... apparently I'm almost old

So it seems that I am no longer in my 20's. I mean I suppose I should have realized this fact 5 years ago when I turned 30 but it didn't occur to me until just recently when I tried on a funky pair of camouflage cargo pants. I spun in the dressing room, admiring my camo-clad butt from every angle and decided that I absolutely could not live one more minute without them. I had fantasies about coupling my new pants with a sassy white tank top, flip flops and perhaps a whimsical ball cap and walking through the produce aisle at No Frills in June looking like a camo-godess, not unlike Lara Croft. She-Zam!!! I walked out of the dressing room only to notice a young woman who was trying on the same pair of pants and wearing a college sweatshirt. Her friends were oogling over her and talking about how great they would look with a white tank top in the summer. She was a truly beautiful young woman and looked totally amazing in her pants; I was so pleased that I too was a member of the cool-camo-cargo-pant club. We were practically twins this college girl and me!

So in my happy fantasy land, I went up to the cash to pay and while I was waiting for the checkout associate, my twin said to her friends, "these are a bit big, can you grab me a size 3?" I almost fell down. A size 3? How could that be??? We were twins... yet my pants held a tag which very clearly stated size 12. Her and I were the same, identical twins even. How could my perfectly sassy pants be 9 sizes bigger than hers??? My world started to shrink, the silver chain belts hanging beside the till started clanging together and the slogan t-shirts that said 'save a horse ride a cowboy' and 'I'm a natural blonde... you will have to speak slowly' started to come alive.

Oh My GAWD... I am 35 years old. I have 2 children, 3 step-children, an ex-husband, a fiancee, a golden retreiver, a career and I laugh out loud at the Kraft tex-mex cheese commercial where the woman has a pinata that looks like her mother in law . I am approaching middle age. I have officially moved up to a different demographic check box on survey's which I fill out regularly to get free samples of maxi-pads and granola bars. I am not in the same club as the college girl who wears a size 3. If I buy these pants, someone will submit my name for that show 'What Not to Wear' and I don't think I can cope with that. It's a small town. I can no longer wear camouflage cargo pants.