You Can’t Make This Stuff Up


Before I tell you this story, I have to set ground rules. I’m not posting photos. Not gonna happen. You’ll get clip art and like it.


I think I get what old age is going to be like: it will be making up heroic adventures to explain injuries sustained in the most mundane ways.

I think I cracked my rib.

And, for my readers, I’m going to be honest about the injury.

I was posing for my husband, a photographer who is always frustrated by the lack of cooperation his spouse exhibits whenever a camera lens is turned her way. I do not like the way I look in photos. I have an image of myself, one that props up my self esteem, and I do not care to see it contradicted in four-color glory.

But, finally, in a burst of what-the-hell, I agreed to let him take photographs of the boudoir nature. I had lost weight. I wasn’t getting any younger. He finally asked often enough. Whatever the reason, the date was set.

My husband set up a privacy cabana of hanging bedsheets on the upper porch to ensure privacy and capture the best daylight. And there we were.

I decided to try a pose on my stomach and then I remembered someone said that Kim Kardashian simultaneously arched a bit and sucked in her gut for the best photos. So I tried. Slowly. But even moving with caution on the hard wooden porch, I heard a crack from my left side.

The pain went all up my side for a second before settling beneath my left breast. No, not a heart attack. This tale is a comedy, not a tragedy.

Now, the day after, it hurts to press on my sternum, hurts to twist certain ways, and god help me if I sneeze. The rib is either cracked or bruised, neither of which can be treated with anything but time. But that story is just for you.

For anyone else who sees me wince, I’m going to expound on how I saved an entire city from a villain, super-hero style and got injured in the battle. Because, who would believe the truth?

pinup-girl-sexy-wearing-pink-bikini-84986312Check out Helen’s podcast, Keep it Juicy!



They say the clothes make the man. But apparently they can unmake him too.

Because recently, a politician in Ottawa let his underwear stop him from doing his job.

Now, as women, we’re used to persevering through wardrobe malfunctions.

But this politician told his fellow legislators that he had to miss a vote because he had bought cheap underwear that wound up being too small and he wasn’t able to sit still for very long.

You can’t make these things up. I had no idea I could blame my underwear for underachievement.

So, if one can blame one’s undergarments, then here is my list:

I would have been President by now, but that one pair of panties gave me a wedgie and the press misunderstood my corrective actions. The campaign went downhill after that.

I would have been a rock star, but the corset I wore one time prevented my ribs from expanding and I couldn’t hit a note. I was asked never to sing where anyone could hear me.

I would have been a hard-bodied goddess, but the sports bra gave me a uniboob and I never entered a gym again.

It all sounds rather silly, doesn’t it? And it is. Because, given how many really uncomfortable items of clothing women have worn in the name of beauty, it makes it really hard to have sympathy for a male politician whose whities were a little too tighty.

Underachieving in underwear

Underachieving in underwear