Various Updates on This 'n' That

I thought I'd do an update on a few things I've posted about over recent months, not that I've anything massive or particularly mind-blowing to report, just the usual blather, I guess:

Tamoxifen Update - 8 months on
I first started taking Tamoxifen mid-November last year and was quite panicked about potential side-effects; primarily, being pushed into early menopause and also possible weight gain. In January I was pleased to post a positive two-month update on just how the treatment was going. And suddenly here we are, last day of July, and I realize I meant to do a 6-month update....two months ago! So, for anyone interested, here's how it's going:

1. Overall: On the whole, still feeling pretty good and no strong or particularly adverse side-effects. Yay!
2. Eyesight: I do feel like my eyesight's deteriorated quite a lot, I'm struggling to read menus, labels, texts and other such small print, which I'm finding incredibly frustrating. Admittedly it might purely be age (having hit the mid-forties point in May - eeek), but I also know that it can definitely be a side-effect of the medication and I intend to mention it at my next appointment with the oncologist in September.
3. Hot flashes: Thankfully still no hot flashes to report, nothing really noticeable anyway, and even the night sweats are taking a welcome break at the moment, which is odd since the weather's been so hot and the nights very muggy lately.
4. Monthlies: My periods have stretched from being every 32 days to about 37 lately, but no noticeable difference otherwise.
5. Weight: I've gained weight lately. Well, it's more that I appear to have re-gained the 7 or so pounds that I lost in the first few months of this year and similarly the inches are creeping back up too. I'm still working out regularly and haven't changed my eating but I've certainly felt pudgier and generally bloated for the last several months which may/may not be down to being on Tamoxifen that bit longer. Bugger - because I was really enjoying looking and feeling much leaner, energetic and in great shape. I felt better in my clothes (although some were getting a bit too big on me). Even my ex-figure-skater bubble-bum is visibly making a comeback. I wasn't trying to get rid of it but, now that it's making a re-apperance, I'm not too happy about it. Besides, if I known I'd add back the 7lbs then I would have at least stuffed my face full of cakes, muffins & fish 'n' chips! Nothing more frustrating than inexplicable weight gain :-(
6. Skin/acne: I don't know if it's related to hormones or tamoxifen, since I always believed testosterone not estrogen to be the main hormonal culprit of acne breakouts, but I'm tentatively pleased to say my skin has been noticeably clearer the past 6 months or so - perhaps the longest I've gone without using some sort of prescription cream, tablets or stinky tea-tree oil. I've suffered breakouts to a lesser or much greater degree my whole life (so much for 'growing out of it when you're 18'!). Believe me, I've had some ugly and severe bouts of acne in my time (though thankfully bear very few physical scars) and wonder if this significant improvement is in any part due to the Tamoxifen or else the amazing natural product 'Pure Tamanu Oil' that I discovered early this year, which makes my skin feel great and is quite possibly delivering its well-reputed and very gentle acne-fighting properties. I don't know for sure but I'm certainly thrilled with my skin lately and it's a huge novelty to report that I very rarely have breakouts lately. I'd highly recommend pure Tamanu Oil (I've tried the Aura Cacia brand at approx CAD $17 to $30 for a 30ml bottle, which I find lasts 4-6 months even using it twice a day).

Other than that, no real change on Tamoxifen. Admittedly I'm disappointed about the weight thing, which might seem a little odd given that I've maintained the same weight (132 to 134lbs) for over 15 years but, being 7lbs lighter felt so good, that I'm now feeling uncomfortably chunky being back at my usual weight.

Oh well - so long as the meds are still doing their cancer-fighting job, that's really all I ask.

False Economy? - when thrift store shoes go bad
Back in February I confessed my clandestine penchant for popping tags at thrift stores - 'cos I loves me bargains along with recycling wherever possible. Now that we've moved back to Kits, I have not one, but two Salvation Army thrift stores within a short walk as well as several consignment stores and an SPCA thrift store that I've regularly donated to for years. I've had some great finds for summer clothes; shorts, a dress, jeans, t-shirts etc. despite the fact prices at the Sally Ann are getting ridiculous - name-brand jeans at more than $25 or shoes/boots averaging $20-$45. ("Hellooooo, you do realize you get this stuff donated, right?....as in FREE! And that you're a thrift store not a consignment store.").

Anyhooo, I recently got a bargain-buzz when I found a fabulous pair of brand new, incredibly comfortable, funky black sandals with a cute kitten heel for just $6 at the SPCA store! I got lots of compliments the first day I wore them and knew they'd look great with most everything in my wardrobe. Alas, much to my chagrin, by the end of that first day, a strap on each shoe had clearly started to come away, revealing the glue and elastic underneath. I was so disappointed but remained hopeful it wouldn't get any worse - besides, it's not like the shoes feel tight or pinch my foot anywhere. But.... they are in fact falling apart. Darn, you just can't get good quality for a whole $6 these days, eh?

Since they cost next to nothing and I really like them AND I want to take them on holiday with me next week, I decided to get them repaired....which apparently entailed all 4 thinning straps (2 on each shoe) to be re-stitched at $10/strap. I hesitated but then determined that, even totaling $46, they'd still be worth it...or so I thought. Let's just say it's all turning out to be a grand false economy on my part, the repair looked okay but in reality gave them little more than an hour's extra life. First wear post-repair (I'm a poet) and the exact same thing happened all over again, a design flaw and shoddy work in the shoes' original manufacture I'd say:

Broken straps and dollar-store nail tattoos.

But, not feeling ready to give up on them just yet (especially after spending the additional $40 hoping they'd be fixed), I decided on one last ditch attempt that wouldn't cost me a single penny. Et voilà, the high-tech tools of my latest and greatest shoe repair endeavours:

High-tech tools of the trade.

That's right, I stapled the straps back in place, then used a black permanent marker to colour over the silver staples so they wouldn't show....much. (Blue Peter eat your heart out!)

Staples? Are you kidding me? Like I'd seriously stick my
shoes together with staples! Haha. Whatever next?

And you know what? It worked! You can hardly see the staples at all, the straps have so far stayed put and naturally I'm kicking myself (with said shoes) that I didn't just try this before and save myself the $40 on a wasted repair. Hey, it could be worse, I could have used duct tape!  I don't expect they'll last long and, quite honestly, I don't need them to. I just hope to wear them at least a couple of evenings while we're on holiday, that's all. And if anyone's looking close enough to see I've actually stapled my shoes back together and covered this wardrobe malfunction with black marker pen, then chances are my foot's in their face and there's a whole bigger situation going on anyway, so who cares?

It's not even the first time I've done my own shoe repairs either - I recently discovered I had a pale pink nail-polish that matched an unfortunate scuff in a cute pair of shoes so perfectly that, when I put it on, the scuff simply disappeared from view, just like that! You would honestly never know!

Anyhow, so far it's working much better for me than the time I tried desperately to hold up my lace-top 'stay-up' stockings which simply refused to actually...stay up! Since I could hardly go jabbing staples into my thigh, I cleverly lined up a row of sticking plasters/band-aids around the otherwise sexy lace-top, to get them to stay stuck to my thigh and it did the trick....for all of about 15 minutes. Yes, definitely one of those days where the little voice in your head begs and pleads that you don't get run over for fear handsome paramedics discover the abstract mess you've got going on underneath that elegant dress.

So...moving right on to my next update:

Ella (aka Ella-Bella) - the latest addition to our feline family
Remember that terrible dilemma and crippling guilt I blubbed about back in May, when we welcomed little Ella (formerly known as Mudd) into our home? I'm pleased to say she's settled in wonderfully and is a truly adorable, easy-going and fearless little girl. She seems to love her new home and quickly took up residence in the top level of the kitty condo from where she likes to do that bizarre feline chirpy/clicky thing as she 'stalks' crows and other birds on the neighbouring rooftops. Our cats are strictly indoor cats so she doesn't get to test her claws and teeth - other than the way she's helped Mel shred the fabric off one corner of the couch and has started on a second. Not too impressed with that part.

Ella (left) sharing the top of the condo with Mel.

Mel's tried to join her in the condo a couple of times (as you can see - very cute) but mostly he likes to swing from it like a demented monkey and swat at Ella's tail to get her to play. He's sometimes a little too forthright for her but on the whole they play well together, especially when it's Tube-Time ie the cat tunnel - the best $20 spent on a cat toy ever!

While Mel and Louis definitely seem quite fond of Ella, we've recently had to install an extra Feliway plug around the house because Louis has not only taken to being a little too aggressive with Ella and stares her down/chases her just for fun and intimidation tactics, but he's also taken to overgrooming on one of his forelegs to the point of creating a bald patch. Ordinarily he's a friendly, lazy and pretty docile cat, though he's evidently in a bid to assert some level of being Alpha cat that wasn't necessary before Ella came along. Perhaps because they had immediately accepted Mishka as alpha-cat and matriarch without further question. (Oh Mishka, we still miss you!)

On the whole everything is really good, Lorne loves Ella just as much as me, the boys love playing with her (she and Mel play a lot together) but just sometimes they get a little rough and purposefully chase her into a corner or until she hides behind the TV (Louis moreso than Mel, although Mel's taken to doing it too lately), so we're having to keep an eye on them and use a water spritzer to dissuade the boys from picking on her.

She's such a sweetheart and very affectionate, it'd be awful to see her become timid and anxious because of her rowdy brothers but so far she's handling it well. (Men, eh?!!!)

And, like Mishka before her, 'twould appear Ella's also a sun-worshipper. Here she is thoroughly enjoying the sunny spot created by the skylight just above our bedroom door.

Meanwhile, in the ongoing state of flux that is my professional life.....

Drifting from contract to contract
I'm very pleased to wave goodbye to my current contract - which ended today - wohooo! Grateful to be moving from the bum-wiping life of an Executive Assistant (EA) back to the world of marketing, writing/editing, desktop publishing and more creativity. Hard to believe I've only been in this current position two months, it certainly feels l-o-n-g-e-r! But it's served as a true reminder that my days as an EA are (and should stay) far behind me. I've moved onto greater and more challenging things, where I have my own job rather than existing simply to make someone else look good. It took a while to break the type-cast of being an EA several years ago and these past 9 weeks have been a distinct reminder of just why that role is not for me (far too much temptation to verbalize inner thoughts of "book your own stupid flights, you know when/where you want to travel, not me!" or "Instead of telling me to tell her to call me to set up an appointment with you so I can tell her your schedule and get her calendar to book her to speak with you and confirm it works for you then invite you and her to the meeting of you both - just pick up the Goddamn phone and call her yourself!" Half an EA's day is spent as a gofer, the other half as a go-between. While the person I've worked for this time has actually been pleasant, appreciative and easy to reach, I've previously been an EA for complete pigs who seemed to have the attitude I should do EVERYTHING for them and stick a broom up my arse to sweep as I go along.

As of tomorrow I'll be back to my old haunt, Omicron - full time contract and better $ - at least until late October anyway, so that nicely buys me more time to get on that whole job-hunting thaaang.

Anyway, that's my not-so-short jibber-jabber update. Now that I have a wee dram of Cask Strength Bowmore at hand, it's time for me to sign off and savour the rather delectable taste of Islay before bed.

Nighty-Night.

It's all in the genes......or is it?

Last month I posted about my fears/concerns regarding ovarian cancer and the BRCA1 and BCRA2 genes - which, ordinarily, are tumour supressors and work to ensure the stability of a cell's DNA. A mutation of these genes has been linked to hereditary breast and ovarian cancer.

This time last year, my sister Victoria underwent surgery to remove a small piece of breast tissue which (thankfully!!!) turned out to be benign fibrous tissue. At that time her surgeon recommended that, since Vicky was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2009 and I too had just had surgery for it (also in my early 40's), we would qualify for genetic testing. Vicky received and submitted the forms several months later and actually had her first consultation just last week. From the conversation I had with her after the appointment, it would appear that neither of us is yet out of the woods from this whole breast cancer scenario nor potential ovarian and/or other cancers. 

It could be purely a random and unfortunate coincidence that two sisters, both in their early forties, get diagnosed with breast cancer just 18 months apart, despite having no previous family history that we know of regarding breast cancer. It could still be hereditary. And there's a small percentage risk that it is indeed related to a mutation of the BCRA1/2 genes. (As it turns out, the fact that my cancer was determined to be estrogen receptor positive (ER+) and Vicky's was negative actually has no bearing on whether or not our cancers are hereditary or have the mutated gene.) 

Since Vicky was the first of us both to be diagnosed and at a slightly younger age, they will concentrate the DNA/gene testing on her. During her appointment she was encouraged to provide a blood sample to be sent for a full DNA mapping - an intense laboratory process that can take up to 6 months. The outcome of her DNA testing will be pretty conclusive as to whether we both have more to worry about and whether I should also get tested, as well as indicating any potential implications for my niece, Brownyn.

I've only had a fairly brief phone conversation with Vicky thus far about her consultation and, from what I understand, there are many factors related to our family medical history - on both my mum and dad's side - that could have implications for us both. Of course it's always difficult to get anyone of an older generation to share that kind of information (and most of those we'd need to ask have already passed on). These things were always kept hush-hush and us Brits are renowned for being terribly evasive around matters related to health (be it physical, mental or emotional) and family history. So, while the lab does their DNA testing for various genetic markers, there is a certain amount of family history that we need to investigate to help piece together the big picture.

We both still find it awkwardly surreal and disconcerting to be in this position; involved in tests, conversations, medical jargon and related statistics that seem so third-person. It's definitely worrying, I won't deny that, yet we both share an odd feeling of detachment from it too, like an out-of-body experience. A sensation of drifting, somewhat dazed and removed, that we can't quite put our finger on. But what we do know is that we're in good hands, medically. We're talking with the right doctors and experts, who are proactively performing tests and further investigations into our genetic make-up and from there they will advise us on what to expect going forward and whether it might involve considering preventive surgery. A thought I'm not ready to entertain just yet, not until we know all the facts.

Just when you think you can breathe a sigh of relief and thank your lucky stars that your cancer was small, caught very early and removed by simple surgery. That's it n'that's all - right? Yeah - not so fast. We're now beginning to realize that, in our case, it's not always quite as simple as that and a little further investigation is needed before we can say we've kicked this thing to the curb.

Hence I cannot find words to express my gratitude for living where we do, for being fortunate enough to have Vicky here, and for access to such high-level medical expertise available to us. Living under different social and economic circumstances, or in a different part of the world, would almost certainly limit - or even deny us - any such help or insight.

Phew!

Well, that's a relief - nothing too much out of the ordinary in the report from last week's pelvic ultrasound - Yay!!! Although I did learn two new words today: subserosal and pedunculated. Pedunculated (from the word peduncle....which is actually not an uncle who's a pedo) means attached by a stem or stalk.

What I imagine a pedunculated 
fibroid to look like.

My ultrasound revealed a 'pedunculated mass' of about 1.5 x 1.3 x 1.8cm behind my uterine fundus which is almost certainly a fibroid, of the kind that has a stalk, the idea of which is pretty gross if you ask me and makes me think of an ugly, magic mushroom type fungus growing inside of me. Best I don't dwell on that idea.

Actually, referring to it as pedunculated or having a peduncle sounds better than fibroid on a stalk. Pedunculated sounds almost comical and makes me think of how the AT-ATs walk in Star Wars;  'pedunc...pedunc...pedunc...' i.e. she has a pedunculated gait when she walks.

Anyhow, back to the ultrasound. They also reported a 'linear echogenic structure measuring 1.4cm in diameter' within my right ovary but apparently, when trying to get a better look at it with the endovaginal scan (too much information?) they actually couldn't see the right ovary at all and basically suspect the 'structure' is probably just a dermoid. Nevertheless, my GP gave me a referral for a follow-up ultrasound in a couple of months to see if they can get a better look at the mysteriously disappearing right ovary.

Overall it certainly explains some of the bloatedness and discomfort but I'm also going to do an H. pylori breath test in case that's part of the problem (Lorne was diagnosed with H.pylori bacteria just a couple of months ago himself and says his symptoms were very similar to those I've been describing). I'm personally not convinced that's my problem, since I haven't really experienced the burning pain/ulcer like symptoms normally associated with it, but I'll still do the test regardless.

So, overall, the best part of today's results is, I don't have cancer - and any day without a Big-C diagnosis is a good one! While a fibroid might be/become uncomfortable, it's a helluva-lot less scary, thank you very much.

Waiting....and bloating.

So I had my pelvic ultrasound last Friday along with an internal ultrasound, 'just to get a better look'. Look at what??? Naturally the radiologist (or whatever it is you call the person carrying out said ultrasound) didn't give me any information, they never really do. At least she was warmer and more polite that the arrogant pig at BC Cancer Agency who's done a couple of the ultrasounds on my boobs before now - he can hardly bring his monosyllabic 'conversation' to anything more than a perturbed grunt.

The whole appointment lasted about 30-40 mins and at some points the discomfort of the exam was exactly the discomfort I've been having on and off for months, concentrated on the right side. I mentioned that both my mum and sister have previously had fibroids, in case that's what I have too. "Nope, I'm not seeing any fibroids," came the response. She was clearly focusing on the right side and asked me at least three times, "you say you haven't had any surgery on your right ovary?....Nothing at all? Not even during the laparoscopy in 2006?"
"No, certainly not that I am aware of," I answered. "The laparoscopy was purely exploratory and identified a small cyst but nothing more than that. There wasn't any surgery involved."

And with only that minimal exchange to go on, I have to wait for my follow-up appointment with my GP this Friday. At least my doctor's pragmatic - if there's anything to report she'll no doubt throw it right at me. I'm trying hard not to bite or pick at my nails in the interim but the ongoing bloating - which seems worse again today - is my football-sized niggling reminder of the wait...

Coming Clean About a Dirty Habit

Onychophagia! That's what they call it people - my dirty little habit. I am a self-confessed, chronic nail-biter and have been all my life! The stupid thing is, I've hated that fact all my life too. I think it's a dirty, ugly, unhygienic and generally revolting habit. I'm permanently embarrassed about my hands and their stubby, half-mangled fingertips, but I just can't seem to stop. I'm seriously considering hypnosis, I think it's going to be the only thing that will (hopefully) cure me once and for all. I've tried the yukky-tasting treatments, to no avail, and I've managed periods of abstinence where pride of having nice nails overwhelmed the subconscious obsession to gnaw them down to their usual torn-up mess.

I started biting them as a child at around 6 or 7 years old, probably due to emotional stress and anxiety - textbook psychological case study really. But here I am..... 30-ahem-something years later - still going hard at it! While I've definitely had periods in that time where I stopped completely, sometimes for months on end, I nevertheless seem to start up again eventually and, in the past 8 months or so it's been worse than ever. Not only do I chew my nails but I pick at the skin around the edges too, until my fingertips are sore and bleeding. It often hurts to get dressed, prepare food, scratch my skin (which is almost impossible when you have no nails), peeling an orange burns like hell and I've lost count of how many new stockings I've ruined simply trying to put them on. It takes me a while to undo knots and shoelaces, open envelopes, peel off price tags/labels, pick up a dropped coin (dimes and pennies are especially difficult). I'm always discreetly hiding my fingernails from view and I'm terribly embarrassed if I have to point to something on my computer screen - with my blobby, scabby finger and half-shredded nail remnants. Similarly, I'm horribly self-conscious holding a glass of wine, or pointing at something on the menu of a fancy restaurant. And, what's bugging me lately, is that I have a lot of jewellery, especially rings, that I like but am hesitant to wear for fear of drawing attention to my hands and their sad, beaten-up digits.

So without further ado, here are the offending items.

Not too bad here, you might think

But look! Urrgghhh - "you're a MONSTER!"

As a child my family teased me about my nail-biting, joking that they'd serve me up a pie baked full of finger and toe nails or that I could have nails on toast for dinner. (For the record, I have NEVER bitten or eaten my toe nails....even I have limits!) So I learnt to be discreet in my nail-biting so as not to get caught. Actually, when my younger brother, Graham, was a toddler I was determined to surreptitiously teach him to start biting his, that way I'd at least have a partner in crime and the onus would maybe even shift to him instead of me. Luckily for him though, he failed miserably.

With the exception of the past few years, I would never bite my nails if anyone else was around, I was just too mortified by how ugly it must (and does) look - especially as a grown woman, fingers halfway down my gob, chomping down with frenetic nervousness. Such as the woman in her 50s that I once witnessed devouring her fingers in the waiting room of the doctor's office. Admittedly she might have been anxiously anticipating test results or bad news, but witnessing that display, on a woman who seemed otherwise elegant and normal, shocked me - especially knowing that I must look just as ugly and repulsive when I do it. Not to mention that awful sound of someone literally crunching on their chewed naily bits. I personally hate that sound as much as I hate someone publicly clipping their nails (knowing they're pinging off all over the place...potentially landing in your food or hair etc.). But even that doesn't stop me, I just try not to do it within earshot of anyone else and hate it when Lorne sometimes catches me as I watch TV (when I do 80% of my chewing). I sometimes wonder if he's trying to discreetly turn away slightly so that (a) he can't hear me or (b) doesn't have to see me out the corner of his eye, contorting my fingers, hand and arm to get at every last remaining shred of nail that'll bug the hell out of me if I don't rip it out. (Now I see where the OCD element of the onychophagia definition comes in.)

On the whole, while my nails are pretty gross, especially at the moment, though they're still not quite as gnarly as some people's - such as this habitual nail-biter (and believe me, there are many, far uglier onychophagia photos where this one came from):

My nails often feel this sore, but
these are thankfully not mine.

This time last summer I actually had lovely, long nails - all beautifully shiny, healthy and painted. I was proud to show them off. For about 8 months I never touched them, not even to pick at or nibble. Quite possibly the longest I've ever gone without gnawing on them to some degree and that was despite the anxieties of losing my job and the whole breast cancer thing. Ironic, no?

The additional habit of picking the skin around my nails started quite a few years ago as a semi-subconscious attempt to avoid actually chewing my nails, only now I simply do both in hideous tandem until my fingers literally hurt - and bleed. It's not pretty, that's for sure.

I tried that nasty-tasting product, Stop 'n' Grow, years ago but the effect was minimal, it's bitter taste wasn't foul enough to deter me. But then, Buckley's cough medicine doesn't make me gag either, so maybe I just have tough taste buds. I've tried using clear nail polish but end up picking it off. I've made countless New Year's resolutions, promises to quit on my birthday or at lent or 'if I get that job offer' etc. etc. While I come across as confident, diligent and professional, I worry that revealing bitten nails at a job interview will give the impression of underlying nervousness, insecurity and lack of effectively handling stress.

It tastes bad......but just not bad enough.

I don't feel particularly stressed at the moment, though I also nibble/pick when I'm bored or deliberating and trying to put off doing something. Having to make a phonecall often has me picking at my nails beforehand, I'm not a huge fan of the phone, especially at work - a nervous disposition created perhaps from working at Intrawest when I first moved to Vancouver, where the Member Services position I was hired to do soon became much more of in-bound call centre job. Headset glued on 9-5 and enduring a relentless stream of phonecalls, often from extremely irate people calling too late to get the exact reservation they wanted. God I hated that job.

Of course it doesn't help any that I currently work with a young woman who has the most beautiful hands - and nails - that I have ever seen. No word of a lie, she literally could/should be a hand model. They're stunning, like a piece of art; long, slender, smooth, so incredibly feminine and elegant. Her nails are lovely - 100% real, flawlessly manicured and simply gorgeous, with or without nail polish - whereas mine look like I just tore down a brick wall with my bare hands. Being next to this colleague and her perfectly-porcelain hands is the nail-biter's equivalent of being the spotty, fat wallflower beside the glamorous Prom Queen. (Well, I suppose anyway, since we never actually did that whole Prom Queen thing back in England, but you get my point, right?)

And so, perhaps by admitting my shame somewhat, vaguely 'publicly' (if anyone actually reads this blog), I can push myself into giving up this yukky, ugly habit once again. Just 3 weeks to break a habit they say. And I'm seriously going to look into that hypnotherapy thing too, because if it cures me of my onychophagia, maybe it can do the same for my horrendous arachnophobia. 

Bunch of Arse!!!

Time for some Argufying and Grumbulating, as my Dad would say

Bunch of Arse! - one of the more eloquent expressions my brother, Graham, always used (and probably still does) when something really pissed him off. Needless to say, it seems incredibly apt for this rant - both figuratively and literally - because it's exactly the ridiculous abundance of arse everywhere, flopping below super-short-shorts and crotch-level hemlines all over Vancouver this summer, that is annoying me no end!

Obviously there are millions of men who, with drooly tongues hanging out, would vehemently contradict me here and demand a LOT of photographic/video evidence. But I can honestly tell you that I, personally, am sick of having to witness so many females - of varying shapes and sizes - parading their crotch and their pert, dimpley, wibbly-wobbly or otherwise, arse cheeks all over the place on a daily basis as this summer's 'hottest' trend. Since I work downtown, I know for a fact that many of them are actually going to the office dressed like that! They're certainly not all working at peeler bars. Seriously - are these fashionistas all so hopelessly insecure and void of brains, personality, intellect and the bare minimum (excuse the pun) of decorum, that they believe hanging out their arse cheeks for everyone to endure is the best way to be noticed? Alas, I know that's a rhetorical question - of course they do! How very sad. Is this really what we've come to? Is this the new 'equality'? Well, hopefully not because the last thing I need to witness is a similar trend of men's dingley-dangley bits flopping, flapping and dingle-dangling everywhere. Ewwww no thank you. And that's not even being sexist because, in case you're still in any doubt, I'd really rather not see women's bits on parade either thank you very much. Call me crazy and old-fashioned n'all that......

And how bitterly ironic then to hear the ongoing legal saga of Lululemon, provider of your (ridiculously over-priced) staple Kitsilano-babe wear, being sued for it's "see-through pants", especially since - see-through or not - they still give better rear-end coverage than most summer clothing out there right now.

Perhaps I simply missed the memo that declared women/girls should start going out in their underwear. Although, in many cases, even underwear would be more modest than much (too much) of what I've seen lately! Heck, I have Victoria Secret briefs that cover more than most of these micro-shorts and so-called 'dresses' and the flimsy lingerie now commonplace on the street, at work, on public transit, at the grocery store.....

A relatively modest take
on most of the streetwear
lingerie I've witnessed

Just the other morning I was heading to catch the bus to work and a woman of about 35 or so was walking ahead of me and tugging frantically at the hem of her "dress" - the length of your average blouse - to cover her bum, which was on full view as she tried to lady-run her way to the approaching bus. And as I quickly passed her (for obvious reasons) I fought the urge to say, "Pssst! You forgot your skirt. Your arse is all hanging out back there." Needless to say, she missed the bus and I can only hope she went home to finish getting dressed while waiting for the next one.

The ultimate fashion victims, that I'm seeing in frighteningly increasing numbers, are those wearing ugly, shredded, denim cut-offs so barely-there that even their front pockets hang below the leg-length, flapping around like redundant toilet paper and emphasizing the crotch. Because if it's all hanging out at the back, you can bet your bottom dollar there's a pretty nasty view from the front too.

Sooo sick of seeing this....and worse!

Or, to add insult to injury, there's always the above look coupled with chunky, slovenly UGG boots! Ughhh!

No this is not me but it is the 'look'
that I'm seeing everywhere lately.

Coming in close behind (get it?) is the soft-porn hideousness of the t-shirt/blouse-and-no-bottoms look (as mentioned earlier). Well, bottoms are included but only of the fleshy variety. Maybe I imagined it, but surely women used to at least add a skirt or trousers or something between their belly-button and shoes. Didn't they??? With the amount of flesh on display that has already seared my retinas around Vancouver, 'twould appear I'm hopelessly out of touch, because they sure aren't wearing anything to cover their lower half lately. And that includes the mandatory thong (aka g-string) bikinis prevalent on the volleyball courts that monopolize Vancouver's beaches.

As I mentioned in a recent post, this same god-awful bunch of arse trend is being sold in most stores and to girls as young as 3 - quite literally! Now tell me that's not perverse! What do the strong, forthright, bra-burning heroes of the Women's Liberation Movement make of all this? Surely, alive or twisting in their graves, they must despair of having wasted so much time and effort in fighting an admirable battle to bring us this far only to have us slide all the way backwards.....or, to be more specific, to turn years of equal rights efforts completely on their arse?

I don't get it. I juuuust don't get it. It goes intellectually way beneath my comprehension - a level of intelligence that I'm thankfully just too smart to grasp. How can women ever legitimately expect to be taken seriously when they simply parade themselves as slutty, dumb-ass, slabs of meat. Pampering to a bunch of fashion and marketing gurus (predominantly male at a guess) who decided we should all model ourselves on the utterly pointless existence of the Kardashian clan. And, as this New York Times article also agrees, you can tell within seconds of perusing the average children's/girl's clothing department, they're aiming to start them younger and younger. It's pretty disgusting - on so many levels!

Probably just as well that I don't have a daughter - I swear I'd be dressing her in a burka by now!