Sometimes when I sit down to write, my brain that was once excited and chock full of exciting and hilarious tales immediately forgets all of the stories I wanted  and needed to tell you. I’m going to blame this on a way-too-exciting life and not on, say a two-month-shy-of-35 geriatric can’t-remember-what-I-had-for-breakfast brain.

(Key lime yogurt with grape nuts and chia seeds, for the record.)

(It tastes every nothing like key lime pie, also for the record.)

So, in moments of brain block, I weed through my twitter, facebook, and instagram stream to remember. But the real stories, it seems, are in my iphone camera roll—it always has the best stuff, and we’re not talking about the six(teen) photos I took of myself wearing my SAMCRO t-shirt at the dentist, to instill a little bit of fear into my surprise new dentist. And we’re also not talking about the photo I took of my broken posterior that several of my friends forced me to send them across the internet, prompting my daughter to pipe up with, “We learned from the policewoman at school that you should never, ever email photos of your naked booty to anyone, ever.” I guess I can learn a thing or two from my 6th grader. And Joe Jonas. But truthfully, those are not the kind of bum shots anyone wants to see. Except my friends, of course.

You can see this one instead—you can go ahead at laugh at the girl with the giant ice pack down her pants.

Don’t worry kids, it’s PG at best. 

The best camera is the one you have with you, they say, and I have this trusty iphone camera on me at all times, documenting my wacky, mostly boring, and sometimes interesting life in no man’s land in the Toronto nosebleeds. It’s true. I have decided recently, most recently as I was driving downtown for the 3rd time this week (and hour and a half during rush hour, which lasts roughly the entire day), that I live way too far from the city. If I’m going to be overpaying to live in this fair city, I should at least live on a subway line and where they are a million ethic restaurants and eclectic coffee houses at my fingertips. But I also decided that I live way too far from the country. If I’m going to be overpaying to live in a quiet, suburban neighborhood, shouldn’t I be doing it where I can have lots and lots of land and cows and chickens and place for my children to roam free.

Conundrum.

But while I decide how I’m going to break it to my husband that we need to move, I’m re-energized and have so many things to tell you about—Josh’s haircut, Isabella’s clay world that she has created and puts most sculptures I have ever seen to shame, and my issue with buying (and breaking) awesome mugs, and watching my kids during swimming lessons, and my book club book that was complete and absolute torture to read even though I expected to absolutely love it since it was supposed to be Forest Gump-y, but it was absolutely nothing of the sort and now I know that I should just never read any book written by Swedish writers ever again, and the bike that’s in my very near future to make me not hate cardio (it will be a miracle, this bike!) and my clown-like bootcut and flare jeans.

Seriously. Just a few short years ago, I looked downright amazing in these bootcut jeans. They carry labels of my favorite jeans designers—J.Brand, Citizens of Humanity, Paige, AG. And the holy grail of jeans—my Dojos. They have been sitting on the shelf for a few years to make room for skinny jeans. And then my jeans got skinnier. And skinnier, until the ankle openings became too wee that they became almost difficult to fit over my feet. So, what I’m trying to say it, skinny jeans in the year 2013 are nothing like skinny jeans from the ’80s — not my teenage jeans. But yesterday, on a whim, I pulled down a pair of Dojos (possibly because I was sitting on my (non-broken) heiney at the computer all day and was the owner of a too-many-brownie-induced food baby and I felt like something a little loose.

What I was expecting was my WHERE DID THESE CLOWN PANTS COME FROM?!?! reaction. Because, seriously, this is what they look like:

I apologize for this clown’s beheadedness, but my fear of CLOWNS is worse than my fear of CLOWN PANTS.

But, really, level with me, do I have to throw out all of my old jeans?

Also, I really want a waffle maker/pancake maker. At least according my best camera, the camera I have with me. What does your best camera tell you?