Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Rearview Mirror

DH and I bought our Schefflera plant way back when we first began cohabitating. She came to us in a little 4" green plastic pot, and we christened her Shiffy. Shiffy is now of such a size that I get a little herniated just thinking about the fact that she needs to be transplanted sometime soon. So she's been around a while but still, every winter when she invariably loses a whack of leaves, I invariably freak out over it. You'd think I'd have figured it out by now, but I'm attached, you know? I'd hate to see her go.

"Oh my gawd! Shiffy is losing all her leaves! What's happening to her?"

"Honey, you say that every year. It's just winter. She always loses some leaves in the winter."

"Some leaves? She's going bald faster than..."

[Editor's note: Hair-loss jokes are frowned upon in my home, for big, shiny reasons that shall remain unspoken and/or firmly in the realm of chronic denial, and as such have been removed from this post.]

Anyway, I'm sure Shiffy will be fine, but the situation did remind me of this one time, in Costco, when *someone who shall remain unnamed* and I were browsing the home security camera systems. They had this one with four cameras hooked to a TV display, and *unnamed individual* was checking out the split-screen view. I wandered a short distance away, when the unmistakable sound of schoolgirls screaming suddenly erupted from somewhere in the immediate vicinity. Confused and alarmed - but always on the ball - I shouted "I'm a first-aider!" and leapt into action, frantically searching for the source of the noise. Initial scene searches revealed no victims, but the sound was unrelenting. I finally noticed *unnamed shopping partner*, whose horrified gaze was fixed on the security camera view... that happened to be pointing directly at the top of his head.

It took fourteen free chocolate samples and numerous assurances about the poor quality of the store lighting, but I eventually got him down to a wail, then a whimper. I'm good, I know. But truth be told, I knew where he was coming from - it's just like the first time a woman actually sees the size of her own ass. *shudder*

And just like the size of my ass, it's something we never speak of.

Saturday, December 26, 2009

ATP-Binding Cassette C11

One of my favourite things about Christmas is the mystery of what's under the tree. Reusing cardboard boxes is not only good for the environment, it keeps that Christmas mystery going 'til the very last possible second - like, did I just get 1.5kg of chicken burgers for Christmas? Nooo - it's something else, wrapped in a chicken burgers box! Amazing!

With the exception of people who become slightly confused by the box decoy and thank you politely for the carton of low-fat microwave popcorn, I generally find gifts are percieved as being even better when wrapped up as something crappy. This is due to the recipient's expectations being momentarily lowered by the prospect of someone sending them the message that they needed more fibre in their diet (Raisin Bran box), or that they have a bat in the cave (Kleenex box), or some horribly cryptic and frightening message that may cause them to become gay or leprous or something (Tampax box - particularly effective when used on older male relatives).

In fact, you probably could send a message to someone using just such a technique. If you were dating someone with ear wax buildup you could use a Q-Tips box, for instance. Totally subversive! Actually, DH used to date a gal who reportedly had a bit of a wax problem. Just think - if I had started this blog several years ago, he could have stumbled upon my Christmas box trick, and she could have started cleaning her ears, and they could have lived happily ever after, and I would have no one to complain about so wouldn't be writing this blog.

Man, that is so chock full of back-to-the-futureness that my brains just imploded a little.

I stored that tidbit of ex-girlfriend trivia way back when DH and I first started dating, so naturally had it on instant recall seven years later when I read about the gene that determines whether one's ear wax is wet or dry. OK, so maybe it does more than just that, but the point of the story is that I immediately wondered, "Did she have stalactites or slime molds?"

The fourth thought that entered my mind (in rapid succession after, 'Who the hell cares?' and 'Why the hell do you still remember that?') was that, when I one day donate my shriveled corpse to science (more reusing!), they will surely discover I have the gene for wet anger.

You probably haven't heard of the Wet Anger Gene before, and that's probably because it hasn't actually been discovered yet. I can't possibly guess at the evolutionary basis behind such a trait, but you'd only have to know me for about one week* to be assured that baby, I've got it. If I actually ever experienced Dry Anger it would probably end violently. As it is, I generally just weep a lot. Like, a lot. And did I mention lots of weeping when I'm angry?

I don't know how he did it, but DH managed to cram every single Christmas gift of mine this year into waterproof mascara boxes. You'd almost think he was trying to tell me something.

* per month

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Show 'Em You're a Tiger

I overheard a couple of gals on the C-Train today passionately discussing the whole Tiger Woods fiasco, namely the plight of 'his poor wife!'

(Seriously? Are we still talking about this?)

Alrighty then: I hereby formally climb aboard the Tigergate bandwagon to call bullshit.

Aside from the obvious mitigating factor of a multi-million dollar payout, there's also the fact that most women who suffer the unfortunate circumstance of being linked to some cheating bastard have to do so without the consolation of being fabulously hot. You know what? There are days I might just be willing to trade in DH for a swimsuit model physique and five million bucks. Let's just check my estrogen levels... yep, try me next week. We'll talk.

But the most important thing when considering the case of Mrs. Woods is the revenge factor.

Sure, everyone and their sister knows Tiger was banging... well, everyone and their sister by the sounds of it. Before you feel too sorry for his devoted wife, consider that this woman is living a glorious fantasy that every jilted lover, ever, has only dreamed of: his sponsers are bailing (financial, if not actual, castration); he's the butt of every SNL skit and nasty blog around (public humiliation); and no woman is going to touch him with a ten-foot pole for a verrry long time (involuntary abstinence). And all this slandering and ruin occurred all by itself. She didn't have to lift a finger to make it happen, or tear out a single hair in impotent rage trying to figure out how it could be made to happen without, say, her ending up in jail. No doubt about it, Tiger Woods is getting his dues. And then some. It's like a freaking case study on the cumulative karmic effects of fucking around on your wife. What more could a gal ask for?

Oh, right, of course - but with that many millions you could just buy yourself some chocolate.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Ask A Stupid Question...

"They're WHAT?!"

"You heard me."

"But... but why?"

"Probably so you can pee without having to completely disrobe."

"I don't like it. Nope, it's wrong. You're not allowed. You have to wear some pants over top. Go put on some pants right now."

"Over the Spanx, you mean?"


"And under the dress?"


"Oh my gawd, DH. That would completely defeat the purpose."

"Well, what is the purpose anyway?"

Men are so ridiculous sometimes - like, what isn't the purpose of a good control undergarment? A quickie Top 5 to summarize:

1. To render me more or less jiggle-free and unselfconscious for a night.
2. To hold my lip gloss and taxi chits, because I couldn't find a matching clutch.
3. To be trusted to maintain order once I've had too much to drink to remember to suck everything in with any degree of reliability.
4. To punish me for not working out enough* this year**.
5. To make your Damn, Darling Husband ask stupid questions.***

*i.e., at all.
**i.e., decade.
***Now, before you get all cheesed at me over this DH, please note that, 'To provide unrestricted access to coworker in fit of drunken debauchery at the company Christmas party' didn't make the list.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Coppertone Up 70 Points

It seems the following post (originally published April 14, 2009) doesn't display correctly for some readers, for some techno-freaky reason or other. My thanks to the loyal reader who brought this to my attention. Stay tuned for my regularly-scheduled post later this week.


Hey, have I mentioned lately that I am really, really white? Like, blue-white - fishbelly white. The woman who did my last pedicure said, in her charming little no-speaka accent, "Oooh, you need little bit more brown!" (Great - now not only can I not show my blindingly white legs in public, people are even criticizing my feet?)

While DH has two seasons - Cold and Not Cold, you may recall - I was recently reminded that I also exhibit some seasonality: White and Pink. That's right, after over thirty years of vicious sunburns, I yet again neglected to apply sunscreen (it's only April, right?) and have a terrible sunburn. And if you are also fair of skin, you will know what I mean when I say, Of course I was wearing something with a decorative neckline!


Now what the hell am I going to wear to work all week? I'm going to have to go out again on the next pleasant day and try to get a more practical sunburn so I can wear my office clothes. To think I used to fret about obscuring mere hickeys - just try to camouflage a scalloped sunburn with a lacy openwork design! No artful scarf placement is going to hide that. (Ah, ah, don't give me that turtleneck crap, we've already discussed why we break up the canvas around here, remember?)

Not to mention the fact that the back of my neck is going to hit seventy about thirty years before the rest of me.

And thus begins the cyclic nature of the season Pink: sunscreen, aloe, sunscreen, aloe. Repeat.

Thursday, December 3, 2009

A Dud by Any Other Name

It was one of those conversations where you don't really know the person, but it would be rude to ignore him entirely while you wait for the elevator together, and you're not quite sure how the topic came up but suddenly you're telling him no, you didn't take your (now ex-)husband's last name. Like, apologetically or something. Who frigging cares, right? But the guy goes all silent on you and you know, deep in your heart of hearts, you're being judged.

Naturally, his perfectly perky yoga-doing, organic-foods-eating, stay-at-home-mom of a wife simply leapt at the opportunity to take his last name. It was all he could do to keep her from taking his first name, too!

O, you lucky fellow, you.

So I've asked around a bit, polled all those not-name-takers I know (at least those who will admit to it), and I've gotten some most excellent reasons from them: she earned her education and built her career under her name and didn't want to go confusing the issue; it seemed like a huge pain in the arse with little gain; his last name sounds really angry.

Me? Maybe I didn't really imagine it would work out anyways (10%). Maybe I like my last name (10%). Maybe his last name sounds a lot like dildo** (80%).

**My apologies to all actual dildos out there. I know he's a blight on your reputation for being hard-working, industrious members of society, spreading joy and peace in your wake. Among other things. As a friend of mine once said:

"Why would you call him a dildo? That's mean. At least dildos are useful."

Touche, my friend. I'll work on thinking up something new.