Thursday, March 24, 2011

The People vs. Atkins

Vegetable (veg-e-tuh-bull, veg-tuh-bull): edible herbaceous plants which are grown or harvested for consumption as food; the edible portions (e.g., roots, stems, leaves, tubers) of such plants; a person whose body or brain has been damaged to the extent that they are unable to interact with the surrounding environment.

See? Potatoes are people too!

...or at the very least, they're vegetables. Perfectly, legitimately, tuberously vegetables. And vegetables are good for you.

So how is it that even I - a dedicated carbohydrate enthusiast - have somehow been indoctrinated into thinking potatoes are a "bad" food? Damn low-carbers, infiltrating my kitchen.

In defiance of the damage that ridiculous diet fads have done to the potato's wholesome, humble reputation, I call on potato lovers everywhere to take a stand. Show your love! Participate proudly in the Potato Partakers' Proclamation!

I WILL cook potatoes a zillion different ways, and relish every one!
I WILL NOT relegate potatoes to the "starch" quarter of my plate!
I WILL pile 'em high and gobble 'em up!
I WILL NOT fear the carbohydrate!
I WILL be grateful for the inexpensive source of fibre, protein and abundant vitamins and minerals, and - most importantly! - the delightful, fluffy, flavour sensation that enter my body with every mouthful of potato.

And dammit, I WILL NOT feel guilty about it!

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Suggestive Vegetable Day!


March 26 update: it has been brought to my attention that the above vegetable arrangement may be considered by some to be less on the order of "suggestive" and more on the order of "pornographic". In my own defense, I would like to point out that all featured vegetables were of age at the time of the photo, and all had consented fully to representing the artistic vision of the photographer. It is also of note that - unlike in most "adult content" images - Mr. English here is not only safely wrapped, but is also actually representative of specimens one might hope to encounter in real life.

Friday, March 18, 2011

Locked in the Trunk of a Car

Small Fry just turned three.

There comes a time in every parent's career that s/he experiences a moment of mildly delusional self-confidence, when s/he thinks to him or herself, "Self, I think we're in the clear now. We've had a few scares, but god willing I think we might maybe just make it through the rest of this alright."

On Small Fry's third birthday, I had my moment: I stood back and reflected on my years of experience parenting my two "interesting", "inquisitive" and "energetic" offspring, and for a single brief and shining moment I truly believed that nothing could surprise me anymore.

Until Small Fry announced, "My penis is up in the mornings!"

Thankfully, DH was also present at the time. So while I struggled to recall whether one could self-administer CPR, he just nodded sagely and told Small Fry, "Yep. That happens a lot. Hey, what shirt do you want to wear today?"

DH is never calm. NEVER. How could he calmly suggest that this was a normal occurrence for a three-year-old? For my three-year-old? What do you even call that? Morning twig? It's just... just... wrong!

And then it hit me, like fifteen chest compressions, or maybe a shock from an AED: the penis is a life long affliction. It makes a power grab early on in life and before you can say NARB it's running the whole damn show. Its authority over its subject is absolute! Why, it's a regular dicktator! Even when it eventually quits working, it is mighty in its absence: the now-leaderless male doesn't revel in his newfound emancipation, but instead goes to great lengths to reinstate the beast, no matter how tyrannical a master it was! Oh, the irony!

Ho. Ly. Shit. I have such a better understanding of men now! Sure, we ladies have those pesky hormone fluctuations and we get all "week three" sometimes, and other times all "week two" or "week one", or even occasionally a little "week four", but that's peanuts compared to how bad men have it! It's like the difference between having a mildly annoying backseat driver gently suggesting ways in which you may wish to safely operate your vehicle, and being bound and gagged in the trunk while a horny megalomaniac joyrides around in your car. For your entire life. With pants over his head.

Golly, that sounds downright dangerous! I wonder if Bill 16 is going to help out with that at all?

Monday, March 7, 2011

The Waxman Cometh

The road to hell is paved with lousy estheticians.

Not like they're all just lying around and you drive over them in your handbasket on your way down, but more like they're standing along the shoulders, slathering you in too-hot wax and not pulling your skin tight enough before they rip out your hair in the wrong direction so it doesn't really work very well and they have to do it over again in the same place with more boiling wax.

So maybe "paved" wasn't exactly the right term, but I guess that's the risk you run when paraphrasing while under the influence of a freshly-scalded vuvuzela. And yes, I - or more specifically, my legs and bikini area - recently suffered an unfortunate run-in with a lousy esthetician. I'd call her the Butcher of Hanoi, but apparently that one's already taken.

At least she didn't ask about my stretch marks.

Not sure how it all started, but I was visiting some friends this weekend and somehow - beverages were had, things got out of hand - we ended up sitting around someone's kitchen table trying out hair removal devices. (Also butt cheek quarters, but that's a different story.) As one might expect, the painless devices didn't work very well, while the more sadistic ones worked like a hot damn. With great and possibly booze-induced wisdom, I boldly claimed that waxing was the ONLY hair removal option that successfully balanced pain, results and cost-effectiveness.

Given today's events, it is clear that I invoked some form of negative depilatory karma with my audacious statement.

But I guess that's the risk you run when hanging out with a bunch of thirtysomething ladies while under the influence of homemade kahlua.