The Fudgie Diet

Melt 1/2 cup butter in a saucepan. Stir in 1/4 cup peanut butter, 1/2 cup cocoa, 1/2 cup milk and 2 cups brown sugar. Bring mixture to a full boil, stirring constantly. Continue to boil and stir for one minute. (Now boil and stir for another fifteen seconds just to ensure the fudge sets later, because it's super annoying when it doesn't.) Remove from heat and stir in 1 cup coconut and 3 cups oats. Drop by giant spoonfuls onto waxed paper and allow to set.


And that's all there is to a Fudgie! My brother actually wrote this out for me when I moved away from home, because in his opinion it was one of the most crucial recipes of all time. I still have that recipe card, written in red ink, now caked with many years' worth of fudgy fingerprints - DH has added "Eat seven" as the final step in the directions. I've made it so many times I may have elevated the Fudgie to something of an art form. Since I'm no jealous cook, I'll happily share my Fudgie-making hints with you, so Fudgies can become a staple in your home, too:

1. You're not stirring fast enough.

2. Put them in the fridge if you're hungry. They'll set sooner.

3. If you find yourself hovering by the fridge waiting for the cookies to set, I invented this awesome game that I play when I'm too ovulating to wait: First, you get a spoon. Then, you use the spoon to decimate the tops of the Fudgie mountains. I call it "Appalachian Coal Miner." It's delicious.

4. Eat as many Fudgies as you like, because - amazingly - they're calorie-free.

I know, I know - shock and disbelief. Don't bother arguing, though, because I have proof: there is no way my body absorbs any nutrients out of anything that comes out looking that much like it did when it went in.

I repeat: completely calorie-free.**

In fact, Fudgies form the cornerstone of what is possibly the world's most delectable diet plan. So let's all go ahead and chase down our Sunny Boy and whole-kernel corn with a batch of Fudgies, and raise a tall, refreshing glass of apple juice to losing a few in the New Year. Cheers!

** Any parent worth their salt will have noted this phenomenon also applies to peas, raisins, crayons and loose change. It's how children stay so slim! However, as most people become less inclined to consume these childhood staples (and other non-food items) as they age, certain low-cal treats have not been included in The Fudgie Diet. If you can't live without the occasional Monopoly $5, go ahead and indulge - this plan is nothing if not flexible.

Day At the Races

Goooood morning and welcome to your Daily Derby - main contenders here this morning are Hot Mama and What A Baby - Hot Mama really needs that quick start off the line this morning if she's going to keep ahead of What A Baby - so much to accomplish today - there's the alarm! and Hot Mama is out of bed, amazing start to the day, but what's this? What A Baby is already up, the tricky little bastard, how is Hot Mama ever going to get her timesheet filled in today? she really should have done it last night, when will this little lady ever learn? - What A Baby already digging in the potted plants and Hot Mama hot on his heels - by jove he's fast! - Hot Mama still only half-dressed and not a drop of coffee in her yet - this is just not shaping up to be her day, folks - What A Baby really living up to his name this morning, giving Hot Mama a real run for her money - oatmeal on the walls - oatmeal in the hair - did any oatmeal even make it to the stomach? - What A Baby, indeed! - something a little off with Hot Mama, can't put my finger on it, oh my goodness she's leaving the house with utterly crazy hair today - just nothing to be done about it if they're going to make their 9 o'clock on time - Hot Mama flagging fast - looks like she's making a stop for Timmy's - that double-double will do her good this morning folks, can she make it to naptime? that's the question on everybody's mind today - traffic a little slow on the main thoroughfares - Hot Mama making a bold move, taking an alternate route to try and shave some time - What A Baby looking uncharacteristically pensive, what could he be considering? - oh no! it looks like he's changed his poop schedule! yes, yes, he is definitely pooping, he's not supposed to be doing this until mid-afternoon, this will set Hot Mama back another twenty minutes because she forgot to bring the *beeeep* wipes with her - watch your language Hot Mama there are children present - Hot Mama collapses in an uncaffeinated heap and What A Baby
reigns
supreme
again
today.

That's all for today, folks, be sure to tune in for tomorrow's Daily Derby, when Hot Mama and What A Baby will be joined by Big Daddy and Surly Pre-Teen for another exciting day at the races.

Rough Influence Sausage

It seems like we recently got a new mailman.

On second thought, is it PC to say mailman? Uhh... letter delivering individual. We got a new Letter Delivering Individual.

I wonder how they work these things down at Canada Post. I like to think there's a cool competition every so often - envelope-licking or midget-tossing or something - with the winners awarded delivery territories. Keep the fleet strong and all. They could pee on their boundaries to warn lesser LDIs off their turf. Admittedly, I've never seen this happen, but the point is it could.

Anyways, so the new LDI is this sortof androgynous, chubby little fellow who looks like he's never seen a piece of lettermail in his life. Completely stunned. I have received more mis-delivered mail in the past month than I have in my entire life. This is where my survival of the fittest theory of Canada Post falls apart, because the last LDI was really butch - I had to develop an entirely new theory of Canada Post just to accommodate the new guy. I call it: Outsourcing.

Specifically, the work of sorting and delivering mail on my block has fallen to Medium Fry. She's had nothing less than her own rural route for the past few weeks. It's one way to get your fifty-four cents' worth, I guess - especially now that we've asked them to stop wearing a cow trail across the front lawn and use the driveway instead.

And in unrelated news, I'm sick. I'm sick and grouchy and there's nothing I can do about it but drink a crappy Neo Citran. Because DH was concerned about my "recreational" NyQuil use, so I'm not allowed to have any good stuff anymore.

Bleah.

So I'm making like Canada Post this week and Outsourcing. Here are the sites I can always count on for a good chuckle, for instance when my favourite blogger is sick and can't rely on over-the-counter narcotics for a creative boost:

1. Sleep Talkin' Man
2. Hyperbole and a Half
3. Toothpaste for Dinner
(& 4-6 related sites Natalie Dee, Married to the Sea and Superpoop)
7. Engrish
8. FAIL Blog
9. Cake Wrecks
10. The Onion

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.

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

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.

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?"

"Yeah."

"And under the dress?"

"Yes."

"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.