Rejecting the Null Hypothesis

One of the IT guys at work dropped by my office today, leaned in the doorway, flashed a conspirational grin, and was all like, "So I hear you like bacon."

And, uh... that was pretty much it. I was like, "Ummm, yep. Sure do." Then we chatted about the weather a bit. After he left I got to thinking, is that seriously the kind of thing that passes for gossip around here? I mean, I've heard some lame rumours about myself in my time, but this one takes lameness gold. Plus it's completely true. No rumour worth its salt is actually true. Who doesn't like bacon?

It's an unbelievably straight-laced crowd I work with. Guess that explains why Casual Hump Day never really took off the way I had expected. I haven't had so much as a Casual Ass Pinch, and I've been around for a lot of Wednesdays. (Of course, the H₀ isn't quite as tidy, and mostly involves my being left out of loads of steamy gossip and covert cavorting, but that's clearly 99.9% unpossible so I'm going to go ahead and - very scientifically - ignore the idea altogether.)

You know, I don't watch a lot of TV, but I'm aware that there are all sorts of desperate housewives, oversexed-neurotic housewives, lonely-anxious-dissatisfied housewives, drug-dealing frappe-drinking housewives - any number of variations out there on the dysfunctional housewife theme. I was actually beginning to feel a little dysfunctional myself, for not having some charming batch of neuroses to call my own. At first I thought, what the hell is wrong with all these housewives? Stop the drama, ladies, you're giving the rest of us a complex! But now I'm wondering how much I'm actually going to enjoy living the alternative: apron-wearing, bacon-eating housewife? Working part-time, frequently-on-a-diet housewife? Two words for you: Bo-ring. They don't make sitcoms out of that, my friends.

So is this what life is really going to be like? Is this what I signed up for? Forty years of Casual Hump Day meaning nothing more than "wearing jeans on Wednesdays"? Hey, maybe if I'm lucky, next week someone will accuse me of liking something I don't like, or only marginally like, like - I don't know - salad. Maybe I can work up a good rage over salad and really get the ol' rumour mill turning:

"You... you silly goose! I never liked salad, and I never will! Salad is for hamsters and anorexics, and I am neither of those things! Now, let's talk about something billable!"

That's me, always making the most of what I've got to work with. Drama on a budget. I wonder if it's up CBC's alley...

Health Spending

You may have already noticed by now, but I just love formulating pseudoscientific explanations for things. It's actually one of the biggest perks of my current occupation - proving once again massage benefits aren't the only reason I go to work.

Though I have always felt that old 'sex versus chocolate' question was a moot point - how about massage versus ice cream? Oooh, I get tingles of terror just thinking about being made to choose! But before I get too frightened, I simply remind myself there is a Dairy Queen situated directly adjacent to my massage therapist's office, and my world is righted.

Why, it was just yesterday when I last lay on a massage table, being pummelled into a blissfully gelatinous state while visions of dilly bars danced in my head. When my time was up, I forked over my (fully refundable!) eighty bucks and oozed straight over to DQ. My loonies were practically in the register when I recalled a conversation I'd had with DH earlier in the week - and found I suddenly couldn't stomach the thought of eating all those creamy little calories.

I know, terrible, right? Ice cream is like, my favourite food group. What could he have said to upset me so? Well, let me tell you: the bastard told me I was immense. Immense! What kind of horrible dumbass tells his delicate flower of a wife that she is immense? I didn't know whether to burst into tears or punch him in the face.

And it's a good thing the indecision slowed me down, because what he actually said was 'a mess'.

Which was true - I was cooking several messy things at once and was thoroughly spattered with flour, whipping cream and pasta sauce. But it got me thinking - well, a couple of things, really. First of all, that it's a good thing I always wear an apron, and secondly, that if you had a really quality comeback, you wouldn't have to resort to assaulting people every time they called you immense.

I put on my best thinking panties, and the results from my quest are in. Minions, I present for your consideration: three previously untapped, solidly pseudo-scientific explanations for the next time anyone suggests you might be anything less than perfectly willowy.

"It's a superior mirage, dumbass - there's a really strong inversion layer today."
"You dumbass, haven't you ever heard of thermal expansion due to global warming?"
"I'm in my perigee phase. Dumbass."

Enjoy. I'm heading out for a dipped cone.

Take It or Leave It

Munchkins bundled up and playing outside - check. Apron on - check. Now, what the heck should I make for supper tonight? Salmon patties? Barf. Tacos? Shit, no lettuce. Soup? Too much chopping. Hmm. I'll bet checking out Facebook for a while would help. Hello, glass of wine, shall we update our status?

...

"Mom, we're freezing. Can we come in now?"

"Absolutely! Hey, get your damn snowy boots off the floor."

"Sorry! What's for supper?"

"Oooh, it's the house special tonight, kids! Bowl of Raisin Bran! Suuuuper exciting! "

"Moooommm, that's all you made? We were playing outside for, like, an hour."

"Actually, it was an hour and a half. But for your ungrateful little palate I've also created the delectable side dishes of Kick in the Ass and Go to Your Room. Would you care to partake, Your Highness?"

Grumble, grumble. "No."

"Sorry, what was that?"

"Thanks, Mom, I love Raisin Bran!"

"That's the spirit, dear. If you eat all your supper you can have a bowl of Mini Wheats for dessert."

Now, back to kicking some Wordscraper ass...

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.