Manicure! Manicure!

Call me sentimental but as I look ahead to my final week of work with my long-term employer, I can't help but search for any marks I made during my time with them. Or don't call me sentimental (I'm really not) but think of this as a microcosm of any of life's departures: we all want to know, what have we really left behind?

As for me, I've definitely broken some equipment in my day, so that's something. I've left a keyboard full of falafel crumbs. Innumerable pencils out on the prairies. Probably long red hairs clogging up most of the drains in the building.

A few sayings come to mind ('goat and cabbage,' 'bundle the sheep,' 'the Griffiths Hair Scale') - I hope those stick around. My opinion that Astragalus bisulcatus smells like hamster pee seems to have taken root. Countless photos of me at corporate events, reliably accessorized with a wine glass. Or bottle.

The savvy field technique of freezing a wet facecloth to stick in your lunch bag to keep your food cool until lunch then clean off the layers of grime at the end of the day.

Teaching wetlands folks the plant called pussytoes purely to ensure that there would always be pussy in their reports, since I know *some* people happen to find this objectionable.

Several dozen forks.

Even more reports.

And a ton of amazing friends.

This is where the mascara could really start to flow but, fortunately, it has been scientifically proven that there is life after consulting so you don't even need to believe in an official Afterlife to know that I've hardly effected much of a departure at all in the scheme of things. So call me sometime. Let's hang out.

Gonna throw away my title

and toss it in the trash.

~Paul Simon~

What the Fork II

As you'll recall, about fifteen months ago I brought you all into my kitchen to show you what's in my drawers. What fun we had! If I may be so bold, I'd like to suggest that it's high time we do it again:

Figure 1: Tally of common eating utensils found in my kitchen, from approximate date of purchase to present, with very little interim data (not to mention absolutely no word on methodology) to support my spurious conclusions.

I actually can't close my cutlery drawer anymore. It's overflowing.

I'd like to present you with a witty theory about the population dynamics of cutlery, but to be honest I'm rather baffled by the observed trends myself. I suppose I could speculate that the fork population - perhaps in a spate of nominative determinism - is reproducing at an alarming pace, while spooning seems a generally less effective mechanism for increasing population numbers, regardless of whether you're the big spoon or the little spoon.

And, clearly, the knife guys are finishing last. (Don't they always?)

Based on my highly scientifish calculations, I have made the following predictions:

By the year 2018, my cutlery drawer will be teeming with an unprecedented 28 forks, while (barring any unforeseen upsets) the big spoon population will maintain itself in a relatively stable fashion, little spoons will continue their slow decline, and butter knives will dip to historic lows.

By 2028, forks will be running rampant in territory historically utilized by little spoons. Butter knives will be declared Endangered and their black market value will skyrocket, ironically contributing to their continued demise.

By 2038 I will be reduced to spreading butter with my toes and will be experiencing difficulty in maintaining my old age diet of rice pudding, Ovaltine and Campbell's tomato soup due to a grievous dearth of spoons of a comfortable size for my shriveled face to accommodate.

In 2048, five years after I die of asphyxiation under a fork avalanche, a small flock of butter knives - previously considered extinct - will be observed by a group of amateur biologists. A highly successful captive breeding program, in combination with aggressive culling of local fork populations, will revive the species to its former glory. My grandchildren will regale each other about the times from their childhood when I used to spread butter on their toast with my toes for lack of a suitable utensil, and smile.

Even the Gristle, Baby

Medium Fry and her boyfriend - we'll call him 'Silent Type' - sometimes go on little dates together. He's allergic to peanuts so they can't go to the Vietnamese place near our house for safety reasons, and they're not really keen on traveling too far afield, so their choice of locations is somewhat limited. In the early days of their relationship, they went to the local 7-11 to grab nachos and Slurpees (or whatever) to eat at the park. Lately - possibly a result of inclement winter weather, income bracket increases, or Medium Fry's desperate longing for gluten since the rest of the fam went off of it - they've been hitting up the nearby pizza and pasta place, most recently a few weeks ago.

After the date Medium Fry came skipping home, cheery, enviably stuffed full of gluten, and covered ear-to-ear in pasta sauce.

"So," I said, "what'd you have for supper?"
"Spaghetti and meatballs! M'mm!"
"Ah. Thought so."
"Wow, how'd you guess, Mom?"
"O, just a hunch. What did Silent Type have?"
"A rib dinner."

Quick: name the top two worst possible date foods you can think of.

Okay, so there might have been other items on your list - bean burritos, for instance, are both messy and liable to result in certain intestinal distresses, and are therefore a major Dating Dining Don't - but if you tallied up everyone's responses Family Feud-style, I guarantee spaghetti and ribs would be on the top of the list. Those are like, 'we've been married for fifteen years and weren't looking at each other during dinner anyhow' foods. But Medium Fry and Silent Type, well, I guess they're too young to know those sorts of manufactured dating rules.

But then, who am I to talk? I haven't dated in years, and they're hanging at the steak and pizza place at least once a month. Correlation? Causation? Who can really tell? Maybe they know something I don't.

So back to that Family Feud list of white-is-the-new-black Dating Dining Do's: what am I going to order up on my next date, assuming one ever happens again?

1. Big Mac, extra pickles
2. club sandwich, extra layers
3. sloppy joes
4. lobsters. one for each hand.
5. a glass of Metamucil
6. phở 
7. spaghetti and ribs (together at last!)
8. corn on the cob 
9. A Fish Called Wanda 
10. The Old 96'er

Oooohhhh yeaaaahhh. Even the gristle, baby. Even the gristle.

Top Chef Vacation

I'm on vacation right now. Actually, nix that: my sitter is on vacation; I'm on obli-stay-cation. Which actually makes me very happy, except when people ask me what I'm doing on my "vacation". This is a lot like asking me what I'm doing on my weekend - the answer invariably sounds half-assed and makes me feel embarrassed about just how closely my life orbits the washing machine. Quit rubbing it in already.

I could lie, I suppose. (I once told a random hotel clerk that I was flying to Croatia for Christmas simply because I was sick of telling people I was actually driving to Saskatchewan.) But then there would be a web of lies for me to uphold and, frankly, ain't nobody got time for that. Plus if I was going to bother with webs of lies I would hopefully choose to do something that would be fun for more than one week, like have an affair or something, but since I can barely manage to keep track of which of my office shoes DH knows I own it's probably beyond me to remember which foreign country and/or fellow I have/not been frequenting. (Whew - I got tired and confused just writing that.) (For the record, this is the sort of thing that I think DH should find reassuring but that he probably won't. Men are so difficult to understand sometimes.)

Instead of buying more shoes - or whatever the hell I was talking about before I got confused - I have decided to do something that I can be proud of. Something I can really sink my teeth into. Something I, uh, had to do anyway. And that something is cook meals for the family unit.

But really tasty meals. (Which I actually can't help but do. I'm like Midas in an apron, I tell ya.) And then I'm going to tell you folks about it so you can know that I have indeed spent my obli-stay-cation doing something worthwhile. That is not laundry. Note that all selections are à la carte, aka "take it or go hungry" - my specialty. Here goes:

Day 1

Breakfast
Er, I can't remember what I made for breakfast yesterday morning, other than coffee. Carry on.

Lunch
Toasted Turkey and Avocado Sandwich. Thinly sliced turkey breast, smoked Canadian Gouda cheese, avocado, lettuce and tomato on lightly toasted, whole grain bread, with a light, lemony aioli. Gluten-free option available.
Mango-Raspberry Smoothie. Silky mango and tart raspberries blended with fresh ginger, almond milk and honey.

Dinner
Spring Vegetable Mini Quiche. Earthy asparagus tips, mushrooms and leeks in a fluffy, Parmesan cheese and egg base. Gluten-free.
Smoked Salmon Mini Quiche. Smoked salmon, tangy chèvre and shallots in a chive and dill-infused egg base. Gluten-free.
Spinach Salad with Raspberry Vinaigrette. Baby spinach leaves, toasted walnuts, chèvre, dried cranberries and vine-ripened tomatoes in a delicate raspberry dressing.
Fermented Grape Beverage. Y.E.S. 

Day 2

Brunch
Vegetable Panini. Tomatoes, zucchini, spinach, avocado and a caramelized shallot and basil mayonnaise layered on a chewy ciabatta bun and topped with chèvre and a drizzle of balsamic vinegar. Gluten-free option available, although it isn't as tasty and the bread will fall apart.
Tomato Soup. Organic tomatoes, onions and vegetable stock blended to silky perfection and shipped to your local Co-op in a handy Tetra Pak. Gluten-free.

Dinner
Unrolled Cabbage Rolls. Some say lazy, I say efficient. Everyone says 'delicious'. Also, 'it sure smells like cabbage in here'.
Perogies. Potato and cheddar perogies, pan-fried and served fully dressed with sautéed onions, shredded old Canadian cheddar and sour cream. Gluten-free, and I have to confess store-bought because working with gluten free dough makes me want to shoot someone.
Garlicky Sausage. Served with a dollop of sauerkraut.
Fermented Grain Beverage. Gluten-free option available.

Day 3

Breakfast
Egg McMomWiches. Homemade turkey sausage patties, delicately seasoned and laced with maple syrup, topped with a scrambled, farm fresh egg and sharp cheddar and served on a toasted English muffin. Gluten-free option available.
Strawberry-Papaya Smoothie. Strawberries, papaya and orange juice blended with yogurt, fresh ginger and honey.
Coffee. Organic and shade grown for a happy planet, direct fair trade for happy farmers, and plenty of it for a happy Mom.

Day ?

I haven't updated this in a couple of days and I mostly forget what I've been doing. I'll just jot down a mashup of items I can recall in no particular order and we'll move on with our lives.

Breakfasts and Brunches
Egg McMomWiches.
Fruit, Yogurt and Granola Parfaits.
Fruit Smoothies.
Spiced Pumpkin, Walnut and Cranberry Breakfast Bars.
Coffee!

Lunches and Suppers
Roasted Herbed Chicken with Asparagus and Mushrooms.
Spaghetti (Squash) and Meatballs.
International Waffle Day (March 25) Special: waffles, bacon, whipped cream, strawberries and maple syrup.
Quinoa Pizza Bites.

All items gluten-free and made and/or purchased with love - yup, not even resentment this week. Bon appétit!

JabberSloppy

'Twas noontime and the hungry tum

Did gyre and gimble in the chest.

Enticing were the nutriments

And the pizza pie, the best!

"Beware the LunchySlop, my love!

The lips that drool, the jaws that miss,

Beware the crumb-filled lap and shun

The ruinous splatter-sauce!"
 

He took his box of lunch in hand,

Long time a table clear he sought,

So rested he in the cafeter-ee,

And sat awhile in thought.
   

And as with lunching thoughts he sat,

The LunchySlop, intending dirt, 

Revealed itself and aimed to stain

Our hero's nice clean shirt!
  

One two! One two! And 'round his head,

His hands as quick as doodle-bop,

A bib applied in the nick of time

To stop that LunchySlop!
  

"And hast thou foiled the LunchySlop?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

Oh frabjous day, no Stain-A-Way!"

She chortled in her joy.
 

'Twas noontime and the hungry tum

Did gyre and gimble in the chest

Enticing were the nutriments

And the pizza pie, the best!

To DH, who often has a little something on his shirt. 

Sushi Frenzy!

Y'know what I don't like? Sushi. People are ape about sushi and I just. don't. get it. It's fishy, mushy, cold and sour - seriously, could you pick four worse things to put all together into a single type of food? Probably the only thing you could do to make it worse would be to add in some "uncooked" - oh wait! Already done! Welp, that settles it. Sushi is hands-down the worst food I can think of.

Problem is, everyone else on the planet loves sushi, so I've been forced to live a lie all these years: "Oh, yeah, m'm, sushi sounds great buuuuuuuut I just had sushi for breakfast and lunch so, hey, let's go try that burger place for supper instead! Yay burgers!" But it's time for me to come out of the closet: I'm not actually washing my hair on your birthday, [insert names of endless string of friends whose birthday dinners I have brushed off], I just hate sushi. Any hair washing on your birthday or any other sushi-based special event is purely coincidental.

During one of those ill-advised conversations that couples should never have, DH told me that the one major thing he would look for in a future girlfriend if we ever broke up would be someone who likes sushi. Even my children love sushi, the little traitors. So while my kids are all "Bring us more morsels of uncooked weirdness like our future prospective new mom likes!" I'm not ashamed to say that I order off the kids' menu.

Okay, so I'm a little ashamed. I make DH order for the whole family so it's not immediately apparent that I'm the one eating only teriyaki and tempura. 

It doesn't help that they send all the regular sushi on cute little round plates, while my white people sushi comes on square plates. Yeah, I'm picking up on your little underhanded jab there: I don't like real sushi, so I'm not cool. Future Prospective New Mom, however, I'll bet she gets all the round plates. Bitch.

So back to that conversation: okay, so it's a leetle bit my fault for asking, but it's way more DH's fault for answering. Like, 90:10. Everyone knows you never actually answer those relationship trolling questions, you fake answer like your life depends on it. He completely deserves hearing about it again every time "we" have sushi, eight years (and counting) later.

Maybe She's Born With It...

Small Fry just turned five. Do you know what that means? It means I haven't slept in five years. Actually, a little longer than that because I couldn't sleep for those final few months of pregnancy either. (Care for a nap? No thanks, I gestate.) To be clear, he got a party and a cake and more Lego than you can shake a stick at, so stop feeling sorry for him that his mother is whining about his birthday and start feeling sorry for me instead. That's the real point here.

But anyway, the other thing one's youngest child's birthday means is... it's Pap test time! Yayyy! I was on time for my doctor's appointment, but - thanks to a Pineapple Express that had rolled into town the night before - my doctor was not. So I sat on the examination table wearing naught but a pale yellow flannel bib on my top half and a pale purple flannel blankie on my lower half for the better part of an hour, waiting for the doctor to arrive and chatting with the doctor's intern, who, as luck would have it, was on time. And who was not only fully and impeccably dressed, but tall, dark and fricking gorgeous as well.

Shit.

"I like your socks," I said blithely, waving my enormous cup of double-double at his ankles. "They really match my blanket." (To be fair, they really did.)

Eventually my sparkling banter died a humiliating death and the talk turned to my health. I had been batting around the idea of going the pharmaceutical route for my insomnia for a while, but somehow having an uninterrupted hour of nearly-naked time with a captive medical professional audience and a giant cup of coffee really kick-started the process for me.

At one point during my hyper-caffeinated rant the intern interrupted me. "Have you ever tried drinking chamomile tea?" he asked.

I affixed him with my most withering of Mom stares. "Five. Years. Of insomnia," I said.

I walked out of the clinic with a prescription for an antidepressant medication that has such handy off-label applications as treating insomnia. Praise be.

But not without a little interweb sleuthing first.

Turns out, in addition to treating insomnia, the medication can be used to treat anxiety, OCD, itching (?), headaches, nausea, poor appetite (whatever that is), and anorexic cats. Not even kidding about that last one. Compared to not sleeping for the rest of my life, this stuff sounded not too bad. The idea of having my appetite further "improved" certainly gave me pause - I checked my closet to see where I was currently falling along the gradient of available fat clothes - but was swiftly offset by the possible (albeit unlikely) side effect of... spontaneous orgasms.

And Sold! to the bidder with the most compelling side effect.

No wonder it cheers you up and helps you sleep. I wondered how that worked.

So the next time you're appreciating the way my giant grin, glowing complexion and not-baggy eyes really complement my matronly figure and wondering what my secret is, you can think to yourself:

Maybe She's Born With It... Maybe It's Mirtazapine.