Diet, Schmiet

I am often overwhelmed by the perfect knowledge of the exact wrong-est thing to do in everyday situations. I'm not sure what this says about me, precisely, but I will take this confession as an opening to apologize in advance to my children for when I develop dementia and my civilized veneer is removed from me, thus opening the Pandora's box of a lifetime of barely-suppressed perverse humour. (Yes, I'm suppressing it dammit.) (Most of it, anyway.)

I say overwhelmed because the scenarios spring to mind with such force at times that I have to physically pause and reconsider my knee-jerk course of action. The extremely effeminate clerk at the Body Shop who instructed me to "just slip it in the bottom" upon payment likely believed I was mildly handicapped when I froze in place rather than insert my chip card into the reader. He reiterated his instructions, louder and more slowly the second time, as I choked down the politically incorrect quip that had nearly forced its way out of my mouth.

Whew, I thought. Dodged that bullet.

But how long can I maintain the lucky streak when the bullets are coming, fast and furious, from my own mind? Maybe I should avoid caffeine, that'd surely slow me down. But I'm not sure my reflexes could keep up then either. It's an arms race in there.

Following some sage dieting wisdom, which suggests that no foods should be considered entirely off-limits lest one begin feeling deprived and commence binging on the forbidden items, I allow myself to express a modicum of insanity in hopes of warding off the worst of it. So blogging is like having a small slice of chocolate cake after eating all the fruits and vegetables of propriety for the day. Placing holds on two dozen romance novels with DH's library card is like a middling scoop of ice cream to accompany my cake. Making oatmeal in the hotel room coffee pot is like a humorous little cherry on top to reward myself for not skinny dipping in the hotel hot tub, which is what I really thought would be hilarious.

Unfortunately, if you know me you'll appreciate that I'm obviously a terribly unsuccessful dieter, and it is treats that are my downfall. Treats beget more treats, beget entitlement to treats, beget my going entirely, inexorably off the deep end of Treatsville. So I could strive for complete abolishment of my little appeasements, but who's to say whether that would work over the long term either? One well-placed amyloid plaque bomb or neurofibrillary trip wire - heck, even a momentarily undercaffeinated defense system! - and I could go down in a blaze of inappropriateness. 'Sides, if I held it all back all the time the people around me would be completely unprepared come the inevitable; they wouldn't know what hit them.

Again: sorry, kids. I can only hope that a childhood filled with my antics has inoculated you sufficiently against this dire future.

PPMP

No time to write these days, busy busy! But I thought I'd take a minute and show y'all a snippet of what I've been up to lately while I've been too busy to nurture my blog. I'm calling it the Prairie Poop Mushroom Project. (Entirely in my own head since I've been working alone a ton and I'm the only person around to discuss the idea with.)

 

 

So many cow pies growing so many kinds of mushrooms! Simply fascinating. It leads one to wonder what might happen in time to one's own deposits left in the Bank of Nature on certain occasions...

Tipping Point

I recognize that folks need days off now and again. Why, I'm even having a few days off myself. So many days, in fact, that I may take up penning country songs as a side gig to pass the time. Right now I'm working on one called Thirteen Ripe Bananas and Time on My Hands (the Muffin Song):

Why'd I go and buy so damn many bananas?
I knew I'd feel guilty just a throwin' them away.
So I'm spending all my time home in my pyjamas
Baking a hundred thousand muffins on my holiday.

I've been pretty busy washing mixing bowls and stuff so it's not quite done yet, but I've got some sweet riffs on the whisk and a great spatula solo too. You're gonna love it.

I hope that other people who take days off don't spend them making muffins. Like my stylist, for instance. I'll be he has never made a muffin in his life, especially not on his days off**. He takes Sundays and Mondays off. I don't know if anyone else has noticed this, but it's a natural true fact of life that you can't get a sate sub or a haircut on a Monday to save your soul. It's another natural true fact of life that my bangs have two lengths: okay, and FREAKING OUT - NEED A TRIM RIGHT THIS INSTANT. (I don't know why they grow that way, they just do.) Yesterday was a Monday; guess which length my bangs were when I woke up in the morning.

** Feras, you lazy arse, if you were just sitting around your kitchen making muffins while I was suffering a Hair Emergency I am going to be seriously pissed.

* * *

"Honey, what's going on up there?"
"Nothing."
"I hear a lot of snipping sounds."
"If you hear crying sounds, then you can start to worry."
"That doesn't make me feel better."
"Man, I have a ton of hair. Hey dear, could you vacuum me a little please?"
"... What?"
"COULD you VACUUM me PLEASE?"
"I heard you, I just don't understand you. What the hell are you doing?"
"Just shut up and bring the vacuum."
"Are you ever weird."

* * *

Why'd I go and cut my very own hair, Feras?
I surely could have waited for another day.
Now I'm spending all my time home in my pyjamas
Making muffins 'cause I just can't leave the house lookin' this way.

Never Knew Me A Better Time

There's a new massage place near my house advertising Swedish massage. I have no idea what is so Swedish about it, but I've never met a massage I didn't like so I figured I'd give it a try this week.

The certificates on the wall were all in German. Whoo! This place was very continental. Feeling oddly pleased that I hadn't shaved my legs in a few days, I made a mental note to eat a croissant later to round out my virtual European tour.

A sturdy blonde woman marched out of a side room and handed me a form. 'Fill sis out. Sen ve vill start. Please.'

Clearly this woman meant business. I did as I was told. 

She glanced at the form, nodded once, and strode briskly into another side room. I followed meekly. She slapped the massage table. 'You know sie pozition? Face down, bottom up?'

2 Live Crew sprang uninvited into my head.

'Um, yes?'

'Goot. You get nakit, I vill be back in von meenute.' She thrust an index finger toward my face to emphasize one minute then bustled out the door, leaving me to scramble to get nakit and properly concealed under the blanket in T minus sixty seconds.

Oddly small blanket, too. Picture a twin coverlet on a double bed. With a queen-sized occupant. I soon learned that this was not simply due to shortages in the clinic's linens budget; rather, my entire fusty North American concept of "blanket" being equal to "covering" was flawed. There would be no bashful unveiling of discrete quadrants or limbs this day, no sir. No sooner had I magicked the undersized blanket into a semblance of modesty when Frau Fingers came marching back in and whipped the whole thing right off. This lady was serious. And she could not be expected to seriously address the assorted knots and tensions of my musculature with any sort of fabric covering in the way. She even tsked at my teensy undies.

'You like some muszik? To help relax?' Maybe she could sense that I was a little uncomfortable with the unexpected amount of nudity.

'Er, yes please.'

She turned on Elton John. 'Everybody is different,' she muttered.  

What?

My musings on what she could possibly have meant by that were interrupted by the alarming realization that massage out of bounds zones in Canada are apparently six inches or so shy of where they are in Germany/Sweden/wherever the hell. But dang, she had delightfully strong hands. Was I really going to let a little bit of Puritanical squeamishness interfere with a seriously good massage? I weighed the pros and cons of the situation then, to the tune of Crocodile Rock, actively decided not to give a shit.

There was just one thing I needed to do...

* * *

'Dear, I've done something rash.'
'Wait, I know this one: is it quit your job purchase an enormous truck and get a nose piercing?'
'Um, well, that too.'
'Oh gawd there's more. Tell me it's not a tattoo.'
'Nope...'
'Whew!'
'That's not 'til September.'
'Wait, what? And where'd you get that croissant?'
'You're getting off topic here. Stay with me.'
'Okay, what have you done now?'
'I booked a massage with a German lady.'
'...'
'A real one.'
'...'
'From Germany. I think.'
'...'
'She was very aggressive.'
'...'
'I mean, like, if you had any sort of territorial boundaries marked out, like, mentally or whatever, I think they've been well and thoroughly trespassed upon.'
'...'
'Dear, don't you have anything to say? At all?'
'Are you ever weird.'
'Okay, whatever, thought you might want to know that I've been violated a little bit is all.'
'Can it be reimbursed through your health plan?'
'Well... yes.'
'I'm sure it's fine then.'

Which led me to one final task...

* * *

Unspoken Spousal Agreement No. 722: a.k.a. the Appropriateness of Inappropriate Physical Contact by Health or Personal Care Professionals and/or Other Strangers:

722 With respect to physical contact transpiring outside the spousal partnership and inside the proprietary territorial boundaries mentally or otherwise staked out on the spouse in question's corporeal being by the other spouse:
 722.1 The amount of personal grooming allowable (albeit grudgingly) prior to incurring inappropriate physical contact by health or personal care professionals and/or other strangers shall not exceed that which is routinely or occasionally conducted for the benefit of the opposite spouse.
 722.2 Creepy physical contact incurred during the course of routine medical health procedures;
    722.2.1 shall be considered unpleasant by the spouse being subjected to the procedures; and
    722.2.2 may be preceded by some baseline amount of personal grooming, pursuant to clause 722.1.
  722.3 Creepy physical contact incurred during the course of personal care or other procedures or activities not strictly medically necessary yet deemed necessary or desirable (or at the very least tolerable) by one or both spouses;
    722.3.1 shall either be considered unpleasant by the spouse being subjected to the procedures; or
    722.3.2 may be considered not unpleasant, yet only secretly so so as not to offend the opposite spouse's sensibilities, and
    722.3.3 may be preceded by some baseline amount of personal grooming, pursuant to clause 722.1; and
    722.3.4 [new in 2013!] there are no holds barred so long as any related expenditures are reimbursable under someone's extended health and benefits plan.

Who knew. 

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.