It was just the perfect moment: DH and I were on a couple's vacation, strolling arm in arm, relaxed and happy by the sea. People-watching a bit. We saw some guy taking drinks out of a funky big container and DH said, "What's he sipping?"
"I dunno," I said, "gin and juice?"
DH lost his mind. "Bwahaha! Oh my gawd dearie that was awesome! Quoting gangsta rap! You get a kiss for that!" *smooch*
Wait - what?! I get a kiss? For that? This is a thing? We've been together for, like, eleven years or something and I didn't know this was a thing?
I should point out that, while I think I'm the most hilarious person I know, DH really doesn't seem to share that view. It's rare for him to actually laugh at anything I say or do, unless it involves personal injury. So he was standing there wiping away tears, still chuckling to himself, and I moved rapidly from a state of incredulity to a state of, oh yes. It is ON.
Ever since that day it has been like a game, a secret game that I play: What might I say that could get me a similar reaction? When might I naturally work gangsta rap quotes into my day-to-day, exceedingly suburban-middle-class life? How might I capture them accurately with my weird little voice and my Prairies accent?
Six months later, it turns out this may well have been a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. First of all, I had to look up gangsta rap on the internet to find out what it was, exactly, then I went looking for quotes and discovered - well, it seems I find a lot of it fairly distasteful. I actually like police officers and, y'know, women. This ruled out a great deal of the more 'quotable' quotes, while my aforementioned lifestyle rendered much of the genre simply inapplicable.
I settled for shouting, "Take hits from the booong!" at the dinner table one night after slurping the last of a mixed-berry smoothie.
It, um, didn't really work out quite as well as the first time. I used my best nasally fake-screaming voice and everything so I'm not sure where I went wrong. Maybe it was the smoothie. The kids barely glanced at me - their apparent immunity suggests I may shout out crazy things more frequently than I would care to admit - and DH just made a face and said, "Why are you yelling Cypress Hill at supper?"
Now you know, dear. It was all for you.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Cold Meditation
I've been laying on the couch for a few days, which is the sort of thing that gets one thinking - primarily because there's nothing else to do when you're strapped to the couch by illness. I basically never sit still, and I try not to think too hard most of the time, so this has not been a super pleasant experience for me. My first train of thought was how terrible locked-in syndrome would be, or really any such disorder that leaves ones body incapacitated yet ones mind free to wander. I even - very briefly - stuck the pinkie toe of human experience into the fever-induced waters of self pity and imagined a flicker of a parallel between my pneumonia-stricken self and Stephen Hawking and his ALS. (Mr. Hawking, if you are reading this, please forgive me. Fever; NyQuil; shit happens sometimes.)
After a read through my Facebook feed and a stop over at Neatorama, my next major train of thought was - well, it was more like a stillness meditation... on cold symptoms. We've all heard the Inuit have [insert large number here] of terms for ice and snow, so why not tidy terms that encompass all the weird things that happen to your body when you have a cold? Why does one have to say, "Aw, I could totally breathe out of one nostril for a second there then they both plugged up again!" Or, "The entire inside of my head feels like it's stuffed full of wool and chili powder and nasty little elves pounding on anvils." That's just unwieldy. Everyone has had these same experiences, and everyone both wants to share their own symptoms in gruesome detail and not hear about anyone else's gruesome details. Why not have a single term? You could groan, "Ugh, loderf!" and your partner would know without having to be explicitly told that, say, you experienced a sudden rush of nasal drainage that woke you up just as it was leaking onto your pillow. "Fuuuuuck.... requat...." could mean you're hacking up balls of green phlegm. "Klapparf" could indicate that sensation of having your sinuses solidify; "naubd" the experience of tears shooting out of your tear ducts from blowing your nose too hard; "adanc" the feeling of razor blades in your throat when swallowing. I would particularly appreciate a term for splitting your lip from sneezing - hygdal? I really hate hygdal.
Or we could work backwards, a la Dan Savage, and pick an especially distasteful public figure to whose name could be assigned the definition for a similarly nasty cold symptom. (I don't want to tread too closely to Santorum here, but could we think of anyone whose name deserves to be associated with excessive-mucus-production-related diarrhea...?)
Wouldn't this approach as a whole make it so much easier to convey one's misery? It would put the less verbose among us on a level playing field for documenting their symptoms, and it would also make describing your state to the doctor *so* much less whingey - I just hate going in there and invariably sounding like a four-year-old: My head hurts and my throat hurts and I want my mommy. You could sound so definitive instead: Yes, ma'am, I have been experiencing regular klapparf, requat, claub and a bit of numpasta as well. I think you'll agree it's pretty serious.
(I said that in a radio announcer voice in my head, but you could use your regular outside voice when talking with your doctor.)
I hope I help each of you pass a bit of time during your next cold, thinking of distinct symptoms that deserve their own name. Perhaps when we're done our good work here we can branch out into other common pathologies.
After a read through my Facebook feed and a stop over at Neatorama, my next major train of thought was - well, it was more like a stillness meditation... on cold symptoms. We've all heard the Inuit have [insert large number here] of terms for ice and snow, so why not tidy terms that encompass all the weird things that happen to your body when you have a cold? Why does one have to say, "Aw, I could totally breathe out of one nostril for a second there then they both plugged up again!" Or, "The entire inside of my head feels like it's stuffed full of wool and chili powder and nasty little elves pounding on anvils." That's just unwieldy. Everyone has had these same experiences, and everyone both wants to share their own symptoms in gruesome detail and not hear about anyone else's gruesome details. Why not have a single term? You could groan, "Ugh, loderf!" and your partner would know without having to be explicitly told that, say, you experienced a sudden rush of nasal drainage that woke you up just as it was leaking onto your pillow. "Fuuuuuck.... requat...." could mean you're hacking up balls of green phlegm. "Klapparf" could indicate that sensation of having your sinuses solidify; "naubd" the experience of tears shooting out of your tear ducts from blowing your nose too hard; "adanc" the feeling of razor blades in your throat when swallowing. I would particularly appreciate a term for splitting your lip from sneezing - hygdal? I really hate hygdal.
Or we could work backwards, a la Dan Savage, and pick an especially distasteful public figure to whose name could be assigned the definition for a similarly nasty cold symptom. (I don't want to tread too closely to Santorum here, but could we think of anyone whose name deserves to be associated with excessive-mucus-production-related diarrhea...?)
Wouldn't this approach as a whole make it so much easier to convey one's misery? It would put the less verbose among us on a level playing field for documenting their symptoms, and it would also make describing your state to the doctor *so* much less whingey - I just hate going in there and invariably sounding like a four-year-old: My head hurts and my throat hurts and I want my mommy. You could sound so definitive instead: Yes, ma'am, I have been experiencing regular klapparf, requat, claub and a bit of numpasta as well. I think you'll agree it's pretty serious.
(I said that in a radio announcer voice in my head, but you could use your regular outside voice when talking with your doctor.)
I hope I help each of you pass a bit of time during your next cold, thinking of distinct symptoms that deserve their own name. Perhaps when we're done our good work here we can branch out into other common pathologies.
Friday, January 30, 2015
It's a Report!
It's a Report!
Birthday: 11:59pm, the evening of its due date
Birth Place: home office delivery
Size: mostly 8.5 x 11
Thud Factor: 295 adorable pages
Our Birth Story:
The proud parents are pleased to announce the arrival of their much-anticipated Deliverable. Immediately upon learning they were expecting a Deliverable, the couple gathered together ten of their closest colleagues to share in their journey. The couple wishes to extend their sincere thanks to everyone involved - we couldn't have done it without you!
It was a difficult labour, lasting approximately one year. Many tears were shed during this time, but the proud parents now couldn't be happier - they love their little Deliverable, typos and all, and in return, Deliverable is already contributing to supporting its parents. What a Wunderkind!
The couple is still together, and feel closer than ever before. Mom wonders whether she will ever fit into her pre-Deliverable jeans again, but Other Mom didn't love her for her looks anyway so no matter. The couple is presently enjoying some much-deserved time off, but say they expect to make more Reports together over the next 3, 5 and 10 years - if not more frequently!
Congratulations:
Report has all the staples and binder clips it needs, but if you wish to send a gift, the proud parents wouldn't say no to a congratulatory beverage. Or three.
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Viva Lost Wages
I've never been to Las Vegas and to be honest, I have no real interest in ever going. Granted, people who go there seem to like it, but I'm of the mind that you already have to be the sort of person who goes to Vegas before you're ever inclined to be a person who goes to Vegas. I'm just going off of what I've heard from other Persons Who Go to Vegas, but I made up a bit of a quiz to see if I should go and the results suggest it's probably not a good idea: I'm too pragmatic to gamble. I don't care for Celine Dion. I'm biologically predisposed to be intolerant of heat and humidity. Despite what my family seems to think, I actually don't drink all that much. And, most of all, I don't like people, or crowds, or noise.
Let's be honest here: if I avoid going to the mall because it's too overstimulating, what are the chances I'm going to like Vegas? It is pretty much specially engineered to be not my cup of tea.
You know what's as much Vegas as someone like me can handle? Going to Costco. Costco is like Vegas for introverts. I mean, instead of an STI you come home with a twelve-pound block of Parmigiano Reggiano, but either way it's pretty tough to explain to your spouse what the hell you were thinking at the time.
It's never not-busy at Costco - it's somehow always crawling with people, and sure, they might not be quite as colourful as folks you'd see in Vegas, but the people watching is still pretty solid. (What is he going to do with two gallons of mustard? How many children do those people have?!) The lighting is intense and disconcerting. The roar of a thousand flatbed shopping carts, and dozens of children chanting, "Sam-PLE! Sam-PLE!" drowns out all rational thought. You are actually, literally trampled by old ladies stampeding the chicken cordon bleu samples table. The lineups challenge your will to live. Ultimately, you arrive back home with an empty wallet, a headache, and lingering psychological chills from your close brush with the rot of modern society.
Come to think of it, I probably shouldn't go to Disneyland, either.
Probably the one major difference between Costco and Vegas - aside from all the drugs and debauchery and ill-advised marriages officiated by Elvis impersonators, of course - is that no one is going to steal your purse in Costco. I mean, they'd have to abandon the hard-won spoils of their flatbed cart and stand in line at the door to get out - major disincentives.
Oh, but there's more to Vegas than even that! you say? I see your line of thought, and raise you: we have tickets to Cirque du Soleil in April, right here in Calgary. I'm taking the kids to Costco for a few samples first.
Full. Vegas. Experience.
Let's be honest here: if I avoid going to the mall because it's too overstimulating, what are the chances I'm going to like Vegas? It is pretty much specially engineered to be not my cup of tea.
You know what's as much Vegas as someone like me can handle? Going to Costco. Costco is like Vegas for introverts. I mean, instead of an STI you come home with a twelve-pound block of Parmigiano Reggiano, but either way it's pretty tough to explain to your spouse what the hell you were thinking at the time.
It's never not-busy at Costco - it's somehow always crawling with people, and sure, they might not be quite as colourful as folks you'd see in Vegas, but the people watching is still pretty solid. (What is he going to do with two gallons of mustard? How many children do those people have?!) The lighting is intense and disconcerting. The roar of a thousand flatbed shopping carts, and dozens of children chanting, "Sam-PLE! Sam-PLE!" drowns out all rational thought. You are actually, literally trampled by old ladies stampeding the chicken cordon bleu samples table. The lineups challenge your will to live. Ultimately, you arrive back home with an empty wallet, a headache, and lingering psychological chills from your close brush with the rot of modern society.
Come to think of it, I probably shouldn't go to Disneyland, either.
Probably the one major difference between Costco and Vegas - aside from all the drugs and debauchery and ill-advised marriages officiated by Elvis impersonators, of course - is that no one is going to steal your purse in Costco. I mean, they'd have to abandon the hard-won spoils of their flatbed cart and stand in line at the door to get out - major disincentives.
Oh, but there's more to Vegas than even that! you say? I see your line of thought, and raise you: we have tickets to Cirque du Soleil in April, right here in Calgary. I'm taking the kids to Costco for a few samples first.
Full. Vegas. Experience.
Saturday, January 3, 2015
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Loosen Your Belt
Hey, remember that old Disney cartoon where Goofy is all calm and reasonable as a pedestrian but as soon as he gets behind the wheel he goes nutso? Well, I would never have accused DH of being entirely calm or reasonable, but I discovered this week that he is capable of a level of crazy I never knew existed. His heretofore unknown dark side is released from the bonds of conscience and loosed upon the world not by driving a car or drinking a potion, but rather by the mysterious force of an all-you-can-eat tropical resort buffet. For this reason, it shall be named "Buffadrian". And Buffadrian wants you to get his money's worth.
The kids found Buffadrian confusing and frightening. Most of their lives they've been subjected to constant reminders to eat their fruits and vegetables, but when they returned from the buffet line with nutritionally-balanced plates Buffadrian shook fistfuls of crab legs at them and growled through a mouthful of prime rib, "Why are you little idiots eating salad?! Stop that this instant and go get more animals!" Gravy frothed at the corners of his mouth. The kids glanced nervously at me - Ms. Eat Your Vegetables herself - then decided I was the least terrifying parent at the moment and scurried off to load up on meat.
Buffadrian turned his deranged gaze to my plate - more vegetables! Buns! In fact, no meat at all! "Oh, shut up," I said preemptively, "I'm saving myself for dessert." Buffadrian's mental buffet ledger, however, accounts only for transactions made in cash, credit and animal protein. He rolled his eyes dramatically and sighed - never mind that I went on to eat a fish fillet and a cool half-dozen mini desserts, I was just one more person he would have to eat for this night.
But that was a challenge Buffadrian was willing to tackle.
Unfortunately for DH, this was a decision made by Buffadrian yet suffered by himself, beginning just as soon as the siren song of the buffet had released its hold on his personality. Later that night when he asked the family, "Why did you make me eat so much?" - while he cradled his distended belly and rocked in pain - he genuinely seemed to mean why did we, personally, by the act of clearly not eating enough buffet, directly force him to make up for our collective shortfall by eating All The Things?
I patted his Food Baby and smiled, knowing that there would be a breakfast buffet the next morning and that I would soon be the proud progenitor of twins.
The kids found Buffadrian confusing and frightening. Most of their lives they've been subjected to constant reminders to eat their fruits and vegetables, but when they returned from the buffet line with nutritionally-balanced plates Buffadrian shook fistfuls of crab legs at them and growled through a mouthful of prime rib, "Why are you little idiots eating salad?! Stop that this instant and go get more animals!" Gravy frothed at the corners of his mouth. The kids glanced nervously at me - Ms. Eat Your Vegetables herself - then decided I was the least terrifying parent at the moment and scurried off to load up on meat.
Buffadrian turned his deranged gaze to my plate - more vegetables! Buns! In fact, no meat at all! "Oh, shut up," I said preemptively, "I'm saving myself for dessert." Buffadrian's mental buffet ledger, however, accounts only for transactions made in cash, credit and animal protein. He rolled his eyes dramatically and sighed - never mind that I went on to eat a fish fillet and a cool half-dozen mini desserts, I was just one more person he would have to eat for this night.
But that was a challenge Buffadrian was willing to tackle.
Unfortunately for DH, this was a decision made by Buffadrian yet suffered by himself, beginning just as soon as the siren song of the buffet had released its hold on his personality. Later that night when he asked the family, "Why did you make me eat so much?" - while he cradled his distended belly and rocked in pain - he genuinely seemed to mean why did we, personally, by the act of clearly not eating enough buffet, directly force him to make up for our collective shortfall by eating All The Things?
I patted his Food Baby and smiled, knowing that there would be a breakfast buffet the next morning and that I would soon be the proud progenitor of twins.
Friday, November 28, 2014
Her Dimples, So Merry!
After Novemberance Day, people really seem to get in the holiday mood. They start shopping, decorating, sending out greeting cards over a month early (hi, April!), and generally sortof freaking out. Small talk invariably turns to "preparedness" - "What are your holiday plans?" "Are you ready for Christmas?" "How is your planning coming along?" Like there's a war or a zombie apocalypse brewing rather than a mid-winter calorie-and-booze fest.
I'm generally pretty organized, so most years when people start asking those kinds of things I first carefully gauge their level of panic to decide whether or not I should tell them I finished prepping back in October. By the end of November, I'm typically left with the tasks of walking my long-completed stack of holiday cards to the mailbox and setting up a tree. (Then writing about the tree.) Easy!
This year, those folks can go ahead and hate me for a different reason entirely: this year, I'm not planning anything at all. Sure, I'll take my stack of cards to the mailbox this weekend (yup, they're already done), but other than that, nada. Instead, I'm taking the family on a tropical beach vacation.
Because I paid for the trip back in February, this has lifted the holiday planning burden from my shoulders for the entire year - there has been no stocking up on stocking stuffers, no buying an extra of anything "just in case", no warehousing of baking supplies. Why bother? We're not going to be here! This is shaping up to be the single most stress-free holiday season I have ever experienced.
And speaking of shaping up, I know lots of folks (okay, women) who count down the weeks to their tropical beach vacations with a punishing schedule of salads and gym visits so they can lose "those last five pounds" or "look hot in a bikini". Ironically, witnessing this phenomenon has also lifted a holiday planning burden from my shoulders, one that I didn't even know I had - I am so far, so light-years away from a bikini body that there is no point in even bothering with the pretense of the gym in the coming weeks. Sure, pass the cookie tin, 'cause why the hell not? And what is this "base tan" you speak of, anyway? Turns out, I don't have to do anything to prepare for this vacation. I worked hard, I earned it, I'm going to darn well enjoy it, and no "last eighty pounds" are going to stand in my way!
Sure, I'll be hitting the gym and the salad bar again come January. But for now, it's Mele Kalikimaka to all and to all a good night.
I'm generally pretty organized, so most years when people start asking those kinds of things I first carefully gauge their level of panic to decide whether or not I should tell them I finished prepping back in October. By the end of November, I'm typically left with the tasks of walking my long-completed stack of holiday cards to the mailbox and setting up a tree. (Then writing about the tree.) Easy!
This year, those folks can go ahead and hate me for a different reason entirely: this year, I'm not planning anything at all. Sure, I'll take my stack of cards to the mailbox this weekend (yup, they're already done), but other than that, nada. Instead, I'm taking the family on a tropical beach vacation.
Because I paid for the trip back in February, this has lifted the holiday planning burden from my shoulders for the entire year - there has been no stocking up on stocking stuffers, no buying an extra of anything "just in case", no warehousing of baking supplies. Why bother? We're not going to be here! This is shaping up to be the single most stress-free holiday season I have ever experienced.
And speaking of shaping up, I know lots of folks (okay, women) who count down the weeks to their tropical beach vacations with a punishing schedule of salads and gym visits so they can lose "those last five pounds" or "look hot in a bikini". Ironically, witnessing this phenomenon has also lifted a holiday planning burden from my shoulders, one that I didn't even know I had - I am so far, so light-years away from a bikini body that there is no point in even bothering with the pretense of the gym in the coming weeks. Sure, pass the cookie tin, 'cause why the hell not? And what is this "base tan" you speak of, anyway? Turns out, I don't have to do anything to prepare for this vacation. I worked hard, I earned it, I'm going to darn well enjoy it, and no "last eighty pounds" are going to stand in my way!
Sure, I'll be hitting the gym and the salad bar again come January. But for now, it's Mele Kalikimaka to all and to all a good night.
Thursday, November 27, 2014
LoBotany? BoNotomy?
Hey, whaddya get when you put twelve botanists in a room and make them decide how to group line items in a budget?
You think I'm going to give a punchline now but I'm not, 'cause it's not funny. It's an actual thing that actually happened. To me. And what you get is the very definition of hell, plus the slow and creeping fear that you must not be a very good botanist because you don't really give a shit about whether the phone bill gets slotted under Administration or Communication, yet all these other botanists seem to care. A lot.
Deep breaths. You're a good botanist. You're a good botanist. You're just a shitty accountant is all. Yeah, that's what. Just go home and read about sedges and you'll be totally legit again.
So I read about some sedges for a while, then got bored and decided to do some baking (still good! sedges are just boring to read!) and realized in looking at my recipe collection that I actually taxonomize the bejeebus out of everything in life so I must be okay after all. I have rigorous and complex systems for recipe organization, Halloween candy sorting, sock drawer arrangement - you name it, I identify it, label it, and stuff it in a category. I just *occasionally* see the need to back on up a level and call a few relatively similar things all "cookies" in effort to stem the madness.
I even taxonomize my relationships. I have, for instance, Close Friends, Old Friends, Neighbour Friends, Work Friends, Facebook Friends, LinkedIn Friends, Other Classroom Parent Friends, Frenemies, People I Don't Actually Know But I See Often Enough To Awkwardly Acknowledge and Talk To Friends, Favourite Relatives, Less Favourite Relatives, Plain Weird Relatives, Relatives I Don't Actually Know At All But You Somehow Do So I Will Awkwardly Explain How I Don't Know Them, Work Nemeses, Work Sisters, a Work Dad (a new one, since my old one retired), and even a Work Husband or three. Occasionally, I see perfectly good reason to back on up a level and not let people know precisely which branch of the "Relatives" tree they're on. (Suddenly starts to sound like wise management instead of poor accounting, doesn't it?)
I've asked a few of my Work Husbands whether they categorize people in similar ways (e.g., Work Wives) and the answer is, invariably, no. This could be a personality thing, a botany thing, a gender thing - I don't know for sure, but it does suggest the individual inhabiting the monotypic genus "DH" is likely to take issue with my Work Husband category. Don't worry, dear - the Work Husband category is a benign one, characterized by an abundance of bickering and a lack of sex. Just like being married! It's those darn work boyfriends you have to worry about.
Of course, I don't have any of those...
You think I'm going to give a punchline now but I'm not, 'cause it's not funny. It's an actual thing that actually happened. To me. And what you get is the very definition of hell, plus the slow and creeping fear that you must not be a very good botanist because you don't really give a shit about whether the phone bill gets slotted under Administration or Communication, yet all these other botanists seem to care. A lot.
Deep breaths. You're a good botanist. You're a good botanist. You're just a shitty accountant is all. Yeah, that's what. Just go home and read about sedges and you'll be totally legit again.
So I read about some sedges for a while, then got bored and decided to do some baking (still good! sedges are just boring to read!) and realized in looking at my recipe collection that I actually taxonomize the bejeebus out of everything in life so I must be okay after all. I have rigorous and complex systems for recipe organization, Halloween candy sorting, sock drawer arrangement - you name it, I identify it, label it, and stuff it in a category. I just *occasionally* see the need to back on up a level and call a few relatively similar things all "cookies" in effort to stem the madness.
I even taxonomize my relationships. I have, for instance, Close Friends, Old Friends, Neighbour Friends, Work Friends, Facebook Friends, LinkedIn Friends, Other Classroom Parent Friends, Frenemies, People I Don't Actually Know But I See Often Enough To Awkwardly Acknowledge and Talk To Friends, Favourite Relatives, Less Favourite Relatives, Plain Weird Relatives, Relatives I Don't Actually Know At All But You Somehow Do So I Will Awkwardly Explain How I Don't Know Them, Work Nemeses, Work Sisters, a Work Dad (a new one, since my old one retired), and even a Work Husband or three. Occasionally, I see perfectly good reason to back on up a level and not let people know precisely which branch of the "Relatives" tree they're on. (Suddenly starts to sound like wise management instead of poor accounting, doesn't it?)
I've asked a few of my Work Husbands whether they categorize people in similar ways (e.g., Work Wives) and the answer is, invariably, no. This could be a personality thing, a botany thing, a gender thing - I don't know for sure, but it does suggest the individual inhabiting the monotypic genus "DH" is likely to take issue with my Work Husband category. Don't worry, dear - the Work Husband category is a benign one, characterized by an abundance of bickering and a lack of sex. Just like being married! It's those darn work boyfriends you have to worry about.
Of course, I don't have any of those...
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