Golden Age

I just learned that those really nice, warm, slanty-light sorts of times right when the sun is coming up or going down are called 'the golden hour'. Never mind the actual duration of those times or that there are more than one of them per day, it's just hour, singular, and we're all meant to understand this.

Also never mind that people seem to see this kind of light and think of photography of all silly things. Photography! What the heck? I'll give photographers the benefit of the doubt and assume they just don't have a lot of chin hairs, but I will have it known that when I see that kind of light my thoughts immediately turn to tweezing. I think, That thar is some hella good tweezing light. I think I'll go sit by a window and spend some qualidee time with the zoom side of my hand mirror. A golden hour indeed.

Shortly after learning this bit of trivia, I saw a pair of lighted tweezers for sale in a drugstore. If you're wondering, But what kind of light? then we are on the same page, friend.

It seems to me that the ideal lighted tweezer would be capable of providing all the different sorts of light that are required to flush out all the different sorts of stray hairs, because logic. There would of course be a 'warm slanty-light' setting - it's really a good illuminator of otherwise tough to find strays. A 'romantic table for two overhead light' would help all your unwanted moustache hairs glow especially brightly, although 'elevator light' would be an acceptable substitute if the ambience of the former is too difficult to capture in a handheld device. A 'through the car window while driving light' is excellent for discerning overlong hairs of the jaw and neck, while a plain 'office fluorescent' setting could help tease out the occasional frisky Scottish brow. Finally, 'overcast day' would be a wonderful all-purpose setting for one's general tweezing needs. I suppose they could add in a 'home bathroom' setting if they wanted to, but if that worked then we wouldn't need all those other ones now would we?  

The rubbish drugstore tweezers I saw, however, were apparently made by photographers because they came equipped with only a single, sortof bluish LED light.

Until the technology is there, it seems we're stuck with eliminating our stray hairs the old fashioned way: with the turning of the earth, the changing of the weather, and the driving of the car down the highway and OH MY GAWD WHAT IS THAT SPROUTING OUT OF MY NECK?!

Hell Pinata

Did you hear the one about the guy who accidentally infested his boss' office with zillions of mini spiders on his second day of work? Me neither, but that would be pretty funny if it ever DID happen (*cough, cough, Jeff*). And if such a thing ever happened, it might remind me of this one story I'm super proud of from my life and should probably just write down so I stop repeating it to people. Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess...

Actually, once upon a time there was just regular me. I moved in with this gal who had bought a house with her fiance (her parents gave them the down payment as an engagement gift, if that helps you not feel too sorry for her later on in the story) but then they broke up and he moved out but they still worked together (ugh) and she was still in love with him (double ugh). The latter presumably being why - unbeknownst to me when I moved in there - he still had a house key months after he had moved out and I had moved in. He let himself in the house one night when Roomie was at work. He was a big, imposing guy (he worked as a bouncer) and was high as hell on I don't know what, so he thought he would stop by unannounced to see what I was doing. Was my boyfriend leaving soon? Should he come by after? That sort of thing. You know. Not scary or rapey at all.

So I told Roomie. Gently, because I knew it was not going to be easy for her to hear it, but firmly, because I didn't think I could feel safe living there unless we changed the locks. Her super logical response to her drug addict creep of an ex-fiance trespassing in her home and trying to fuck her roommate... was to kick me out. Because, love?

She generously gave me a whole week to find a new place to live. I won't even bother getting into what a practical and financial hardship this represented for me at that point in my life. What I will tell you is that Roomie was arachnophobic, and I am an excellent multitasker when sufficiently motivated. I kept going to work and school, while packing and house-hunting (no small task in those pre-internet days), and still found time to round up dozens of spiders and store them lovingly in individual storage containers. The house was in a new development and backed on to a natural area so there was no shortage of arachnid diversity to choose from. I even caught one of those huge hairy bastards that drop down onto your head from overhead beams like a pinata from hell. I don't ever really love spiders, exactly, but that one was horrifying to even get near enough to catch in a jam jar. But it was the cherry on the top of my collection because it seemed so poetically analagous to the ex-fiance - big, hairy, predatory, scary - so catch it I did.

On moving day I released my collection into her bedroom. One or more into each drawer, shelf, storage container, etc. A few in the ensuite. Extra in her bed and underwear drawers. And Mr. Cherry on Top, he got the walk-in closet all to himself. The perfect venue to hell pinata someone.

In retrospect, if I would have thought of the hilarious idea of a mini spider infestation back then, I would have done that, too. It wasn't my idea but I'm sure you can go ahead and use it if you like - it's a nice touch for all those 'roommate revenge' or 'new job' scenarios where you might want to make a particularly lasting impression.

The Canola Crush Challenge

It is right around this time every year that I realize that I am going to die. Like, I always know that I'm going to die eventually, but it's the first greens of spring that send me into the full-blown panic of 'it's almost field season and I haven't moved from my desk in eight months'. That kind of die. A 'my first 15 kilometre day in steel-toed rubber boots is going to kill me' kind of die.

Also, are my field pants going to button? Always a dicey proposition this time of year.

2016 will be my 14th field season. I am not proud to admit that I've gone through this exact same process, every year, for over a decade. But I am proud to say that this year, I actually learned my damn lesson and did things differently: I worked out like a maniac five days a week. I did really bad Zumba, and took plus-sized ladies' yoga classes, and attempted insane workout videos in my basement. I even ponied up for a personal trainer a couple times a week.

This is not an inspirational forum so don't go expecting miraculous "after" photos or egg white recipes or anything. I hate that shit. The fact is that I look 100% the damn same as I did last spring, 'cept I can do way more pushups. (And if you want to feel my butt I will let you because it's AH-mazingly firm these days.) (Seriously. Feel my butt.)

So for the first time in all these years I was feeling pretty hunky dory about my upcoming field season. Confident, even. Until I raked (de-thatched) the lawn. Raking the lawn reminded me that nothing can prepare you for raking the lawn - I hurt for days. Similarly, there is precious little about a leisurely 45 minutes of watching Netflix on an elliptical trainer that is remotely comparable to hoofing around all day in steel-toed rubber boots with 25 pounds of crap stuffed in my field vest. Nothing can prepare you for walking through a bog.

Actually, I don't even know if you can call it walking, and it's not just bogs that are tough. Whatever very particular form of habitat-specific locomotion one must employ while attempting to traverse various difficult types of terrain/vegetation: nothing can prepare you. And just when you think you're finally prepared, it's welp, end of season, back to your desk, see ya next year sucker. I'll bet all those kettlebell swings you're doing in the interim will *totally* make a difference next time - good luck with that.

I really wish I had raked the lawn in the fall so I would have thought of this sooner. Dang. At this point I only have 2 weeks left to prepare so I guess all there is for me to do is get out there and hope for at least some improvement over previous years. This season, however, I will definitely be compiling ideas for a hardcore winter training program for field biologists.
 

All Your Towels Are Belong To Us

I frequently think what could only be characterized as UnMotherly Thoughts to myself. I then mentally half-retract them out of guilt; then rally against my self censorship; then ultimately end up justifying my thoughts with the half-arsed rationale, "Well, I'm surely not the only person who thinks that! Totally normal!" and carry on with my day until the next UnMotherly Thought arises. Whole process takes about half a second, and repeats approximately every 5-7 minutes.

Don't worry, it's not very much guilt - just the briefest, weakest of twinges, swiftly followed by a slightly stronger twinge of guilt-for-not-feeling-too-terribly-guilty. Then I talk myself out of it. Very healthy approach, overall. But it occurs to me that others (you know who you are!) have waaay more guilt problems than I do. Wherever you happen fall on the innate guilt spectrum, I figured that perhaps hearing that other apparently more-or-less totally normal people have UMTs** might help strengthen your own inner rationalizations.

** A small caution that my use of "totally normal" and "people" is pure inference: I haven't actually ever confirmed that any other humans have these kinds of thoughts. However, I have been telling myself about it for a really long time so there's a legit patina of truthiness to it if you'd like to latch onto that.

I've been posting blogs here since Small Fry was an infant so if you've been reading along you've probably seen plenty of my UMTs before. Something I didn't realize at first is that they would grow and change right along with my children. (If you're a new/er/ish parent, now you know that, too - it's not just a lack of sleep and you're not growing out of it. I recommend starting a blog.) I used to gripe about super standard stuff like leaky diapers, but now I have a whole suite of both generic and highly individualized complaints about my kids. Those little wonders just never cease to amaze!

Currently, my big thing is dry towels. How are ALL the towels ALWAYS wet? I have no fucking clue. But I sincerely want to experience a dry towel against my skin again before I die. Oh, and a dry bath mat under my feet, too. Plus a toilet paper dispenser with actual toilet paper already on it and not just an empty roll sitting there mocking me with its three wispy, glued-on remnants. And oh my gawd, a dish towel that does not have chocolate/ketchup/mystery grease hand prints on it like my kids are secretly employed as heavy-duty mechanics in their spare time; and windows without more choco-mystery-grease; and STOP TOUCHING THE WALLS WITH YOUR FILTHY HANDS ALREADY.

I could go on. (Like, really. I could really go on.) But I need to come back to my thesis: I'm not the only person who thinks UnMotherly Thoughts. Neither are you. That must mean we're okay.

And if anyone tells you that you will miss having disgusting little filth generators in your house when they grow up and move away one day, those people are liars and you have my express permission to throat-punch them and steal their dry towels.

Faked Potatoes

I'm just gonna say this one time, and I expect to never have to say it again, understand? I'm gonna say it in my sternest Mom Voice to really get the point across: I'm pissed, I mean business, don't fuck with me on this. Ready?

Cauliflower is not and never will be an acceptable substitute for actual delicious foods.

What is with this cauliflower "flatbread" and "pizza crust" b.s. I keep seeing everywhere? Cauliflower "mac and cheese"? Cauliflower "mashed potatoes"?! That's fricking sacrilege. And y'know what else, stop saying "Oh it's so good, it's just like the real thing, you just have to try it!" and other such nonsense. I have tried it, and it is clearly not mashed potatoes, it's cauliflower in drag. Mashed potatoes are like a warm, buttery hug for your feelings. Mashed cauliflower is like a grainy, watery kick in the ass when you're already down.

I don't care if it's low in carbohydrates. I'm eating mashed potatoes because I want carbohydrates. Fluffy carbohydrates. Lots of them. What the hell have you got against carbohydrates, anyway? You want less carbohydrates? Eat fewer mashed potatoes, fool, don't completely throw the spuds out with the cooking water and then aggressively Pinterest-shame the rest of the world into doing it too.

But never mind how I feel about this nonsense - how does cauliflower feel about it? Cauliflower will never be potatoes, and that's okay - cauliflower should just be itself. I mean, no one really likes cauliflower, but you know what they like even less? A phony. Quit trying to make cauliflower something it's not. It's not even coming close to passing the... whatever the potato equivalent of the Turing Test is. Tater Test? Tuber Test? Whatever. You're giving it a complex. Cut it out right now.

And while you're out messing around with cauliflower, you are neglecting your once-beautiful relationship with your old friends pizza, mac & cheese and mashed potatoes. How do you think they felt when you ditched them for the skinny, trendy bitch on the block? After all the times they helped you celebrate holidays, feed your movers, numb yourself after a shitty week at work? They were there for you all through your childhood, then they kept you alive on a budget through college, and then the relationship came full circle when they were there for your kids' formative years, too. How could you just ghost on them like that? That's cold, man. Cold.

Listen, I get it - you've been with them for, like, literally your entire life and maybe you wanted to try a little sumpin' new. But you didn't have to dump them like that. Surely there's room for another dish at the table, if you know what I mean.

I've chatted with them all and - lucky you - they're willing to forgive and forget, so I've got a plan for you to make it up to them: Friday night, you invite pizza over for supper - just like the old days, y'know? Saturday, catch up over brunch with mac & cheese. Sunday, toss a nice roast in the slow cooker and promise mashed potatoes extra butter, just like they like, if they'll come join you for dinner. It's tradition.

You can even have a little cauliflower on the side if you want. Florets; steamed; cheese sauce. Just like nature intended.

Holiday in the Holiday Inn

I'm attending a conference this week. I think conferences are like little holidays: I get to dress up, make dubious first impressions on lots of new people, eat plenty of mini desserts, marinate extensively in the hotel hot tub, and sleep sprawled out all by myself in a fluffy fresh king-sized bed each night. These are things parents don't often (EVER) get to do, and I find them immensely refreshing. Aaahhh.

In theory the conference-holiday is also educational in nature, but in practice ... well, in practice I'm actually a terrible student. It's not for lack of enthusiasm - I always get so pumped when I'm deciding which conferences to attend each year. I think, I'm going to learn so much! I'm going to think big, smart thoughts! This is going to be amazeballs! But then I have to sit still and listen to people yammer on all day and I am reminded anew that I have the attention span of an underachieving goldfish. At one conference I attended, I spent an entire day making words out of the letters in the periodic table. (To be fair, why would they leave something as distracting as a giant periodic table in the room?) At another I developed a decorative font for each member of my family. So far at this conference, the only notes I've written down are a list of awkward conference encounters and 65 different versions of my signature. Where have I been for the past 2 days?!

In an attempt to squeeze some good out of my inadequate attentional abilities, I humbly offer my dear readers the following thoughts - they're not big, they're not smart, but dammit they'll have to do:

First of all, it is a certifiable miracle that I made it through university. Shout out to my goldfishy-self for overcoming my own grievous limitations.

Secondly, since I went to the trouble of writing them down, I figure I might as well post my list of awkward conference encounters:

- People I'm stalking to secure consultation results, permits, and the like.
- People I'm stalking because they are biology rock stars and I secretly love them a little. (A lot.)
- People I'm stalking purely out of interest's sake, morbid fascination, or the like.
- People I've fired.
- People who were so offensive during their job interviews that I didn't hire them.
- People I've lost all respect for and will never work with again.
- People with oral hygiene issues.
- Work nemeses.
- Friends' creepy exes.
- Idiotic-question-askers.
- This one second cousin or something I have who I don't actually know at all but always run into at conferences.

And finally, my favourite word to spell with the periodic table: RhUBaRb.

Don't Try This at Home, Kids

I conducted an bit of an inadvertent social experiment before the holidays last year. I didn't specify the dress code for a party in the invitation, then when people followed up with me to be sure they were going to be dressed appropriately, I told them it was "casual-fancy." This seemed like a perfectly reasonable statement to me at the time: I knew what dress I was planning to wear, and IMHO it was straight up casual-fancy. Zero confusing. But apparently it was not quite so clear to others. Some folks latched on to the "fancy" part; some to the "casual" part; some - inexplicably - to leather pants; and some to the ambiguity itself - one fellow had debated wearing a tuxedo jacket with pyjama bottoms, figuring they would average each other out somewhere around casual-fancy. (Statistics!) Lesson learned. I now know better for next time.

Turns out I was also subjected to a bit of an inadvertent social experiment at the holidays last year. Before I get started, let me ask you: if you saw the rating "Ages 17+" on a board game, what would it mean to you?

I'll tell you what it meant to me. It meant something like, wellll, it's maybe going to be a little racy, or maybe have some of the more exciting 4-letter-words in it, but if it was really bad it would be rated R or 18+ or something, right? I mean, 17+ practically screams, "NOT-18+". Which in turn meant to me that any older children of mine had probably been exposed to dirtier jokes and rottener words just by virtue of having been around me for so long. (Law of averages and stuff.) Which in turn-in turn meant to me that 17+ would probably be okay for someone who is, say, 15+ and not too sheltered.

Consequently, it meant to Medium Fry that I bought her Cards Against Humanity for Christmas.

And then it meant that when the kids were gathering up games to take to my parents' house for Christmas that I said, "Sure you can bring that."

Finally, it meant that Medium Fry - poor, poor Medium Fry - played Cards Against Humanity with both her parents and her grandparents on Christmas Eve. She didn't even have the option of deploying a booze buffer against the horror of the situation, because alcohol is clearly labeled 18+ so naturally I didn't buy her any of that.

If you weren't already familiar with the obscure 17+ board game age rating, it apparently stands for "do NOT play this with or buy this for any members of your family, ever". 

And in one final, bitter social experiment this recent holiday season: Cards Against Humanity is an excellent gauge for discerning who is the most horrible person in the room (apparently by more than one measure). I'm not sure whether I am relieved or saddened to report that that person is me.