My eyebrows have been slowly eroding as I've aged. I've pencilled my (pale blonde) brows in for ages to make them less-invisible, but at the rate they've been disappearing I'm going to be free-styling a pair of surprised granny arches by the time I'm 45. That's how it all starts, you know: from the time you first free your brows from the bounds of reality it's a dangerously short slope to a poodle perm and white orthopaedic sneakers. Or so I've heard.
I look terrible in purple, so I decided to give one of these new-fangled eyelash-growing potions a try. Not on my eyelashes - my glasses already have the permanent appearance of a patio door in a daycare - but on my brows. In retrospect, I'm not entirely sure how I thought it was going to pan out - the stuff makes lashes longer, so what exactly did I think it was going to do with my brows? Offer tax incentives to lure them back from whatever more southerly climes they've migrated to?
I need longer eyebrows like I need more luxurious knuckle hair. What am I supposed to do with longer eyebrows, style them? Add brow trimming to the already exhaustive - and still sprouting anew! - list of personal grooming I'm expected to keep up with? There has got to be a better way to keep myself on this side of the support hose and Scotch mints crowd. If only there were administrative options one could pursue...
* * *
"Listen up, people: we don't need the same personnel stretched thinner over more ground. What we need is to take the learnings from our gap analysis and do some strategic recruitment. I would like to see each of these roles filled within this quarter. In the meantime, we need to develop our team-building approaches and better our management strategies to improve retention - I want our turnover rates down at least 50% over the next year.
Folks, BROW & Co. cut too deep in the 90s - no matter if it was right or wrong, those pencil-thin margins were just a sign of the times, everyone was doing it - but it is clear we never fully recovered from that. We have a lot of work ahead of us if we want to maintain the growth we're trying to achieve now. From here on our goal is sleek and streamlined, appropriate for a company of our vintage, and never again a slave to the whims of fashion.
Together, I'm convinced we will be able to keep this old gal out of velour tracksuits for a long while yet. Keep up the good work everyone."
Saturday, March 31, 2018
Thursday, March 22, 2018
Naturally Delicious
Most of my neighbours seem pretty decent: they cut their grass, they rumble
their bins to the curb at not-unreasonable times of day, and their free-roaming
cats only occasionally sneak into my house and surprise me on my couch. Not
that I'm watching or anything, but in my humble opinion every one of them
leaves their vehicles to "warm up" for far longer than is strictly
necessary, and I also can't help but notice that *some* of them seem to produce
an astounding amount of garbage each week, yet suspiciously little blue or
green bin fodder. Plus I accidentally couldn't help seeing that *someone* hired
a tree-removal company to cut down a perfectly healthy pin cherry tree last
year, yet left a dead spruce standing in their front yard...
Anyway, like I was saying, perfectly normal and environmentally-conscious people whom I am definitely not watching and judging from my nice big kitchen window, which happens to face out over the street.
But the "new" guy next door? I am absolutely judging that guy. I have never spoken with him, but having lived next door to him for around 3 years now I like to think I've gotten to know enough about him - through an as-yet undefined method of neighbourly osmosis - that I am able to pass judgement on him, and that judgement is not favourable. In addition to leaving his car running too long and not sorting recyclables or compostables, he has never - not once - mowed his lawn, shoveled his snow, or walked his dog. (I only know the dog exists because I can hear it howling all day long.) Plus he orders So. Much. Take-out. that we've had more delivery drivers mistakenly come to our door with his food in the past 3 years than we have had delivery drivers delivering our own food to our door in the entire 11 years we've lived here. Who needs that much take-out?! Really, he only has himself (and maybe Skip the Dishes) to blame for my poor opinion of him.
People always say that karma will take care of things. Although I too wish the world was a more fair and just place than it is, sadly I have seen no evidence suggesting this karma business is anything more than wishful thinking. However, even I must admit that every so often a natural consequence of impeccable timing and proportion occurs, and I think we would be remiss if we did not take a moment to relish those happy coincidences. You can even call them karma if that makes you feel better about the world.
For instance, while it seems like everyone would rather forget this long, snowy winter, I will forever remember it fondly as the winter my lazy-ass neighbour got his car high-centered on the snow at the end of his driveway. I was cooking supper so I had an excellent view of the entire "karmic" comedy playing out: no amount of pushing or revving would get his little car over the entire winter's accumulation of snow. And what kind of homeowner would think to invest $20 on a shovel in a measly 3 years of homeownership? Not this guy! So he very laboriously dug his car out and cleared his entire 21.5 metre driveway (I measured) with a wee trunk-sized half-shovel.
Delicious.
To be clear, I've helped other neighbours get their cars unstuck in the past, but this was such a profoundly satisfying win for natural consequences that I kept right on cooking supper while I enjoyed the show. Our kitchen window so beautifully frames the sunsets that we usually call it Tom Thomson, but that night it was nothing less than Norman Rockwell.
For the record, new neighbour guy since bought himself a real shovel and has been shoveling his driveway shortly after each snowfall ever since that fateful night. I think his parents would be proud of my work. Now if I could only figure out how to get his car high-centered on the waist-high grass in his backyard...
Anyway, like I was saying, perfectly normal and environmentally-conscious people whom I am definitely not watching and judging from my nice big kitchen window, which happens to face out over the street.
But the "new" guy next door? I am absolutely judging that guy. I have never spoken with him, but having lived next door to him for around 3 years now I like to think I've gotten to know enough about him - through an as-yet undefined method of neighbourly osmosis - that I am able to pass judgement on him, and that judgement is not favourable. In addition to leaving his car running too long and not sorting recyclables or compostables, he has never - not once - mowed his lawn, shoveled his snow, or walked his dog. (I only know the dog exists because I can hear it howling all day long.) Plus he orders So. Much. Take-out. that we've had more delivery drivers mistakenly come to our door with his food in the past 3 years than we have had delivery drivers delivering our own food to our door in the entire 11 years we've lived here. Who needs that much take-out?! Really, he only has himself (and maybe Skip the Dishes) to blame for my poor opinion of him.
People always say that karma will take care of things. Although I too wish the world was a more fair and just place than it is, sadly I have seen no evidence suggesting this karma business is anything more than wishful thinking. However, even I must admit that every so often a natural consequence of impeccable timing and proportion occurs, and I think we would be remiss if we did not take a moment to relish those happy coincidences. You can even call them karma if that makes you feel better about the world.
For instance, while it seems like everyone would rather forget this long, snowy winter, I will forever remember it fondly as the winter my lazy-ass neighbour got his car high-centered on the snow at the end of his driveway. I was cooking supper so I had an excellent view of the entire "karmic" comedy playing out: no amount of pushing or revving would get his little car over the entire winter's accumulation of snow. And what kind of homeowner would think to invest $20 on a shovel in a measly 3 years of homeownership? Not this guy! So he very laboriously dug his car out and cleared his entire 21.5 metre driveway (I measured) with a wee trunk-sized half-shovel.
Delicious.
To be clear, I've helped other neighbours get their cars unstuck in the past, but this was such a profoundly satisfying win for natural consequences that I kept right on cooking supper while I enjoyed the show. Our kitchen window so beautifully frames the sunsets that we usually call it Tom Thomson, but that night it was nothing less than Norman Rockwell.
For the record, new neighbour guy since bought himself a real shovel and has been shoveling his driveway shortly after each snowfall ever since that fateful night. I think his parents would be proud of my work. Now if I could only figure out how to get his car high-centered on the waist-high grass in his backyard...
Thursday, March 15, 2018
Beware the Unguarded Heart
I think it's the uncertainty of social media feedback that makes it so compelling. And it's not only that you don't know whether you are going to get Likes or hearts or whatever, it's also that even when you do get them, you don't know what the hell they mean.
Let's say you post something one day about the whole household having the flu, and Aunt Melba gives it a heart. Ideally she'd drop off some of her famous chicken soup to help out in a quaintly old-fashioned (i.e., meaningful) way, but she's 105 and lives in another town so that e-heart is all you've got to work with. Is Aunt Melba sending love to help us get over the flu, or does she love that we all have the flu, or is she just 105 and confused about the Facebook?
Unless it is well established that Aunt Melba is a crusty old bitch, I'd tend to assume she is sending love. But not every Like is so straightforward, and not every person seems to subscribe to the same social media philosophy. I, for instance, only press the heart button when I truly heart something - like, I pause each time and carefully consider, Do I really love this? Is this worthy of my love? - but other people are out there throwing hearts around like Oprah throws out cars: YOU get a heart, and YOU get a heart, and EVERYBODY GETS A HEART! (Cut this shit out, people - it's causing heart inflation and devaluing all the other hearts out there.)
Further-further confounding things is that we - messy humans - view everything through a self-centric lens, whether it's incoming or outgoing. Aunt Melba can intend whatever she wants with that heart, but I am going to interpret it however I am inclined to interpret it. Conversely, I can hit Like or heart or angry face with whatever muddled and endlessly variable rationale driving me in that moment, but all anyone gets out of it is an opaque little icon. Am I angry along with you at the injustice detailed in the article you shared, or angry at you for posting something I disagree with, or just an angry person in general and why are you even friends with me anyway? You get to be the judge and the jury - and yes, even the victim, if you wish.
I propose a classic yet classically onerous solution: crosswalk tables. I suspect we're going to need to perfect the Vulcan mind-meld in order to get sufficiently detailed personal classification matrices in place and cross-correlated, and I predict a lot of hurt feelings coming out of that process, but it will all be worth it to have a perfect, icon-based communication system in place on social media platforms. I mean, we could try using our words and stuff, but that would take up so much valuable Facebook time plus potentially mean having to interact with other humans in person or - heaven forbid - over the phone. Ew!
In the meantime I guess we're 100% stuck communicating using only Likes and hearts. So be sure to leave me a Like. Or not. Your choice. Regardless, I will definitely be racking my brains wondering why.
Like mice to a food lever with a random interval reward schedule, these are the days of our lives.
Let's say you post something one day about the whole household having the flu, and Aunt Melba gives it a heart. Ideally she'd drop off some of her famous chicken soup to help out in a quaintly old-fashioned (i.e., meaningful) way, but she's 105 and lives in another town so that e-heart is all you've got to work with. Is Aunt Melba sending love to help us get over the flu, or does she love that we all have the flu, or is she just 105 and confused about the Facebook?
Unless it is well established that Aunt Melba is a crusty old bitch, I'd tend to assume she is sending love. But not every Like is so straightforward, and not every person seems to subscribe to the same social media philosophy. I, for instance, only press the heart button when I truly heart something - like, I pause each time and carefully consider, Do I really love this? Is this worthy of my love? - but other people are out there throwing hearts around like Oprah throws out cars: YOU get a heart, and YOU get a heart, and EVERYBODY GETS A HEART! (Cut this shit out, people - it's causing heart inflation and devaluing all the other hearts out there.)
Further-further confounding things is that we - messy humans - view everything through a self-centric lens, whether it's incoming or outgoing. Aunt Melba can intend whatever she wants with that heart, but I am going to interpret it however I am inclined to interpret it. Conversely, I can hit Like or heart or angry face with whatever muddled and endlessly variable rationale driving me in that moment, but all anyone gets out of it is an opaque little icon. Am I angry along with you at the injustice detailed in the article you shared, or angry at you for posting something I disagree with, or just an angry person in general and why are you even friends with me anyway? You get to be the judge and the jury - and yes, even the victim, if you wish.
I propose a classic yet classically onerous solution: crosswalk tables. I suspect we're going to need to perfect the Vulcan mind-meld in order to get sufficiently detailed personal classification matrices in place and cross-correlated, and I predict a lot of hurt feelings coming out of that process, but it will all be worth it to have a perfect, icon-based communication system in place on social media platforms. I mean, we could try using our words and stuff, but that would take up so much valuable Facebook time plus potentially mean having to interact with other humans in person or - heaven forbid - over the phone. Ew!
In the meantime I guess we're 100% stuck communicating using only Likes and hearts. So be sure to leave me a Like. Or not. Your choice. Regardless, I will definitely be racking my brains wondering why.
Like mice to a food lever with a random interval reward schedule, these are the days of our lives.
Tuesday, February 27, 2018
All-dressed
There's a fine line between ripped jeans, and jeans that are ripped. I am familiar with this line because I can't seem to stop jamming my feet through my ripped jeans when I'm putting them on, and thus I own several pairs of jeans that are ripped.
I used to feel trendy and stylish in my ripped jeans, but now I just feel the accusatory gaze of the pasty blobs of thigh that sortof bulge out of the rips a little as if to say, Why don't you get out your sewing machine and patch this up, you slob? (Shut up, thigh. What do you know about my busy life?) You can classy up ripped jeans because the rips are intentional, and thus cool, but jeans that are ripped just drag everything down to their level. With jeans that are ripped, you might as well slap on the same holey grey sweatshirt every day and accept that you are now a person who has given up on their appearance. Thankfully, I work from home, that proud bastion of folks who have given up on their appearances, so it matters not whether my jeans are ripped or ripped.
Actually, that particular bastion might be a little too proud: I notice DH has started to compliment me every time I get dressed. It doesn't even matter what I'm wearing, just that I'm not wearing my de facto basement-office uniform (holey grey sweatshirt, jeans-that-are-ripped, and "comfy" [i.e., saggy old] bra). If I so much as put on a t-shirt and comb my hair he's like, "Wow, you look nice today, dear." One day last week I went as far as to wash my hair and put on a cardigan and he accused me of dressing up: "Did you have a lunch date or something?" I did, actually, but the fact that a shower and a cardigan seemed to bump me up several rungs of dressiness in his estimation really opened my eyes to just how far my standards have fallen since I left my old office job.
He even seemed slightly envious that I had "dressed up" for someone else, although he also gets a little envious that I turn on the heat in the house for guests and not for him so I wouldn't put much stock in that reaction. (Interesting note: I recently learned that normal room temperature is actually 21C, not 20C as I believed, so the lucky recipients of my house-heating beneficence have probably all still been chilly. Being a perpetually-warm person has its advantages I guess.) I admit I got a little defensive about my cardigan - dressed is clearly not the same as dressed up! - until I realized that his argument cut both ways: "Waaaait a minute - by that logic you come home after work every day and dress down for me!"
"But I don't want my work clothes to smell like cooking supper!"
"I don't want my cardigans to smell like that either!"
"Hm... okay, fair enough. Anyway, you look really nice today, dear. Hey, is it cold in here?"
"No. Go put on another sweater, you wuss."
I used to feel trendy and stylish in my ripped jeans, but now I just feel the accusatory gaze of the pasty blobs of thigh that sortof bulge out of the rips a little as if to say, Why don't you get out your sewing machine and patch this up, you slob? (Shut up, thigh. What do you know about my busy life?) You can classy up ripped jeans because the rips are intentional, and thus cool, but jeans that are ripped just drag everything down to their level. With jeans that are ripped, you might as well slap on the same holey grey sweatshirt every day and accept that you are now a person who has given up on their appearance. Thankfully, I work from home, that proud bastion of folks who have given up on their appearances, so it matters not whether my jeans are ripped or ripped.
Actually, that particular bastion might be a little too proud: I notice DH has started to compliment me every time I get dressed. It doesn't even matter what I'm wearing, just that I'm not wearing my de facto basement-office uniform (holey grey sweatshirt, jeans-that-are-ripped, and "comfy" [i.e., saggy old] bra). If I so much as put on a t-shirt and comb my hair he's like, "Wow, you look nice today, dear." One day last week I went as far as to wash my hair and put on a cardigan and he accused me of dressing up: "Did you have a lunch date or something?" I did, actually, but the fact that a shower and a cardigan seemed to bump me up several rungs of dressiness in his estimation really opened my eyes to just how far my standards have fallen since I left my old office job.
He even seemed slightly envious that I had "dressed up" for someone else, although he also gets a little envious that I turn on the heat in the house for guests and not for him so I wouldn't put much stock in that reaction. (Interesting note: I recently learned that normal room temperature is actually 21C, not 20C as I believed, so the lucky recipients of my house-heating beneficence have probably all still been chilly. Being a perpetually-warm person has its advantages I guess.) I admit I got a little defensive about my cardigan - dressed is clearly not the same as dressed up! - until I realized that his argument cut both ways: "Waaaait a minute - by that logic you come home after work every day and dress down for me!"
"But I don't want my work clothes to smell like cooking supper!"
"I don't want my cardigans to smell like that either!"
"Hm... okay, fair enough. Anyway, you look really nice today, dear. Hey, is it cold in here?"
"No. Go put on another sweater, you wuss."
Wednesday, February 7, 2018
Putting the Sham in Shampoo
Studies have shown that people who are told their placebo is more
expensive experience greater placebo effects.
Like, let that sink in for a minute. It is literally mind-boggling. I think most people would read that and think, What?! Surely that would never work on me. I am way too smart/sensible/whatever I tell myself to get through the day to fall for a price tag, let alone on a placebo!
I know I definitely had that reaction. And it was an easy thing to tell myself, given that I have never participated in any clinical trials for Parkinson's disease (... for instance). But then one day in the shower I realized: if I actually believed what my shampoo was telling me, I would not in a million years use the leftover suds to wash the ol' pits & bits.
Just think about all the things your shampoo promises you: thicker... fuller... shinier... for the love of Pete, enhanced curls? This thought now consumes my every shower. It's antithetical to every grooming objective I enforce from my eyebrows on down, and still my shower is stocked with mega bottles of salon product so ridiculously expensive that I secretly sniff my kids' hair - under the pretext of "Give mommy a hug!" - to make sure they're not using it. (Don't judge me - it's way out of their pay grade.)
I swear that this shampoo makes my head hair better, while at the same time having no discernible effects on, say, my leg hair.
The shampoo conundrum haunts me because it's such a blatant example of my own dissonant beliefs, all wrapped up in a tidy mint-green bottle**: I have to look at the bottle every day and be angry at myself for spending so much money on it, yet I still manage to feel good about putting it in my hair, yet somehow completely neutral about allowing the magical suds to trickle down my ass crack, purportedly enhancing volume and curls all the way. The whole situation completely defies logic.
**Actually, it's a pair of bottles: I have the conditioner, too. Heaven help me, I let that trickle down as well.
**Aaaaactually, it's a quartet: I also have two bottles of matching product, but since I don't apply those - actively or passively - to the rest of my body, I seem to experience less internal struggle over their mystical claims.
Oh shit - I just realized something truly terrible. *checks knuckle hair* Okay, nevermind. No worse than usual.
My brain has a little battle with itself over this issue basically every time I have a shower, and each time reaches only a strained detente thanks to one tiny, hopeful nugget: the products smell really good.
Tiny, niggling brain voice: Like... $300 good?
Louder brain voice: STFU, brain. I'm sick of justifying everything to you.
Nose: OH MAN THIS SHIT SMELLS AMAZING AMIRITE?
All the brains: Aaaaaahhhhh...
Nose (quietly): Until tomorrow, you crazy bastards.
Like, let that sink in for a minute. It is literally mind-boggling. I think most people would read that and think, What?! Surely that would never work on me. I am way too smart/sensible/whatever I tell myself to get through the day to fall for a price tag, let alone on a placebo!
I know I definitely had that reaction. And it was an easy thing to tell myself, given that I have never participated in any clinical trials for Parkinson's disease (... for instance). But then one day in the shower I realized: if I actually believed what my shampoo was telling me, I would not in a million years use the leftover suds to wash the ol' pits & bits.
Just think about all the things your shampoo promises you: thicker... fuller... shinier... for the love of Pete, enhanced curls? This thought now consumes my every shower. It's antithetical to every grooming objective I enforce from my eyebrows on down, and still my shower is stocked with mega bottles of salon product so ridiculously expensive that I secretly sniff my kids' hair - under the pretext of "Give mommy a hug!" - to make sure they're not using it. (Don't judge me - it's way out of their pay grade.)
I swear that this shampoo makes my head hair better, while at the same time having no discernible effects on, say, my leg hair.
The shampoo conundrum haunts me because it's such a blatant example of my own dissonant beliefs, all wrapped up in a tidy mint-green bottle**: I have to look at the bottle every day and be angry at myself for spending so much money on it, yet I still manage to feel good about putting it in my hair, yet somehow completely neutral about allowing the magical suds to trickle down my ass crack, purportedly enhancing volume and curls all the way. The whole situation completely defies logic.
**Actually, it's a pair of bottles: I have the conditioner, too. Heaven help me, I let that trickle down as well.
**Aaaaactually, it's a quartet: I also have two bottles of matching product, but since I don't apply those - actively or passively - to the rest of my body, I seem to experience less internal struggle over their mystical claims.
Oh shit - I just realized something truly terrible. *checks knuckle hair* Okay, nevermind. No worse than usual.
My brain has a little battle with itself over this issue basically every time I have a shower, and each time reaches only a strained detente thanks to one tiny, hopeful nugget: the products smell really good.
Tiny, niggling brain voice: Like... $300 good?
Louder brain voice: STFU, brain. I'm sick of justifying everything to you.
Nose: OH MAN THIS SHIT SMELLS AMAZING AMIRITE?
All the brains: Aaaaaahhhhh...
Nose (quietly): Until tomorrow, you crazy bastards.
Sunday, February 4, 2018
The Girlfriend Experience
I have this terrible habit of forgetting the joke that goes along with the punchline. Here's one of my favourite disembodied punchlines: "If I had known we had more time, darling, I would have taken off my pantyhose." It's a great punchline, right? Too bad I have no idea what the hell it's about.
I also experience this problem with advertisements. I'm probably an advertiser's worst nightmare, actually. For instance, there used to be this ad on TV with the tagline, "One is often enough." It was a long time ago and I can't actually remember the product being peddled - pain medication seems likely, or maybe an antacid? - but for years I have heard that fellow's voice in my head whenever I've experienced things that I'm not interested in experiencing ever again: "One is often enough."
Divorce is one of the things that I was convinced I'd had enough of after just a single try, and DH and I are not married for exactly this reason: can't get divorced if you were never married in the first place! He says I have a bad attitude, with the possible implication that I also have bad logic, but I contend I simply have a high degree of self-awareness around how many divorces I'm able to cope with in a given lifetime. "One is often enough." (Maybe it was an ad for a divorce lawyer...?)
I suspect DH is secretly a titch disappointed in this situation so I try to point out the positives to him as they occur to me, and I recently learned of a thing called "the girlfriend experience" which seemed very positive. I learned about it by reading Craigslist personal ads, which are utterly chock-a-block with fascinating insights into humanity. Plus some pretty disturbing insights... I've also learned to check Urban Dictionary first to find out whether I really want to Google a term/acronym/euphemism, as some things can't be unseen. (Silly me, I thought that poor M4M 52 was seeking some Cognitive Behavioural Therapy!)
The girlfriend experience of course means a certain thing, but for DH's benefit I've decided to ascribe my own meaning to it: since we aren't married you could feasibly call me his girlfriend, in which case everything I do qualifies as this much-sought-after Girlfriend Experience! Lucky him!
He couldn't sleep because I was snoring? Girlfriend experience! Long orange hairs clogging the drains? Couldn't get that experience without a girlfriend, could ya? Infuriatingly obtuse anti-logical arguments? People pay good money for that kind of thing, you know!
The possibility exists that I am a total pain in the ass to live with, but I contend that it's simply my way of ensuring DH never has the energy or inclination to pursue any "extracurriculars" on Craigslist or otherwise: The Girlfriend Experience - One is Often Enough.
I also experience this problem with advertisements. I'm probably an advertiser's worst nightmare, actually. For instance, there used to be this ad on TV with the tagline, "One is often enough." It was a long time ago and I can't actually remember the product being peddled - pain medication seems likely, or maybe an antacid? - but for years I have heard that fellow's voice in my head whenever I've experienced things that I'm not interested in experiencing ever again: "One is often enough."
Divorce is one of the things that I was convinced I'd had enough of after just a single try, and DH and I are not married for exactly this reason: can't get divorced if you were never married in the first place! He says I have a bad attitude, with the possible implication that I also have bad logic, but I contend I simply have a high degree of self-awareness around how many divorces I'm able to cope with in a given lifetime. "One is often enough." (Maybe it was an ad for a divorce lawyer...?)
I suspect DH is secretly a titch disappointed in this situation so I try to point out the positives to him as they occur to me, and I recently learned of a thing called "the girlfriend experience" which seemed very positive. I learned about it by reading Craigslist personal ads, which are utterly chock-a-block with fascinating insights into humanity. Plus some pretty disturbing insights... I've also learned to check Urban Dictionary first to find out whether I really want to Google a term/acronym/euphemism, as some things can't be unseen. (Silly me, I thought that poor M4M 52 was seeking some Cognitive Behavioural Therapy!)
The girlfriend experience of course means a certain thing, but for DH's benefit I've decided to ascribe my own meaning to it: since we aren't married you could feasibly call me his girlfriend, in which case everything I do qualifies as this much-sought-after Girlfriend Experience! Lucky him!
He couldn't sleep because I was snoring? Girlfriend experience! Long orange hairs clogging the drains? Couldn't get that experience without a girlfriend, could ya? Infuriatingly obtuse anti-logical arguments? People pay good money for that kind of thing, you know!
The possibility exists that I am a total pain in the ass to live with, but I contend that it's simply my way of ensuring DH never has the energy or inclination to pursue any "extracurriculars" on Craigslist or otherwise: The Girlfriend Experience - One is Often Enough.
Saturday, January 27, 2018
#whogivesashit
Judging by what I see on the internet, "meal prepping" is all the rage these days. In case you haven't heard of meal prepping, it goes like this: people cook food, then put the food into containers to eat later in the week. Oh yeah, then they take photos of the food-in-containers and post the photos on social media with a stupid hashtag, to much admiration and "Liking" from their peers.
I'm having one of those milestone sorts of birthdays this year so it pains me slightly to have to say this, but - social media aspect aside - back in my day we called that "leftovers." I think it's well understood that every generation believes they've invented sex, but it boggles the mind to think an entire generation seriously believes they invented leftovers. Even more so that anyone else would care to see your leftovers in their Instagram feed, or that you are somehow deserving of praise for the blindingly obvious time- and cost-saving measure of producing said leftovers. My foolish young friends: what do you think you were eating for lunch the next day your whole childhood?
Can you just envision our pioneer forebears, kneading up the week's bread and being all like, "Hashtag MealPrepMonday!" Then maybe getting out a sketchbook to draw each step from three different angles and write a smarmy blog a mile long before finally giving you the damn bread recipe. Hell, maybe some did, and so quickly succumbed to natural selection pressures that no one's heard of them...
I like to think about all the things that, in retrospect, will be understood to have been signs of the pending fall of modern civilisation. We've heard about the excess of the Romans and the environmental collapse of the Mayans; what will our downfall be? The more time I spend on Reddit et al. the more I think the pointless farming of Likes/upvotes/etc. by whatever ridiculous trendy means necessary is a serious contender for the honour - the only people left after the fall will be the ones who had been successfully eating meatloaf sandwiches for lunch the next day without ever having taken a photo or said a damn thing about it to anyone. Because #honestlywhowouldevencareaboutmyleftovers?
I'm having one of those milestone sorts of birthdays this year so it pains me slightly to have to say this, but - social media aspect aside - back in my day we called that "leftovers." I think it's well understood that every generation believes they've invented sex, but it boggles the mind to think an entire generation seriously believes they invented leftovers. Even more so that anyone else would care to see your leftovers in their Instagram feed, or that you are somehow deserving of praise for the blindingly obvious time- and cost-saving measure of producing said leftovers. My foolish young friends: what do you think you were eating for lunch the next day your whole childhood?
Can you just envision our pioneer forebears, kneading up the week's bread and being all like, "Hashtag MealPrepMonday!" Then maybe getting out a sketchbook to draw each step from three different angles and write a smarmy blog a mile long before finally giving you the damn bread recipe. Hell, maybe some did, and so quickly succumbed to natural selection pressures that no one's heard of them...
I like to think about all the things that, in retrospect, will be understood to have been signs of the pending fall of modern civilisation. We've heard about the excess of the Romans and the environmental collapse of the Mayans; what will our downfall be? The more time I spend on Reddit et al. the more I think the pointless farming of Likes/upvotes/etc. by whatever ridiculous trendy means necessary is a serious contender for the honour - the only people left after the fall will be the ones who had been successfully eating meatloaf sandwiches for lunch the next day without ever having taken a photo or said a damn thing about it to anyone. Because #honestlywhowouldevencareaboutmyleftovers?
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