Once, on a greasy hair day, I devised a clever and (what I considered) reasonably attractive hairstyle comprised of said greasy hairs, plus numerous clips and bobby pins. I walked around all day, even in public!, right tickled with my invention and imagining a world in which I never suffered a bad hair day again - glorious! When DH returned home from work, I asked what he thought. Our conversation:
"Hey, what do you think of my new hairdo?"
"Nice."
"Okay, more specific: if someone came to work with this hairdo, what would you think?"
"Uh, I would think that person didn't try very hard today."
Hmmm.
Tonight, DH complained that my posts have been "lacking in depth". "They're not very long. The first ones were longer," says he. "Why didn't you talk about how we slept in shifts on the couch for four months, then moved to the basement where our Executive Guest Suite was just an air mattress that kept deflating for three more months, then we bought a brand new bed and still had to sleep on our shitty old mattress in the basement for four more months because our nice new bed was room-sharing with the baby?! They don't know how awful it was!!!"
Well, there. Since he's all hysterical about it, I've told you. And now while he's off having a good cry in the bathroom, I am going to tell you something else:
#26. I don't take well to criticism. It's a blog, for Pete's sake. Lacking depth my big white arse.
In completely unrelated news, it really annoys me when DH puts empty containers back in the fridge or cupboard. Or virtually empty, anyways - like we really needed that last four molecules of grainy Dijon. But maybe I'm just shallow that way. You know, like, lacking in depth or something.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Home Renovations
I slept in my own bed last night, for the first time in eleven months. It's a bit embarrassing, really - I don't generally consider myself a gullible person, but as a duty to expecting parents out there I'll admit to falling for a ridiculous concept called "room sharing". The fallacy of room sharing is based primarily on the widespread misconception that babies sleep. At all. Ever.
Mine does not.
He grunts, growls, snorts, whimpers, cries, crawls, climbs, thrashes, plays and wrestles, but does no such thing that could be perceived as actual sleeping. Hence, I have been sleeping in our Executive Guest Suite (ie., bed in basement) for eleven months.
I rue the demise of many conventions in our society. Table manners and giving the young'uns a nip of whisky to help them sleep are among them.
As we all know, one in three home renovations ends in divorce, so when you are planning your renovation budget be sure to include a generous allowance for custody battles and other such contingencies. Fortunately, I'm not married. (At least not to the person I'm shacked up with, but that's another blog entirely.) But we rolled the dice this past weekend and put in a third bedroom, and I am pleased to announce that the baby now has his own room, which means we have our own room, and hot dog, we like it.
So the moral of the story is: room-sharing is evil. It must be stopped. Tell your friends.
Mine does not.
He grunts, growls, snorts, whimpers, cries, crawls, climbs, thrashes, plays and wrestles, but does no such thing that could be perceived as actual sleeping. Hence, I have been sleeping in our Executive Guest Suite (ie., bed in basement) for eleven months.
I rue the demise of many conventions in our society. Table manners and giving the young'uns a nip of whisky to help them sleep are among them.
As we all know, one in three home renovations ends in divorce, so when you are planning your renovation budget be sure to include a generous allowance for custody battles and other such contingencies. Fortunately, I'm not married. (At least not to the person I'm shacked up with, but that's another blog entirely.) But we rolled the dice this past weekend and put in a third bedroom, and I am pleased to announce that the baby now has his own room, which means we have our own room, and hot dog, we like it.
So the moral of the story is: room-sharing is evil. It must be stopped. Tell your friends.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Sandwiches
If sandwiches had their own Hinterland Who's Who, they would be praised for their adaptability and humility. I can hear the little whistly tune right now...
Now, people blame all sorts of crap on their parents, "It's my bad genes", "They beat me with a rubber chicken", blah blah blah. But Dad, this one really is your fault: I hate sandwiches.
My dad likes sandwiches. He likes them for their ease of preparation and frugality, which I think you'll agree is a far cry from liking them for their diversity and endless gourmet applications. So lunches went something like this: two slices white bread, plus matter that fit between slices.**
** Not to be confused with matter that should be placed between slices of bread.
Sample menu:
- Drugstore Foundation with Pickle Morsels (aka. Kraft Sandwich Spread) (I guess calling it anything other than Big Jar of Awful is basically a complete fabrication, but note that it is not called Kraft Sandwich Filling.)
- Sliced Cold Meatloaf, avec Slippery Tomato Skin that Adheres to the Roof of your Mouth.
- Single Cheese-Type Slice plus Lettuce Leaf.
- Mustard. (Yep, only mustard.)
- Tinned Pork By-Product.
- Cottage cheese.
Cottage cheese is what really ruined sandwiches for me. You see, Dad figured it would be even more "economical" if he bought unsliced bread and sliced it himself, reeeeal thin-like. He's a talented fellow, could get about seventy-two sandwiches of a loaf that way, and cottage cheese bulged out the bottom of those sandwiches like Alien bulged out of that dude's abdomen - "Killlll meeeee..."
But I believe that there is good to be had from every experience, so if you'll excuse me I am off to pack my DD a decadent, sandwich-free lunch. I'm planning on ruining her life in my own unique way.
Now, people blame all sorts of crap on their parents, "It's my bad genes", "They beat me with a rubber chicken", blah blah blah. But Dad, this one really is your fault: I hate sandwiches.
My dad likes sandwiches. He likes them for their ease of preparation and frugality, which I think you'll agree is a far cry from liking them for their diversity and endless gourmet applications. So lunches went something like this: two slices white bread, plus matter that fit between slices.**
** Not to be confused with matter that should be placed between slices of bread.
Sample menu:
- Drugstore Foundation with Pickle Morsels (aka. Kraft Sandwich Spread) (I guess calling it anything other than Big Jar of Awful is basically a complete fabrication, but note that it is not called Kraft Sandwich Filling.)
- Sliced Cold Meatloaf, avec Slippery Tomato Skin that Adheres to the Roof of your Mouth.
- Single Cheese-Type Slice plus Lettuce Leaf.
- Mustard. (Yep, only mustard.)
- Tinned Pork By-Product.
- Cottage cheese.
Cottage cheese is what really ruined sandwiches for me. You see, Dad figured it would be even more "economical" if he bought unsliced bread and sliced it himself, reeeeal thin-like. He's a talented fellow, could get about seventy-two sandwiches of a loaf that way, and cottage cheese bulged out the bottom of those sandwiches like Alien bulged out of that dude's abdomen - "Killlll meeeee..."
But I believe that there is good to be had from every experience, so if you'll excuse me I am off to pack my DD a decadent, sandwich-free lunch. I'm planning on ruining her life in my own unique way.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Gym-Nasties
Confession: I go to Curves. Gym of choice for the large and lumpy. Unlike other gyms, I feel a true sense of camaraderie with other Curves attendees - like we are all there for more or less the same purpose, which is NOT trying to pick up a man. And since none of us are there to pick up men, there is no competition inherent in the act of being at the gym. I don't feel judged; I don't bother judging. I just hum along to ABBA and try to keep the little green light on. All is as it should be.
Tonight, my sense of peace and equality was challenged: there was this woman. This woman was not bronzed, oiled, coiffed, Botoxed, waxed, made-up or otherwise improved upon in any way I could discern. She was just. Plain. Peculiar.
I kept looking for the candid camera, because surely no one could be that effing bizarre under normal circumstances. She flailed her limbs madly. All of them. All at once. When the words to a song even hinted at some motion, she performed that motion: from a shockingly obscene "locomotion" to turn-turn-turning with the seasons. She was the leader of the pack; she worked that teeny weeny polka-dot bikini; she was defeated at Waterloo.
And then.
She squatted down, waaaay down. Feet shoulder width apart. Reached between her legs, grabbed her ankles from behind, and from this contorted crouch began launching her massive, middle-aged buttocks in the air in time with the music.
I had a time out. I can only hope the tears of mirth passed themselves off as beads of sweat. But no one else so much as batted an eye at this woman and her crazed calisthenics! So tomorrow, an experiment: I'm doubling up my usual dose of crack and hitting the gym.
Tonight, my sense of peace and equality was challenged: there was this woman. This woman was not bronzed, oiled, coiffed, Botoxed, waxed, made-up or otherwise improved upon in any way I could discern. She was just. Plain. Peculiar.
I kept looking for the candid camera, because surely no one could be that effing bizarre under normal circumstances. She flailed her limbs madly. All of them. All at once. When the words to a song even hinted at some motion, she performed that motion: from a shockingly obscene "locomotion" to turn-turn-turning with the seasons. She was the leader of the pack; she worked that teeny weeny polka-dot bikini; she was defeated at Waterloo.
And then.
She squatted down, waaaay down. Feet shoulder width apart. Reached between her legs, grabbed her ankles from behind, and from this contorted crouch began launching her massive, middle-aged buttocks in the air in time with the music.
I had a time out. I can only hope the tears of mirth passed themselves off as beads of sweat. But no one else so much as batted an eye at this woman and her crazed calisthenics! So tomorrow, an experiment: I'm doubling up my usual dose of crack and hitting the gym.
Sourdough and Other Phenomena
I made the most beautiful, golden, fluffy, tangy and chewy sourdough loaf yesterday. OMG. It is so delicious with honey! Cheese! PB! I am drooling a bit here.
If I had thought of it before we devoured the whole thing, God rest its scrumptious soul, I might have even posted a photo of it.
And in other news: having a baby will ruin your sex life. If people truly understood this in all its awfulness, I believe the world would be a much less populous place. Consider this post my duty to humankind.
Besides, that chick in LA has already filled your quota.
If I had thought of it before we devoured the whole thing, God rest its scrumptious soul, I might have even posted a photo of it.
And in other news: having a baby will ruin your sex life. If people truly understood this in all its awfulness, I believe the world would be a much less populous place. Consider this post my duty to humankind.
Besides, that chick in LA has already filled your quota.
Monday, February 2, 2009
"Get to Know Your Friends"
It's that time of year again, my friends. No, I don't mean Groundhog's Day (though I did see my shadow this morning, and while when spring arrives is a total crapshoot, I can predict with some certainty that I have gained a few over the winter) - it's time again for those damned 'get to know your friends' emails. You know - somewhere between eight and seventy-two random and generally stupid factoids you didn't really care to know anyways and/or already knew from last year's edition.
38. What are you wearing right now? (The correct answer is, who cares?)
But I`ve recently seen on Facebook a revamped version of the old fave - it's a subtle difference, but an important one: in this version of the Get to Know You, the writer chooses twenty-five things about themselves they feel are worthy of being shared. Several of my friends have posted beautiful lists that truly speak to the heart of their beings, regardless of what they happened to be wearing at the time. Brilliant! So, despite the fact that, 1. I am an incurable (some may argue insufferable) smart ass, and cannot actually share anything personal without joking about it, here is my list:
2. I really like wearing aprons. Really. If not for the threat of grease spatters in untoward places, I might consider wearing only an apron.
3. DH calls me frecklepelt after a type of lichen with the same common name...
4. ... because I am very freckly, and...
5. ... because I am a biologist whose specialty happens to be plants (i.e., a botanist).
6. Being a botanist does not mean I grow marijuana, am a vegetarian, or know why your lawn won't grow in that one place by your deck. (Though it doesn't necessarily preclude me or other botanists from doing any of these things, either. Dude, pass the Twinkies.)
7. Celebrity crush: Rick Mercer.
8. But it would never work out between us. I need to be The Funny One in a relationship. Sorry, Rick.
9. Biggest mistake ever, and my sole regret in life: starts with a C and rhymes with, WTF was I thinking when I married my first husband?
10. I drop the F-bomb a LOT.
11. I firmly believe that the flavour of nearly all foods may be improved by either putting them in a pastry shell or adding whipped cream.
12. Or cheese, I forgot cheese.
13. If you can't stuff it in a pie shell or add high-fat dairy products to it, it's probably not something I want to eat anyways, so don't waste your time thinking up foods that can't be improved upon by those means.
14. Have I mentioned I am not a thin woman?
15. I often have trouble thinking of the correct word for things. (I once used the term "small mouth shovel" to indicate that I required a spoon.) There is a word for the condition, but naturally I can't remember what it is.
16. I like to bake - I find it therapeutic. And then I get to consume the results. Also therapeutic.
17. When I was a kid, I thought the lyric was "silence like a casserole", and I pictured a bubbly, cheese-topped casserole in a Corningware dish, just sitting on the kitchen counter. Silently.
18. My favourite season is fall. I like the decomposing leaf smell, grey skies and wearing layers.
19. I have extraordinarily bad morning hair.
20. My feet are so cute that I can't help but admire them whenever I'm not wearing socks. Sometimes I even remove my socks just to look at my feet. They are such hard-working, cute little feet. They never let me down. I really love my feet. I am going to give them each a little hug right now.
21. Oh gawd, I am not very flexible. They each got a bit of a reaffirming pat.
22. I got really stoned once while camping... okay, rephrase. This one time when I was really stoned while camping, I truly believed that the dead mosquitoes on the tent's mesh ventilation panels were also stoned and had just taken a bit of a lie down. To this day I have trouble believing they didn't get hot-boxed up there. *sigh* What a pleasant way to go.
23. And this other time... well, just don't ever throw your hiking boots into a tree, because how in hell do you think you're going to hike back out with no shoes?
24. I really try to think thoughts about physics, but my mind just can't .. quite ... wrap around it.
38. Green sweater, woolly socks, jeans, lime green cat-print apron.
38. What are you wearing right now? (The correct answer is, who cares?)
But I`ve recently seen on Facebook a revamped version of the old fave - it's a subtle difference, but an important one: in this version of the Get to Know You, the writer chooses twenty-five things about themselves they feel are worthy of being shared. Several of my friends have posted beautiful lists that truly speak to the heart of their beings, regardless of what they happened to be wearing at the time. Brilliant! So, despite the fact that, 1. I am an incurable (some may argue insufferable) smart ass, and cannot actually share anything personal without joking about it, here is my list:
2. I really like wearing aprons. Really. If not for the threat of grease spatters in untoward places, I might consider wearing only an apron.
3. DH calls me frecklepelt after a type of lichen with the same common name...
4. ... because I am very freckly, and...
5. ... because I am a biologist whose specialty happens to be plants (i.e., a botanist).
6. Being a botanist does not mean I grow marijuana, am a vegetarian, or know why your lawn won't grow in that one place by your deck. (Though it doesn't necessarily preclude me or other botanists from doing any of these things, either. Dude, pass the Twinkies.)
7. Celebrity crush: Rick Mercer.
8. But it would never work out between us. I need to be The Funny One in a relationship. Sorry, Rick.
9. Biggest mistake ever, and my sole regret in life: starts with a C and rhymes with, WTF was I thinking when I married my first husband?
10. I drop the F-bomb a LOT.
11. I firmly believe that the flavour of nearly all foods may be improved by either putting them in a pastry shell or adding whipped cream.
12. Or cheese, I forgot cheese.
13. If you can't stuff it in a pie shell or add high-fat dairy products to it, it's probably not something I want to eat anyways, so don't waste your time thinking up foods that can't be improved upon by those means.
14. Have I mentioned I am not a thin woman?
15. I often have trouble thinking of the correct word for things. (I once used the term "small mouth shovel" to indicate that I required a spoon.) There is a word for the condition, but naturally I can't remember what it is.
16. I like to bake - I find it therapeutic. And then I get to consume the results. Also therapeutic.
17. When I was a kid, I thought the lyric was "silence like a casserole", and I pictured a bubbly, cheese-topped casserole in a Corningware dish, just sitting on the kitchen counter. Silently.
18. My favourite season is fall. I like the decomposing leaf smell, grey skies and wearing layers.
19. I have extraordinarily bad morning hair.
20. My feet are so cute that I can't help but admire them whenever I'm not wearing socks. Sometimes I even remove my socks just to look at my feet. They are such hard-working, cute little feet. They never let me down. I really love my feet. I am going to give them each a little hug right now.
21. Oh gawd, I am not very flexible. They each got a bit of a reaffirming pat.
22. I got really stoned once while camping... okay, rephrase. This one time when I was really stoned while camping, I truly believed that the dead mosquitoes on the tent's mesh ventilation panels were also stoned and had just taken a bit of a lie down. To this day I have trouble believing they didn't get hot-boxed up there. *sigh* What a pleasant way to go.
23. And this other time... well, just don't ever throw your hiking boots into a tree, because how in hell do you think you're going to hike back out with no shoes?
24. I really try to think thoughts about physics, but my mind just can't .. quite ... wrap around it.
38. Green sweater, woolly socks, jeans, lime green cat-print apron.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Who the Hell Has Time?: Signs Your Wife is NOT Having an Affair
Maybe it's the new bras; maybe it's the new blog. Hell, maybe it's Maybelline. But last night my DH - actually, I find that far too cutesy. Please be advised that, depending on my mood, the D can stand for 'damn', 'dumbass', OR 'darling'. Or any number of things, I'm pretty creative that way.
Anyways.
Last night, my DH asked me, very gently and sincerely, if I am having an affair. Now this is generally not the appropriate response - I know he is just seeking affirmation of my love, blah blah blah, and I should be supportive and loving - but I said, "Oh, yeah. In allll my spare time, right?" Wait - what's that dripping sound? You guessed it: sarcasm. But seriously, with two kids, a mild home-cleanliness obsession, dinners to cook, blogs to write, Facebook to check, honestly: who has time?
So: seven signs your wife is NOT having an affair.
1. She claims to be going to the gym, but then leaves the house dressed in (get this!) unflattering gym clothes, no makeup and stinky runners and returns home sweaty, tired, and able to do more push-ups than you. (Ouch! Little jab there, dear.)
2. She receives no mysterious phone calls, and in fact: no phone calls at all!
3. She says she's "just checking her Facebook", but when you sneak a peek at her computer you find her checking her Facebook! Maybe even playing WordTwist!
4. After having at best an ... er ... relaxed approach to leg hair removal over the past several years, she starts to not shave her legs! Just like before!
5. She claims to be "taking the kids to see a movie" or "pick up a few things at the grocery store", and then takes the kids to see a movie! Or returns home with groceries! Oh, the humanity!
6. The bra-delivery man turned out to be totally fugly. And the mailman's a woman. Also fugly.
7. She hasn't actually left the house for longer than a half-hour without a screaming infant in tow for nearly a year.
So rest easy, my damn, darling husband. You're the only one for me.
Anyways.
Last night, my DH asked me, very gently and sincerely, if I am having an affair. Now this is generally not the appropriate response - I know he is just seeking affirmation of my love, blah blah blah, and I should be supportive and loving - but I said, "Oh, yeah. In allll my spare time, right?" Wait - what's that dripping sound? You guessed it: sarcasm. But seriously, with two kids, a mild home-cleanliness obsession, dinners to cook, blogs to write, Facebook to check, honestly: who has time?
So: seven signs your wife is NOT having an affair.
1. She claims to be going to the gym, but then leaves the house dressed in (get this!) unflattering gym clothes, no makeup and stinky runners and returns home sweaty, tired, and able to do more push-ups than you. (Ouch! Little jab there, dear.)
2. She receives no mysterious phone calls, and in fact: no phone calls at all!
3. She says she's "just checking her Facebook", but when you sneak a peek at her computer you find her checking her Facebook! Maybe even playing WordTwist!
4. After having at best an ... er ... relaxed approach to leg hair removal over the past several years, she starts to not shave her legs! Just like before!
5. She claims to be "taking the kids to see a movie" or "pick up a few things at the grocery store", and then takes the kids to see a movie! Or returns home with groceries! Oh, the humanity!
6. The bra-delivery man turned out to be totally fugly. And the mailman's a woman. Also fugly.
7. She hasn't actually left the house for longer than a half-hour without a screaming infant in tow for nearly a year.
So rest easy, my damn, darling husband. You're the only one for me.
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