Camping isn't quite the same experience as it was back in the days B.C. (Before Children). Don't get me wrong, it's still tarploads of fun, but I spent much of our most recent camping weekend making sure everyone had enough sunscreen, bug spray, fluids, fruits and vegetables, potty breaks, clean socks, etc. etc., and these tasks, while very important!, left little time for camping activities of old, namely:
- binge drinking;
- and associated activities.
One thing that has stayed the same A.D. (After Delivery) is camping food. Camping food is by definition of low nutritional value, which everyone knows gives you free reign to eat lots of it.
But a funny thing happened while I was doing the camping grocery run: so I walked past this couple in the 'natural foods' aisle (don't fret, just passing through on my way to the 'unnatural foods' aisle). The woman appeared to be comparing fourteen brands of organic quinoa; her hubby, however, was staring at me. Ogling me, really. Longingly.
Guess I haven't gotten much in the way of openly lustful gazes lately, because I actually stopped and checked behind me to see who he was looking at. Nope - no one around but me and this heaping cart of red meat and potato chips. And marshmallows and hot dogs and...
Ooohhhh. The cart.
Well, damn.
This actually happened more than once during the same shopping trip. I felt like the pied piper! In all my years of grocery shopping, four-litre jugs of milk and family-sized bags of apples have never had that kind of effect. If I ever find myself single again, pushing a cart full of macho foods seems like a surefire tactic for meeting men. I'll sprinkle liberally with boxes of condoms to make myself appear hungry and horny. What man could resist!
Slightly modified, this could work equally well for single men**: simply stuff a cart with kittens and babies, and just watch the chicks roll in!
** You might want to skip the, er, garnish on this one - it could be interpreted as giving the wrong idea.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Menu of Pain
I recently signed up for a fitcamp. You know, one of those bootcamp-style fitness programs that makes people cry publicly and sweat blood and stuff like that. What was I thinking? Well, I was thinking several things:
1. Look at that lard ass! I seriously need to do something about it. Hey, here's an ad for a fitness camp. I'll try that.
2a. That sounds like a poor idea.
2b. How bad can it be?
2c. It's probably going to be pretty bad.
2d. Well, a little public humiliation never hurt anyone.
2e. It hurts me.
2f. You're such a whiner.
2g. Piss off.
3. Face it, no matter how pathetic I am, there's always someone worse. No excuses. I'll just stick close to That Person, and no one will notice me.
So I signed up for fitcamp.
Apparently all the other That People stayed home this week, because it was painfully and repeatedly (and sweatingly-wheezingly-jigglingly) brought to my attention that I am That Person: I am the person who makes all the other people look good.
Like, really good.
I would have thought it would bother me to be so patently lousy at something, but you know what? I hardly even minded. I'm not even all that zen about the world, it's just that, if I was hoping for a That Person, then other fitcampers probably were too. (In fact, a few looked like they may have gotten de facto promotions out of the role when I joined up.) Those people are probably pretty grateful for my presence - possibly a little repulsed, too, but still grateful - and it's always nice to be appreciated.
So every day the trainer has a whole new set of exercises for us to do. It must be a lot like menu planning, just with muscle groups instead of food groups. I can tell he's really working that food pyramid, because my everything hurts - a lot. I couldn't wash the top of my hair on Monday morning because my arms hurt too much to lift them to my head. I sortof lathered up the bottom and hoped for some form of soapmosis to trickle up to my scalp.
And then I had DH do up my bra hooks for me.
(2h. Told you so.)
1. Look at that lard ass! I seriously need to do something about it. Hey, here's an ad for a fitness camp. I'll try that.
2a. That sounds like a poor idea.
2b. How bad can it be?
2c. It's probably going to be pretty bad.
2d. Well, a little public humiliation never hurt anyone.
2e. It hurts me.
2f. You're such a whiner.
2g. Piss off.
3. Face it, no matter how pathetic I am, there's always someone worse. No excuses. I'll just stick close to That Person, and no one will notice me.
So I signed up for fitcamp.
Apparently all the other That People stayed home this week, because it was painfully and repeatedly (and sweatingly-wheezingly-jigglingly) brought to my attention that I am That Person: I am the person who makes all the other people look good.
Like, really good.
I would have thought it would bother me to be so patently lousy at something, but you know what? I hardly even minded. I'm not even all that zen about the world, it's just that, if I was hoping for a That Person, then other fitcampers probably were too. (In fact, a few looked like they may have gotten de facto promotions out of the role when I joined up.) Those people are probably pretty grateful for my presence - possibly a little repulsed, too, but still grateful - and it's always nice to be appreciated.
So every day the trainer has a whole new set of exercises for us to do. It must be a lot like menu planning, just with muscle groups instead of food groups. I can tell he's really working that food pyramid, because my everything hurts - a lot. I couldn't wash the top of my hair on Monday morning because my arms hurt too much to lift them to my head. I sortof lathered up the bottom and hoped for some form of soapmosis to trickle up to my scalp.
And then I had DH do up my bra hooks for me.
(2h. Told you so.)
Sunday, June 27, 2010
'Cause You're Really Smart!
When Medium Fry was little, I developed a crush on the Blue's Clues guy. (Steve, not Joe. Nobody likes Joe.) I was just so lonely, and he kept telling me how smart I was... I am pretty smart, you know. I know that. Now you know that (or at least you read it on the interweb, which makes it totally legit). The trouble was, at the time only Steve was letting me know he knew, and that meant a lot to me.
So thanks for that, Steve. I know it didn't work out between us. But it's me, not you - I just found a better fix.
It's called Work. At Work, they don't necessarily sing or play, or even have fun, but they do provide me with tangible reminder that I am valuable, and that comes in the form of a paycheque every two weeks. I know, Steve, you used to tell me several times a day how smart I was, and do a jazzy little hand dance to boot, but at Work they tell me exactly how many thousands of dollars worth of smart I am. Quality, not quantity. Or quantity, doled out in bi-weekly increments... oh, hell, who cares. It pays the bills.
But no matter how many dollars worth of smart Work tells you you are, you can't be in love with Work. Or else you'll turn into one of those people who other people want to punch in their obsequious goddam teeth. I recommend accepting the paycheque as proof of your smartitude and general wonderfulization, then projecting your cringing gratitude onto coworkers. It wouldn't do to direct it all at one person - that's just asking for a restraining order - so be sure to spread your admiration around. Change targets frequently, you know - keep it fresh.
And the criteria? I can only speak for myself here, but as with most things in life, it fluctuates with my estrogen levels. Sometimes a pleasant 'good morning' is enough to make me nearly weep with joy. Clean and presentable every day is also nice, though I'm fully aware this is not a sustainable illusion - Exhibit A:
Me and DH, slobbed out and stinky in our yard work clothes, three nights running. Yes, same clothes. Yet when we go to our respective workplaces tomorrow morning, we'll look nothing less than our squeaky clean best. We'll probably fart less and use better table manners, too.
(Not that I fart or anything.)
Really, workplace crushes aren't far along the spectrum from celebrity crushes. I mean, how well do you really know the people you work with? Chances are it's on a resume level, or at best a "resume plus" level (i.e., resume, plus some highly edited extra stuff that they've elected to disclose, farting habits likely not being one of those items) - either way, only marginally more information than you have when you decide you're madly in love with, say, Rick Mercer.
(Who probably doesn't fart either. Or if he does, it's so goddam funny that I don't even mind.)
I'm aware that most of the attraction inherent in a superficial crush is in the not really knowing, and have long used my superpower of Too Much Information to counteract my other superpower of Ultimate Freckled Adorableness to deter potential workplace devotees.
I'd gleefully employ my TMI on DH's behalf, too, but I can't figure out how to get his students and coworkers to read my blog.
So thanks for that, Steve. I know it didn't work out between us. But it's me, not you - I just found a better fix.
It's called Work. At Work, they don't necessarily sing or play, or even have fun, but they do provide me with tangible reminder that I am valuable, and that comes in the form of a paycheque every two weeks. I know, Steve, you used to tell me several times a day how smart I was, and do a jazzy little hand dance to boot, but at Work they tell me exactly how many thousands of dollars worth of smart I am. Quality, not quantity. Or quantity, doled out in bi-weekly increments... oh, hell, who cares. It pays the bills.
But no matter how many dollars worth of smart Work tells you you are, you can't be in love with Work. Or else you'll turn into one of those people who other people want to punch in their obsequious goddam teeth. I recommend accepting the paycheque as proof of your smartitude and general wonderfulization, then projecting your cringing gratitude onto coworkers. It wouldn't do to direct it all at one person - that's just asking for a restraining order - so be sure to spread your admiration around. Change targets frequently, you know - keep it fresh.
And the criteria? I can only speak for myself here, but as with most things in life, it fluctuates with my estrogen levels. Sometimes a pleasant 'good morning' is enough to make me nearly weep with joy. Clean and presentable every day is also nice, though I'm fully aware this is not a sustainable illusion - Exhibit A:
Me and DH, slobbed out and stinky in our yard work clothes, three nights running. Yes, same clothes. Yet when we go to our respective workplaces tomorrow morning, we'll look nothing less than our squeaky clean best. We'll probably fart less and use better table manners, too.
(Not that I fart or anything.)
Really, workplace crushes aren't far along the spectrum from celebrity crushes. I mean, how well do you really know the people you work with? Chances are it's on a resume level, or at best a "resume plus" level (i.e., resume, plus some highly edited extra stuff that they've elected to disclose, farting habits likely not being one of those items) - either way, only marginally more information than you have when you decide you're madly in love with, say, Rick Mercer.
(Who probably doesn't fart either. Or if he does, it's so goddam funny that I don't even mind.)
I'm aware that most of the attraction inherent in a superficial crush is in the not really knowing, and have long used my superpower of Too Much Information to counteract my other superpower of Ultimate Freckled Adorableness to deter potential workplace devotees.
I'd gleefully employ my TMI on DH's behalf, too, but I can't figure out how to get his students and coworkers to read my blog.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Things Every Kid Should Know
At 6:27 this morning, Small Fry hitched up his alphabet blocks wagon and started down the Crack of Dawn Trail. Destination: Sleeping Parents Cove.
Alphabet wagon wheels squeak horribly, which is a special design feature that not only jolts parents rudely awake, but also allows them to spend the first three minutes of their day gearing up into a sleep-deprived rage over how they'd like to toast marshmallows over alphabet wagon's flaming corpse.
While DH studiously pretended to be asleep, and I cursed myself for staying up past 9:30 on a Saturday night (golly, what was I thinking?), Small Fry made his way to our room and happily settled in for a good alphabet session. Four inches from my head.
Items of note:
1. Early morning is a difficult time for groggy adults to play nicely.
2. Early-morning alphabet wagon is a frequent occurrence at our house.
"Letter A!" chirped Small Fry. "A is for apple, and alligator, and annoying!"
The kid is a genius.
I'm reasonably certain every parent has these sorts of "hmm, they actually registered that, eh?" moments. But, like alphabet wagon this morning, when you don't have an audience, this type of thing isn't too bad. When your child is still too young to be understood by most adults, it's not too bad. In fact, even when your child is fairly young and any gaffes can be easily passed off as humourous misunderstandings, it's still not too bad.
When your child is a very eloquent nine-year-old with perfect recall and a poor grasp of personal boundaries, then it's bad.
Medium Fry's grade four class just wrapped up their Human Sexuality unit. Medium Fry is a bright gal, and we're used to her doing well in most subjects, but in the Human Sexuality unit, she was a star. A shining freaking star. She knew the terms, she knew the science, and heaven help us, she even had witty anecdotes:
"... but they weren't popsicles, they were tampons! Ha ha ha!"
"... then I said, 'When I grow up, I'm going to shave mine!' Ha ha ha!"
"... but it sure didn't sound like they were having a nap! Ha ha ha!"
Oh. My. Gawd.
You know, I didn't want to go to parent-teacher interviews anyways. But I'll sure miss Canada.
Alphabet wagon wheels squeak horribly, which is a special design feature that not only jolts parents rudely awake, but also allows them to spend the first three minutes of their day gearing up into a sleep-deprived rage over how they'd like to toast marshmallows over alphabet wagon's flaming corpse.
While DH studiously pretended to be asleep, and I cursed myself for staying up past 9:30 on a Saturday night (golly, what was I thinking?), Small Fry made his way to our room and happily settled in for a good alphabet session. Four inches from my head.
Items of note:
1. Early morning is a difficult time for groggy adults to play nicely.
2. Early-morning alphabet wagon is a frequent occurrence at our house.
"Letter A!" chirped Small Fry. "A is for apple, and alligator, and annoying!"
The kid is a genius.
I'm reasonably certain every parent has these sorts of "hmm, they actually registered that, eh?" moments. But, like alphabet wagon this morning, when you don't have an audience, this type of thing isn't too bad. When your child is still too young to be understood by most adults, it's not too bad. In fact, even when your child is fairly young and any gaffes can be easily passed off as humourous misunderstandings, it's still not too bad.
When your child is a very eloquent nine-year-old with perfect recall and a poor grasp of personal boundaries, then it's bad.
Medium Fry's grade four class just wrapped up their Human Sexuality unit. Medium Fry is a bright gal, and we're used to her doing well in most subjects, but in the Human Sexuality unit, she was a star. A shining freaking star. She knew the terms, she knew the science, and heaven help us, she even had witty anecdotes:
"... but they weren't popsicles, they were tampons! Ha ha ha!"
"... then I said, 'When I grow up, I'm going to shave mine!' Ha ha ha!"
"... but it sure didn't sound like they were having a nap! Ha ha ha!"
Oh. My. Gawd.
You know, I didn't want to go to parent-teacher interviews anyways. But I'll sure miss Canada.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
A Life of Pie
I share custody of a pair of Nomex with this guy at work. His name is Big Bill. (The Nomex, that is, not the guy.) Neither of us have ever worn Big Bill, but it makes us feel somehow more... official to have him on hand. (And by official I mean, less like wussy office dwellers.) So we toss Big Bill in the back of a work truck from time to time and cart him around the countryside, making Tim the Toolman grunts and feeling all relevant to the world, yet never having to suffer the myriad indignities of actually wearing Nomex. The best of both worlds!
So when the safety plan for my field work this week told me that, in order to safely traverse some gently rolling grassy fields, I needed to wear about seventeen pieces of Personal Protective Equipment - including Nomex - I went right ahead and exerted my end of the custodial arrangement. Just as I was giving Big Bill a hug and telling him what a fun day he was going to have with mommy, it hit me: Big Bill is a bit of a misnomer. Big Bill is rather more along the lines of medium.
Or maybe even small.
And I'm, you know, not.
Seems that, while I'd had the presence of mind to share custody of a pair of Nomex with someone more or less my own height, I had never really considered whether there was any difference in our respective, er, circumferences - and let's just say that I've multiplied my diameter by a whole lot more pie than my esteemed coworker has. And I was leaving town in just a few short hours...
*ring ring*
"Marks Work WearHouse, Garrett speaking. Can I help you?"
"Hi, Garrett. I'm interested in purchasing some of your Ladies' Nomex."
"We certainly have some in stock, ma'am, would you like me to put some aside for you until you can make it in to the store?"
"Yes, please. May I have the tummy control panel and built-in shelf bra option, please? Oh, and I look so much better in green, it really sets off my skin tone, let's just do a nice fern or jade instead of that godawful blue for a change."
"... ..."
"I can tell by your silence that you're having trouble with the green - it's okay, I know you menfolk have difficulty with colour words, really it's a small price to pay for being straight don't you think? Honestly, anything but chartreuse is fine. Don't be shy. Use your discretion."
"Ma'am, I don't - I don't have any idea what you're talking about. Did you just request a tummy control panel?"
"Why, yes, it's a bit of a trouble spot for me, you know, and..."
"I'm sorry ma'am, nothing like that exists."
"Why - why, that's terrible, Garrett! What on earth kind of options do you have?"
"We carry both the 'Shapeless Lump' and the 'Saggy Crotch' models, in sizes from 'Room for Three' to 'Pinch the Tip Before You Roll 'Em On'. Blue is standard on all models."
"Well, I'm terribly disappointed in your selection, Garrett, but I'm in a bit of a rush so I don't really have time to comparison shop. It's much like a first marriage that way. Can I at least get some of those excellent slits on the sides, so when I try to put anything in my pocket it actually just falls straight into my boot?"
"Yes, ma'am, that's another of our fabulous standard features."
"Great, thanks. I'll swing by to pick them up shortly."
Sadly, Big Bill remains a field virgin. But really, it's best that I have my own pair now - it's unspeakably rude to pee on someone else's sleeve.
So when the safety plan for my field work this week told me that, in order to safely traverse some gently rolling grassy fields, I needed to wear about seventeen pieces of Personal Protective Equipment - including Nomex - I went right ahead and exerted my end of the custodial arrangement. Just as I was giving Big Bill a hug and telling him what a fun day he was going to have with mommy, it hit me: Big Bill is a bit of a misnomer. Big Bill is rather more along the lines of medium.Or maybe even small.
And I'm, you know, not.
Seems that, while I'd had the presence of mind to share custody of a pair of Nomex with someone more or less my own height, I had never really considered whether there was any difference in our respective, er, circumferences - and let's just say that I've multiplied my diameter by a whole lot more pie than my esteemed coworker has. And I was leaving town in just a few short hours...
*ring ring*
"Marks Work WearHouse, Garrett speaking. Can I help you?"
"Hi, Garrett. I'm interested in purchasing some of your Ladies' Nomex."
"We certainly have some in stock, ma'am, would you like me to put some aside for you until you can make it in to the store?"
"Yes, please. May I have the tummy control panel and built-in shelf bra option, please? Oh, and I look so much better in green, it really sets off my skin tone, let's just do a nice fern or jade instead of that godawful blue for a change."
"... ..."
"I can tell by your silence that you're having trouble with the green - it's okay, I know you menfolk have difficulty with colour words, really it's a small price to pay for being straight don't you think? Honestly, anything but chartreuse is fine. Don't be shy. Use your discretion."
"Ma'am, I don't - I don't have any idea what you're talking about. Did you just request a tummy control panel?"
"Why, yes, it's a bit of a trouble spot for me, you know, and..."
"I'm sorry ma'am, nothing like that exists."
"Why - why, that's terrible, Garrett! What on earth kind of options do you have?"
"We carry both the 'Shapeless Lump' and the 'Saggy Crotch' models, in sizes from 'Room for Three' to 'Pinch the Tip Before You Roll 'Em On'. Blue is standard on all models."
"Well, I'm terribly disappointed in your selection, Garrett, but I'm in a bit of a rush so I don't really have time to comparison shop. It's much like a first marriage that way. Can I at least get some of those excellent slits on the sides, so when I try to put anything in my pocket it actually just falls straight into my boot?"
"Yes, ma'am, that's another of our fabulous standard features."
"Great, thanks. I'll swing by to pick them up shortly."
Sadly, Big Bill remains a field virgin. But really, it's best that I have my own pair now - it's unspeakably rude to pee on someone else's sleeve.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Birthday Dinner
I made DH a ginormous German chocolate cake for his birthday today. (He's 34, by the way. Which has nothing to do with anything except that he's doing the whole '29 again' thing, which annoys the crap out of me, so I'm going to go ahead and publicize the truth, which will annoy the crap out of him, and then we'll be even.) But anyways. I was standing in the kitchen just now while DH was puttering around upstairs, surreptitiously excavating a new surface on the cake and wondering if I'd be tastier to vampires because I eat so many sweets.
Yep: I've been reading the Twilight series. Busted. And of course, they're terrible, and surely my mind is more rotten for reading them, but - also of course - I totally loved them. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a love story. I may even be a Twihard.
Okay, so maybe not, but I will admit to being a little preoccupied with all things vampire this week. For instance, I don't even know what happened during the staff meeting on Monday, because I spent the whole time deciding which of my coworkers would make good vampires. You know, if there really are vampires, I'll bet they're pretty pissed at Stephenie Meyer right now: "Can you believe it, Vlad? That stupid human just told me I wasn't hot enough to be a vampire!" Which more or less spills the beans on my criteria, but what the hell. I'm just going on the Cullen model here.
After I read The Road I spent some weeks considering whether I'd make good steaks - it's a good bet that I'm well marbled - and I've always felt that a superior brain such as my own would be much in demand for the zombie gourmand. So, uh - do I have some kind of buffet complex or what?
Actually, I think it's my deeply pragmatic streak coming through: it'd be like recycling. Or something.
But you know, taken from a completely cannibalistic viewpoint, we North Americans are a pretty delicious-sounding lot: generally pre-plucked and obsessively cleaned for reduced prep time on those busy weeknights, not to mention frequently tenderized (think massage therapy). And personally, at the moment I'm sporting a rather significant quantity of choco-coconut-pecan stuffing and am slathered in a lovely vanilla-almond marinade. Heck, I'd eat me.
Hm, maybe I'll go run my new product description by DH and see if he feels the same...
Yep: I've been reading the Twilight series. Busted. And of course, they're terrible, and surely my mind is more rotten for reading them, but - also of course - I totally loved them. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a love story. I may even be a Twihard.Okay, so maybe not, but I will admit to being a little preoccupied with all things vampire this week. For instance, I don't even know what happened during the staff meeting on Monday, because I spent the whole time deciding which of my coworkers would make good vampires. You know, if there really are vampires, I'll bet they're pretty pissed at Stephenie Meyer right now: "Can you believe it, Vlad? That stupid human just told me I wasn't hot enough to be a vampire!" Which more or less spills the beans on my criteria, but what the hell. I'm just going on the Cullen model here.
After I read The Road I spent some weeks considering whether I'd make good steaks - it's a good bet that I'm well marbled - and I've always felt that a superior brain such as my own would be much in demand for the zombie gourmand. So, uh - do I have some kind of buffet complex or what?
Actually, I think it's my deeply pragmatic streak coming through: it'd be like recycling. Or something.
But you know, taken from a completely cannibalistic viewpoint, we North Americans are a pretty delicious-sounding lot: generally pre-plucked and obsessively cleaned for reduced prep time on those busy weeknights, not to mention frequently tenderized (think massage therapy). And personally, at the moment I'm sporting a rather significant quantity of choco-coconut-pecan stuffing and am slathered in a lovely vanilla-almond marinade. Heck, I'd eat me.
Hm, maybe I'll go run my new product description by DH and see if he feels the same...
Thursday, April 15, 2010
He's Got Radioactive Something, Anyways
Oh, crap. Oh, crap. Don't sit here don't sit here don't sit here oooohhhh, gawd - why can't you find someone else with stinky breath and go sit with them? You could bathe each other in tender plumes of your noxious exhaust. It would be super romantic. Really. Go away now.Gum disease. Wet peanut butter. Quarter Pounder for lunch. I can see bad breath coming from a C-Train length away, yet I'm powerless to stop it. I'm like SpiderMan when his glue-gun thingers quit working! Except mine never worked, but I can totally imagine how awesome it would be if they did work, so I'm equally frustrated.
Why couldn't Calgary Transit hand out a pack of dental floss free with purchase of a transit pass? It's not like they spend their money on keeping the buses in good working order or anything.
I can't believe that society is willing to make fragrance-related concessions for people with 'sensitivities', but not odor-related concessions. For example, I'm not allowed to wear pleasantly-scented underarm deodorant to the gym because some fruitloop has convinced herself Spring Breeze affects her more adversely than Unadultered Armpit, but people are allowed to regularly subject me to the horrifying stench of their gums rotting out of their face. Appalling. Sure, moving a toothbrush around your mouth on ocasion is almost as much a chore as thoroughly wiping your ass (yep, the world can smell that too, my friend), but the fact is, even if you don't want to brush your teeth, there are any number of delicious, cost-effective and readily available alternatives to stinking! TicTac, anyone?
My philosophy is this: always be kissable. Hey, you never know when some random hottie is going to need to make out with you in an elevator!
Then again, maybe you do, and that time is never. I can't deny that's a pretty reasonable assessment of your charms, Dragon Breath, however - much like you're guaranteed not to win the lotto if you don't buy a ticket - nine out of ten oral hygienists agree that halitosis takes you right out of the running.
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