Kilometerstone

A friend of mine recently told me he has stopped trying to impress me. From the ridiculous way he was grinning when he said it I'm pretty sure he meant it as a good thing, indicative of our having passed some sort of relationship milestone, but when phrased indelicately you have to admit the situation comes off as slightly unsavoury. I've prepared a handy table to illustrate:

Table 1 - Appropriate Phrasing of Warts & All-Type Stage in a Relationship (Platonic and Romantic Combined Results)

Note how the subtle nuances in relationship stage nomenclature elicit markedly different responses from test subjects. I'm going to call that last one a kilometerstone due to its being more or less the same thing except way more awkward when you say it.

I catch his drift, though, however dubiously it may have been phrased: we're at a good place. We're settled in for the long haul. We're never, ever going to make out because we've left that magical headspace where potential interactions stretch out in infinite shiny directions and we've gone somewhere more resembling an overstuffed corduroy couch. Maybe a little worn in, maybe a little lumpy around the edges, but exquisitely comfy. 'Hello, old friend,' we'll say, and 'aaaaahhhhh, it's always so good to chill here with you.' 

And then, 'Aw, man, did you just fart? WTF?'

Farts aside - a milestone in their own right! - I recognize that this truly does represent a crucial stage in any long-term relationship worth its salt. To all my dear friends out there whom I have long since stopped trying to impress (you should be readily able to identify yourselves based on my deteriorating behaviour over the years), this humble kilometerstone is the one I hold nearest my heart when I think of you. Mwah!

And while busting the warts & all barrier is also a crucial step in any romantic relationship that aspires to any sort of longevity, secretly, my all-time favourite romantic milestone is not this. Instead, it's the first time you zip your sleeping bags together with someone. It just seems so... Canadian, and thereby neatly encompasses several of the best things in the world: Canada, camping, and outdoor sex. Which frequently leads to another distinctly Canadian/camping/sex milestone of importance: doin' it with yer socks on. So practical sometimes!

'Nope. Rocky Mountain barking spider. Hey, make me a s'more, eh?' 

Game of Thrones

Whoever said men are scared to settle down has never seen one who needed to take a crap. They don't just settle down: they gear up, hunker down and downright nest. I once knew this guy who would actually leave work and drive all the way across town to get home if nature called. Said he needed to be comfortable, whatever that entailed - reading material... three-ply... heck, mood lighting and Barry White in the background for all I know.

Women, on the other hand, those chronic settler-downers, don't seem to be afflicted by a need for a two-hour lunch break and all the comforts of home every time they're moved to, uh, move.

(Yes, I realize it's a shock to learn that the gentle sex are, in fact, subject to the same laws of biology as you fellows out there. Now take a deep breath and get over it.)

Nope. Women are content to simply head to the nearest facility and deploy the single-ply on our delicate lady bottoms. We're super tough that way.

However, this is not achieved without considerable pre-planning. There are purses to hang just so; pre-flushings to conduct; toilet seats to sanitize and carefully line with a generous quantity of t.p.; forty six layers of clothing and accessories to variously remove, adjust and hold out of harm's way; and well-timed, delicate throat clearings to stage in order to muffle any possible affronting noises. Not to mention that the ideal time for the activity at hand must be cautiously selected to minimize the likelihood of encountering any other women performing the same function.

Because if by some feat of poor timing there are two women trying to drop the kids off at the pool at the same time, neither will ever be willing to make the first move. Both will sit in utter silence, stoically clenching teeth and asscheeks alike, waiting for the weaker woman to break. All women know there's only one rule to this war of attrition: if you go first, you lose.

This, my friends, is the real reason kegels were invented.

It's a Party

You're Invited!

When: this very moment!
Where: wherever you happen to be will do
Why: I got a child support payment!
How: keep up the good work, Maintenance Enforcement Program

Additional Details:
My ex pays child support like medieval people took baths: once a year, whether I need it or not. Yup, it's pretty stinky, but you really do get used to it after a while. Truth be told, he doesn't actually even pay that willingly, it's just that his tax return comes directly to me. One year I got just under twenty-five dollars on my annual payment but 2011 must have been a whopper of a year for him: I got about three hundred bucks on his tax return. I can almost pay lunchroom supervision fees for half the school year with that! Win!

It's fun to do the math then announce the findings in an infomercial announcer voice:

'For less than the cost of one venti soy extra-hot caramel macchiato per week, you too can "support" (wink, wink) your child!'

'Many Canadians spend hundreds of thousands of dollars raising their children, but if you call now we'll give you the same amount of genetic fitness for a fraction of a fraction of the cost!'

'Why pay more when you can simply defer your responsibility to the fair taxpayers of this fine country?' (This is not the case for me but he happens to have two more children by another woman who has a far less lucrative job than I do, plus he has recently moved in with a childless twenty-something woman so I expect that additions to his brood are likely forthcoming.)

But MEP, being the terribly effective bunch they are, have imposed some Very Serious Penalties on the ol' ex in hopes of encouraging him to cough up some cash, to wit:

• If he a) ever does any work b) that's not paid under the table c) and for which taxes are deducted d) and he files a tax return the next year, then the Government of Canada delivers his tax return directly to me.
• If he ever is inclined to give up video games and take up hunting and fishing - legally, that is, and assuming he could ever find enough change in the couch to buy a fishing rod - boy will he be in for a surprise because he's not allowed to get a hunting or fishing license.
• I will be paid out all the back support owed to me, 100% in full, in one easy payment... if he ever wins the lottery.

Aaaaand... that's it. That's their plan. (More announcer voice: Alberta Maintenance Enforcement Program - capturing all those hard-working, hunting-and-fishing, lotto-winning deadbeats out there in one fell swoop.)

I can't help but wonder, does anyone else think the program might be more effective if its mandate was to provide vasectomies to men who clearly are unable to fulfill their legal obligations to the children they already have?

RSVP:in the comment box below 

Pairs Well with Mr. Clean

Have you ever wanted to know what might happen if you (or, more to the point, your significant other) dropped an open bottle of frizzante wine on your kitchen floor? Look no further, friend, because I have the answer and it is this: you actually don't want to find out. Trust me.

Frizzante wines have tiny bubbles that are developed during a partial second fermentation. These bubbles mask the wine's sweetness, provide a refreshing tingle, and cause the beverage in question to ROCKET out of the bottle when dropped on its design-award-winning bottom. For those of you who have been in my house, the coverage extended approximately to shoulder height on the nearest two walls with waist height spray on all cupboards, furniture and appliances, and stray droplets observed as far away as the bathroom and entryway. There was even enough left over to refill my glass while I cleaned up (impressive!), though not enough to keep it full for the hour it took me to do so.

*sniff* I'll miss its bubbly pink personality... its effervescent style... its delicious, delicious flavour... I swear, I nearly shed a tear for the loss. I'm not a very sentimental person, so that's saying something.

In fact, I'm almost ruthlessly unsentimental. Around my house, tough jobs like thinning out carrot seedlings, recycling preschooler "artwork" and throwing out holey gotch or that last teaspoon of [insert food product here] fall exclusively to me. Not that anyone should have reason to be attached to their decrepit undergarments or the final molecules of Italian salad dressing clinging to the bottom of the bottle, but the continued presence of such items in my home speaks to the distinct possibility that the power of oxytocin knows no bounds in some people.

One might hope those same people will, in future, be more careful with the wine.

El Macho Gazpacho

I've been on vacation. Not a staycation, not an oblication, but a real live vacation. Because I am a natural-born overachiever and kindly philanthropist, I volunteered my excess brainpower during my time away from work to thinking Grand Thoughts that could change the very course of humanity. Unfortunately, lazy slug that it is, my brain summarily rejected my proposal and instead seems to have gone on vacation itself - with no clear date of return indicated.

So the thoughts I thought while on vacation were not *quite* so grand as one might have hoped. (Nor were the thoughts I thought today back at work - brain? Braaaain?? Please come home now. Mommy's scared.) I thought things like, 'hot enough for ya?'; 'dang, got sand in my crack'; and 'yayyyyyy! ice tweam!' Heck, I even said those things - that's how on vacation I was.

Y'know what else is a fun thing to say on vacation? Gazpacho. Ordinarily, gazpacho sounds disgusting to me. But since my brain wasn't around to think smart thoughts like "Cold soup? Yuck" on my behalf, I ended up ordering gazpacho at a restaurant one day, purely because it was fun to say. The waitress came near me and gazpacho just slipped from my unmanned head straight out of my mouth. Just like that: gazpacho. Whee!

And y'know what? It turns out that gazpacho is more than just cold soup with a fun name - it's also really tasty. In fact, it's not much like cold soup at all. It's more like... salad. Blended salad. Delicious! I'm not even shitting you. You should try it sometime.

Having said that, it seems to me that not all salads would be equally well-suited to blending into a gazpacho. I think the trick would be to ensure you didn't include things like meat or cheese or hard-boiled eggs in your salad before you blended it.

You might think this would be obvious to most people, but I actually know a guy who made himself a blended chef's salad; he said the little slippery chunks of ham just about made him puke. Totally not his fault, though: his brain heard he was getting his wisdom teeth pulled and said, "Nuts to this place, I'm going on vacation. See you in a month." Next thing the guy knew... gazpacho.

Happens to the best of us, Jerry. Happens to the best of us.

Success-ion

"I came for supper," he said, shaking paws all around.

- The Tawny, Scrawny Lion -

I don't know if y'all know this, but DH is a master chef. Actually, check that: a Master Chef.

Not that DH necessarily cooks all that much, but he sure watches the hell out of the Food Network. And, like, eats food and stuff. Via the same means by which university grads with no work experience are *always* the best hires, DHs advanced theoretical understanding has translated directly into applied proficiency. In fact, his Master Cheffery is such that he

simply.

cannot.

help.

but offer other, less masterful chef wannabes - such as myself - handy hints and helpful tips. Because he finds the ineptitude of others so inspiring in his Master Chef missionary work, such hints and tips are frequently doled out to his elated disciples while they are cooking. Cooking things for him to eat.

Call me ungrateful, but if disciples were dwarves, I would be Grumpy.

My Grandma was also a Food Network aficionado, but she took a markedly different tack: because she didn't really enjoy cooking, she poured on the praise for whatever sort of cheffery - Master or otherwise - anyone was willing to do on her behalf. Grilled cheese for lunch? Delightful. How about some Campbell's tomato soup in which to dunk your grilled cheese? Ecstasy! Your burned grilled cheese? Well, heck, she likes things crispy. Just put some pickles on dat shit and you won't even know the difference.

Alas, she's no longer with us to appreciate that I now actually know how to cook. But her top-secret molasses cookie recipe lives on with me, as does her sneaky method of getting out of cooking. Ultimately, my goal is to be the person who just shows up with a string of fish and a big bunch of daisies, jolly as all get out and all ready for another good big supper of whatever anyone else happens to be cooking that night. To that end, Medium Fry is making mini meatloaves* on Thursday and you can bet a shiny nickel that she is going to get an earful of effusive praise over her results - Master or otherwise.

* Side cooked vegetables this time, not even salad. See? My plan is working already!

Win/Lose

Top ten reasons my children are in my room in the middle of the night:

10. "I had a bad dweam."
9. "I'm sirsty."
8. "Come wipe my buuuuuutt!"
7. "My eyes are open."
6. "I'm itchy."
5. "Der's a skeleton scwatching in the closet."
4. (vomiting noises)
3. "I was worried about somefing."
2. "I'm hungwy for bwekfist."

(I'd like to take this opportunity to suggest that maybe, just maybe, if they would simply EAT their SUPPER, they would NOT be hungry at three o'clock in the morning ALL THE @&!$%*! TIME.)

(But I digress.)

The number one reason my children are in my room in the middle of the night, although it's never presented in quite so many words, is:

1. Reducing competition.

Think about it: if you're an owlet or a hyena or something and resources are scarce, you can just eat your siblings; if you're a small human and you don't want to share your toys, really, what are your options? Not only are you lacking the sort of hardware (teeth, claws, etc.) that would allow you to destroy them, you have the vague sense that probably get in trouble for trying and besides, you really only like to eat macaroni and cheese anyways.

The solution is to prevent your parents from ever wanting to have more children by rendering them so insane with sleep deprivation and groggy rage that they frequently can't recall what possessed them to think the first ones were a good idea. And just for good measure - in the event they happen to be stupid or placentamental enough to consider having more children - to make it essentially impossible for them to ever have sex again.

Zero propagule pressure = zero little brothers or sisters running around tattling on you and touching your toys and generally wrecking your young life = WIN.