Sunday, 30 January 2011

Here, try a Cajun cookie

Hubby and I were watching a great HBO show last night.  It's called "Hung".  It's about an average guy named Ray who just happens to have an extraordinarily large penis. 

Ray needs money to fix his recently burned-down house so his kids can move back in with him.  His "How to Become a Millionaire" class teaches him he needs to capitalize on his greatest asset or talent.  Which, of course, for him, is the fact that's he's "hung". 

So he becomes a gigolo.  And his fellow classmate, Tanya, becomes his pimp.  

Tanya also bakes fortune cookies.  Actually, she calls them "lyric bread".  Really they're just baked goods with little laminated messages inside. 

ANYWAY, that was a really long way of telling you that Hubby and I both had an intense cookie craving last night.  

So I got up off my ass and put some pre-mixed cookie mix in the oven.  

Of course, the cookies were delicious.  Totally hit the spot.  I even got a thank-you kiss from Hubby.  

But then he asked me if I added some spice or something. 

No, of course not.  I added water.  Adding water is pretty much the extent of my baking ability. 

"They taste spicy" he said. 

"No way, don't be ridiculous.  That's probably just my lip gloss left on your lips."

"No, no.  There's chili power or something in them."

"You're crazy."

But this morning when I had a breakfast serving of cookies, I had to admit, I think he was right.  They tasted kinda spicy. 

"See!" said Hubby. "They taste all Cajun."

I don't know why, exactly.  They just have a hint of flavour that doesn't seem quite right.  There must have been some crumbs or something left on the cookie sheet, or some left-over seasoning in the mixing bowl. 

At first you'd think, gross.  I mean, who knows how long the remnants have been siting there just waiting to contaminate my baked goods.  But it's not really that bad.  It just gives my cookies a little southwestern flair.  A little je ne sais quoi

I think this idea could really take off.  Hubby and I could market them together.  Like the Buckleys family.  "It tastes weird, but it could be worse."  


Thursday, 27 January 2011

Avoid crack addicts

We went for a team lunch today at the new fancy wood stove pizza place.

The food was delicious, and the company great, but there was one oddly-placed and unexpected crack addict that I wish we could have avoided.

You can always spot a crack addict.  And by “crack addict” I mean sketchy gross person who must be on some type of drug, because why else would they be such a mess?

This was definitely a crack addict.

Don’t doubt me.

I can tell.

At first I thought she was just a little nutso - saying weird things to my colleagues and making a minor spectacle of herself.

But then I saw her face.

If you can’t spot a crack addict by the random outbursts, then you can spot her by the Herpes.

And while she was shooing away the voices in her head, I was trying to figure out why a crack addict would be spending her money in a fancy wood stove pizza place.

It's contradictory to all logic, isn't it?  I mean, doesn’t she have some drugs to buy or something?  Seems like a waste of money to me.

After that, I just spent most of my lunch trying to avoid eye contact – and trying not to contract Herpes.

Can you contract Herpes from across a room?

Probably.  Like, what if she sneezed and the Herpes landed on my pizza?  Ew. 

At least if I get Herpes from my pizza, Hubby will get it too, since I saved him a piece. 

This is why I think it’s important to avoid crack addicts – no matter how fancy and delicious the pizza.


Monday, 24 January 2011

I hear it's cold out

I think it might be cold out. 

Yep, uh huh, it's definitely cold out. 

I didn't go outside yesterday.  I spent a perfect January Sunday, sleeping in, watching tv, reading in the living room sun, and then watching more tv. 

But it seemed cold out.  I had a few clues. 

For example, when Hubby emerged from the downstairs bathroom with the belief that the the faucet was broken, I didn't fret.  The faucet is probably fine, rather the pipes frozen. 

As for today, the next clue came from the weatherman this morning.  He mentioned that the current temp was somewhere around minus 40. I say somewhere because it was minus 29, I think, but minus 37 or something equally effing ridiculous with the godforsaken windchill.  Hmm.  Chilly.

Unfortunately, the requirement to work for a living meant that I had to leave the house, which is how I got my next clue.  I knew I'd have to start the car early, but I didn't know that when I tried to turn the damn key my little Civic would wheeze and writhe in pain. 

And I didn't know that although I had to move Hubby's truck out of the way, his doors would be frozen shut... and that Hubby would watch me struggle with them from the comfort of the bedroom. 

So, as punishment, I made him drive me to work, which meant I could kinda avoid the cold a little bit longer. 

But when we drove the whole way with the heat on full blast, but never really got warm, I started to think "hey, it must be cold". 

And when I got to work, and the river outside my window was literally steaming - as if it was a boiling pit of lava water evaporating into the air - I got my next hint that it might be cold out. 

My final inclination came when I was unable to take off my coat and knee socks - when the thought of removing the feather down parka and striped wicked-witch-of-the-east stockings was as traumatic as the thought of taking a dip in the steaming river. 

I eventually gave in to the a-winter-coat-in-the-office-looks-weird rule, but my wicked witch stockings looked effing SWEET with my black suede pumps. 


Tuesday, 18 January 2011

The Elusive 82

Every morning the bus drops me off at the station near work, and then I walk 7 minutes to the office. 

Rain or shine, sleet or snow, I walk that damn 7 minute mile.  Even when I'm really late and it's a walk of shame.  Even when it's really dark and it's a sleep walk.  Even yesterday morning when I waited for my own damn bus for almost 30 minutes, (instead of the regular 3 to 6 minutes), when it was minus 73 with the windchill, and when I was already way too late for work. 

And no matter what, every morning I emerge from the station and pathetically scan all the nearby streets for The Elusive 82.   

The Elusive 82 travels among the office buildings every day, and conveniently stops directly in front of my building.  A mere seven seconds from the front door. 

But the 82 is elusive.  It only comes every so often.  No one actually knows when.  Like most bus schedules, its arrival time is totally dependent on everything other than the actual timetable.

Sometimes you catch a glimpse of it up ahead. 

Sometimes it's nowhere in sight, so you start walking, and then it appears from thin air in front of your office, just as you're walking up. 

Sometimes you think you see it, and you get a gleeful smile across your face, and then you curse yourself because you're not wearing your glasses, and that's the 86, not The Elusive 82.  Foiled again.  

Well, lately we've even been trying to convince our friend at work, who is new to the building, of The Elusive 82's existence. 

Needless to say, he's never believed us. 

"It just went by, right here, past these cubicles" we'd say. 

"Right here, eh?  Past my desk?"

"You mean you didn't see it?"

"No, I guess not."


So tonight he and I were leaving the office at the same time, and started out into the snowy night on our 7 minute trek to the bus station. 

As we were crossing the street, he said to me "Ya know, I saw The Elusive 82 today."

"No!  Really?!"

"Yes, well, yeah, but it was parked.  For all I know you guys just paid the driver to sit there and put '82' on the screen."

And then...

before we knew it...

across the street, emerging from the snowy mist...

The Elusive 82 appeared

I think my friend just froze.  I don't think he knew what to do with himself. 

Luckily, I had the presence of mind to run into the snowy street in front of the moving bus.  And when the bus driver stopped, we ran over and jumped on. 

I think my friend now thinks I'm some sort of mythical creature.  Will it, and it will.  He said I was like Harry Potter, waving my wand for the magic bus to Never Never Land... or wherever it is that Harry Potter is going.


Monday, 17 January 2011

Walmart is going to make me cut off my arm

How much do you hate Walmart?  

An effing lot, I bet.   

And do you still go there? 

Sure you do.  And so do I. 

And before you tell me I should support local shopkeepers before I support giant Walmart, consider this. 

First, I friggin do - when I can.

And second, when you haven't really gone grocery shopping since before your sixteen-people-for-Christmas-dinner dinner, and you need to stock all your shelves - fridge, pantry, and otherwise - it's just friggin cheaper, people.  I can't save the world every day.

Now, of course there are a few obvious rules for Walmart shopping. 

For example:
  • don't go on a weekend;
  • get everything you could possibly need so you don't have to go back any time soon;
  • try to find a semi-coherent and competent cashier so you're not waiting in line for an hour;
  • but, not so competent that he or she notices the kitty litter under the cart (just kidding?). 

Well, my first mistake was going to Walmart at all, let alone on a weekend. 

But I did it anyway. 

And holy shit there were so many frigging people in there. 

Every last one of them a godforsaken idiot

And if one more old smelly lady mosied across my aisle one more effing time... or if one more child shouted his ghost/wolf call from the next aisle over for one more minute... or if one more father let his two young daughters talk him into not one, but TWO more packs of jello cancer cups... or if one more shelf of my favourite pasta, or my favourite yogurt, or my favourite granola bars was empty... or if I got sucked into one more last-minute cashier lineup impulse buy, like the Energizer plastic battery glow stick...

I was going to go postal. 

I was going to start screaming... or riding my cart down the aisles and running people over... or throwing giant cans of tomato sauce and those little tangerine oranges at everyone in sight... or calling child services, for godsake, because what sane parent would bring their kids to Walmart to buy jello cups?

Or all of the above. 

In that order.


And I wouldn't even feel guilty, either, because I figure if you're going to avoid total lunacy in Walmart, you have to find a way to survive. 

Whatever it takes. 

Like that guy who cut off his own arm in the cave.


Tuesday, 11 January 2011

Life Lesson

I learned an important life lesson last night. 

I was sitting in the living room with Tuxedo on my lap when the phone rang.  My Mom's number popped up on the tv screen (yes, thanks to Rogers, I have that brilliant feature). 

But when I slowly got up with Tuxedo still in my arms, I realized that the kitchen phone was ringing from upstairs (yes, thanks to Hubby, I have that annoyance to contend with). 

So I started to climb the stairs, holding Tuxedo while he wriggled. 

When I got to the top, it was very dark, so started to carefully make my way into the office.  By this time, Mom was leaving a message. 

All of a sudden, before I knew what was even happening, I stubbed my foot on something big and hard (insert obvious joke here) and was, instantly, collapsed on floor. 

The effing VACUUM.

I stepped on the goddam thing, which promptly flung the beater pole (joke here) all loony-toons-style into my right rib cage...  which then fell into the giant pile of laundry and wrapping paper all life-size-dominoes-style...  which ultimately dropped me to my knees all unexpectedly-kicked-in-the-balls-style...  and made me throw Tuxedo across the room all fling-the-football-before-you-fumble-style

"OW!  F%*#!!  Owwwww.  Shit!  Ahhhhh.  Owww."

Thankfully, Hubby came running up the stairs from the bathroom to rescue me. 

"Are you ok?!  Where are you?"

Where was I?  Huddled on the floor, cradling my chest, gasping for air, and ugly crying, thinking to myself (as I always do when in pain) Why do I always burst into tears like a three year old who surprised herself by tripping on her own running shoes?  Hold it in, you baby.  You're fine.  You're not dead.  And you're not a toddler. 

No.  Wait.  Eff it.  It feels better when I cry.  Forget this.  I'm crying!  Sob, sob, sob!

Hubby picked me up off the floor and began to survey the damage (to me, but mostly to Tuxedo, who was traumatized and lurking around in fear of what crazy lady might do next).

And now I have a bruised, if not cracked, upper right rib and I seriously can't really move, or laugh, or cough, or yawn, or exhale, or lift anything. 

Are you really going to make me say it? 


Yes, I. am. awesome. 

And I had plenty of time to sit unmoving in my parka cape this afternoon to think about that fact. 

And to contemplate what I could possibly learn from this fluster-duck. 

And what did I come up with?

It seems that my mother was right all along.  "That's a tripping hazard" she used to say.  

So, what do I say?

Move your shit.  Move it out of the way.  Move it WAY out of the way.  Not just out of the hall, but AWAY.  Where it goes.  Not to the side of the room.  Not around the corner.  AWAY!  Right away.  Immediately.  All the time. 


Life lesson. 


Tuesday, 4 January 2011

Hello Sushi Man


That means hello in Japanese. 

Hubby has become an honourary member of Japanese culture. 

Ok, I don't really know what an honourary member of Japanese culture would entail, but I think it would at least have a little something to do with sushi.

In which case, the fact that Hubby eats sushi for at least half of his meals, must mean that he's at least half honourary Japanese. 

He's obsessed with it.  And not just obsessed with eating it, or even just obsessed with making it, but obsessed with making it perfectly.

It all started with the new local sushi place.  Authentic Japanese sushi, right around the corner from our house.  And it's excellent. 

We were going there so often that the little guy behind the counter knows us almost by name (or at least by face, and definitely by "crunchy vegy and dynamite roll" order). 

So Hubby decided that since he's in there so often, he should at least learn some Japanese.  Kon'nichiwa. 

However, after a while, buying sushi every day got a bit pricey.  And so, Hubby has been on a mission to make it himself - perfectly

He has spent several hours over the past few weeks watching sushi-making videos.  He's been to the little Asian market day after day.  He's slowly mastered sticky rice - with the exact right level of stickiness.  He has roasted his own sesame seeds and improved his rolling technique.  And tonight he even fried his own tempura flakes. 

And it's all thanks to the little Japanese sushi restaurant.  The little Japanese sushi restaurant with the little guy behind the counter - who, when Hubby said "Kon'nichiwa", replied by explaining that he's not actually Japanese... he's Korean!  

And so, I figure that if the little Korean guy can make excellent sushi and sell it as authentic Japanese cuisine, than Hubby's homemade sushi will at least make him a partial honourary member of Japanese culture.  

Hai, arigatō.