Do you ever suffer from foot-in-mouth disease? What about writer's remorse? I am plagued by both on a pretty regular basis, and I'm going with that as my excuse for my absence for nearly two months.
I've noticed that lately I just don't know how to keep my mouth shut. It's not that I blab the secrets of others or participate in gossip...I just honestly can not stop running my mouth. I will decide that I want to keep something to myself even if just for just a few days, but do you think I can do it? Not a chance. It's like my brain decides that hey, maybe not everyone needs to know my business all the time, but that filter between the brain and the mouth is entirely disconnected. Before I know it, I actually hear myself saying the very words I swore I wouldn't speak out-loud. My brain is simultaneously shouting at me "YOU IDIOT! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?! WE WEREN'T GOING TO TALK ABOUT THAT. EVER!"
Now sometimes I may decide I don't want to nor should I speak because there's risk that my words may come across as insulting. Sometimes it's because I know I have a habit of saying the first thing that comes to mind and always come up with something better when it's too late. Mostly it's because I realize that I've had a lot of stressful things going on in my life lately and that when I discuss these things with individuals, it makes me sound either very negative, or a little bit sociopathic. I haven't decided which. Either way? It's not good.
Prime example:
My anxiety has been flaring up a bit recently (something I'm sure I'll elaborate on in a future entry), and I've noticed that one of many themes to this anxiety centralizes around the fear of someone breaking into my house to kidnap/murder me and quite likely the Husband too. So when Hubby suggests that we go see "Straw Dogs" and I end up asking him to please explain again what the movie is about, I have to gently point out that going to see a movie which involves a young couple battling crazy townies who are breaking into their house to kill them might not be a great idea for me right now. Upon reflecting why I'm so unnecessarily focused on people breaking in I have a flashback to a point in my childhood where a friend and a cousin and I are having a sleepover on the floor of a bedroom in my aunt's house. There's a weird shadow being cast on the wall, and I painstakingly spend a great deal of time trying to convince the girls I'm with, that the shadow is of a man with a pointy nose and a hat who is on a ladder outside of our second-floor window waiting for us to fall asleep so that he can break in and steal us. I had them convinced to the point of tears. I was about 8 years old.
So when today at work while my colleagues and I were sitting at our respective work stations working quietly and diligently I felt the need to share this story? I DON'T KNOW. Why I'm sharing this on the internet? Well, that brings me to my next affliction....
Writers remorse.
I'm quite confident we've all suffered from this at one point or another. Remember when you were a kid and how you kept a diary where all you and your boy-obsessed brain could write about was who you had a crush on and how you were destined for wedded bliss and babies with a fast car and a mansion? No? Alright, the cheese stands alone.
I remember looking back in that diary or through notes shared with girlfriends and thinking "My God. If this is part of what being a pre-pubescent girl is about, then I want sons.".
It is for this reason I have been avoiding the blog, facebook, and any social media in which my foot-in-mouth can be formatted online for anyone to see. We've been experiencing some "issues", one of which will be causing us to go to court in the near future. The rage and frustration over this situation with a negligent contractor has me nearly bursting at the seams. Since there is the ever apparent likelihood that we will be moving forward with a court case, I've been hesitant to write for fear that I will say or do something that could come back to bite us in the ass at some point during this process.
So please, forgive my absence these past two months. Don't hesitate to distract me from my living hell by sharing embarrassing examples of when you've suffered from foot-in-mouth or writers remorse. We're aiming for a "make Loony feel good by comparison".
Monday, October 31, 2011
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Happy Birthday
They say that with every year you not only get older, you get wiser. Little did I know that one derives a lot of wisdom on the actual day of her birthday and not just over the twelve months that follow.
Let me preface my birthday tales with this: I don't fear aging. Maybe I'm too young to fear it, or maybe I'm too intrigued by the later years to be hesitant about their arrival. Either way, the actual act of turning another year older doesn't make me itch - it's the expectations surrounding a birthday that make me want to claw my skin off. It feels almost reminiscent of New Years Eve. Everyone wants to know what you're doing to celebrate the big day, and if you have somewhat ordinary plans you receive that knowing head tilt and "ohhh" that reeks of pity. It's clear that those who are judging your plans (or lack thereof), believe that you're not wanting to celebrate because you're in denial about turning yet another year older.
Let me tell you something; just because I didn't actively make plans, doesn't mean the plans didn't seek me out. There were definitely some surprises...
Surprise #1
With my birthday falling on a weekday, of course I went to the office. I was surprised to find that some coworkers had beautifully decorated my workspace for the occassion and my boss brought in an array of cheesecake flavours to choose from (the super awesome part about this is that they didn't even know that cheesecake is my favourite, but it was chosen because they know that I'm weird with food and textures/texture combination's, so they felt cheesecake would be the safest bet. Good choice ladies!). Also, another coworker outside of our department brought in some celebratory timbits to keep it on the "safe side" after learning of my weird food things (maybe I should do a post on the weird food fixations I have???).
An entirely different group of coworkers serenaded me with the "Happy Birthday" song in our building's cafeteria and presented me with a birthday breakfast muffin which included a homemade candle in the middle (made of a yellow post-it, and red pen to symbolize the open flame we're not allowed to have in the office building).
What I learned from surprise #1:
Sometimes the people you work with are more than just the people you work with. The unexpected celebration of me by my friends from work was probably the most heartwarming part of my whole day. Normally, one does not put that kind of expectation on her coworkers, so it truly was a wonderful surprise.
Surprise #2
The Husband picked me up from work since I didn't want to spend my birthday getting sweaty from a walk or a bike ride to-from work (aka: it's my birthday and I'll whine about physical activity if I want to!). We get home to discover that after having started the process of switching Toby's foods, his digestive tract had turned a little rebellious. As soon as I walked in the door, I could smell something was amiss. As soon as the Husband could see that Toby was in his cage facing the "wrong way", he knew something was amiss. As soon as we both got to the kitchen and saw the dog poop EVERYWHERE, it was pretty evident something was most definitely amiss. My Darling Husband thought Toby just had the runs and couldn't hold it any longer, however, I knew better. The patterns of poop splatter told me that Toby had, without a doubt, sharted.
The multi-directional splatter indicated that Toby was facing his regular way and farted, but when he felt something come shooting out of his back end like water through a hose, he turned around in a panic as if to say "What the hell was that?!". That's when it either happened again to a much smaller-scale, or it was an ongoing shart and his turning around was merely providing a sprinkler effect. (Why do so many of my blog posts contain poop talk?!) We had poop splatter all over the floor, all over the wall, all over his cage, and worst yet, all over Toby.
Do you have any idea what it's like bathing a 115lb dog (or small horse) who is terrified of the hose? My greater concern was no longer getting a little sweaty on my birthday.
What I learned from Surprise #2:
1. Having a sick dog is very much like having a sick baby who's the size of, has the same attitude as and produces the same amount of poop as a 13 or 14 year old.
2. I missed my calling as a crime scene investigator. No one can read poop splatter quite like I can.
UPDATE: I failed to mention that I also learned I'm a TERRIBLE mother as I could not help but laugh hysterically when the Husband and I watched from the window as our poor dog was suffering from constipation and would assume "the pose" with no effect. Again, picture a giant dog, back arched, butt facing down, and tail over 2 ft long jetting straight out as he looks around waiting for something to happen. When he had no success he'd walk forward two feet and try again. It looked so goofy and I think if I didn't laugh at the situation I'd cry.
Surprise #3
The progression of social media tools has changed the rules of social etiquette (an argument that has no-doubt been overdone by countless people over the short but eventful lifespan of Facebook, Twitter, etc). While on the one hand you receive countless messages of well-wishing from people you haven't spoken to or seen (in-person) for years, those who may carry the social expectation to call you or see you determine that sending you an electronic message along with the masses meets their obligation. Is this an issue of circumstance? Convenience? Does it reflect a subtle change in the direction of your relationship with that person - the equivalent of a demotion in relationship status? Or does it basically all even out in the wash and one should just be happy she got anything?
What I learned from Surprise #3:
1. The "me me me" mentality of a birthday can cause one to become slightly hypocritical. On one hand I complained about the inflated expectations surrounding the celebration of a birthday, and when I felt that what celebration did take place wasn't quite enough I considered it as a reflection of my existential status.
2. As a result of point #1, I need drugs. Lots and lots of drugs.
I guess now I know what to ask for for Christmas :)
Let me preface my birthday tales with this: I don't fear aging. Maybe I'm too young to fear it, or maybe I'm too intrigued by the later years to be hesitant about their arrival. Either way, the actual act of turning another year older doesn't make me itch - it's the expectations surrounding a birthday that make me want to claw my skin off. It feels almost reminiscent of New Years Eve. Everyone wants to know what you're doing to celebrate the big day, and if you have somewhat ordinary plans you receive that knowing head tilt and "ohhh" that reeks of pity. It's clear that those who are judging your plans (or lack thereof), believe that you're not wanting to celebrate because you're in denial about turning yet another year older.
Let me tell you something; just because I didn't actively make plans, doesn't mean the plans didn't seek me out. There were definitely some surprises...
Surprise #1
With my birthday falling on a weekday, of course I went to the office. I was surprised to find that some coworkers had beautifully decorated my workspace for the occassion and my boss brought in an array of cheesecake flavours to choose from (the super awesome part about this is that they didn't even know that cheesecake is my favourite, but it was chosen because they know that I'm weird with food and textures/texture combination's, so they felt cheesecake would be the safest bet. Good choice ladies!). Also, another coworker outside of our department brought in some celebratory timbits to keep it on the "safe side" after learning of my weird food things (maybe I should do a post on the weird food fixations I have???).
An entirely different group of coworkers serenaded me with the "Happy Birthday" song in our building's cafeteria and presented me with a birthday breakfast muffin which included a homemade candle in the middle (made of a yellow post-it, and red pen to symbolize the open flame we're not allowed to have in the office building).
What I learned from surprise #1:
Sometimes the people you work with are more than just the people you work with. The unexpected celebration of me by my friends from work was probably the most heartwarming part of my whole day. Normally, one does not put that kind of expectation on her coworkers, so it truly was a wonderful surprise.
Surprise #2
The Husband picked me up from work since I didn't want to spend my birthday getting sweaty from a walk or a bike ride to-from work (aka: it's my birthday and I'll whine about physical activity if I want to!). We get home to discover that after having started the process of switching Toby's foods, his digestive tract had turned a little rebellious. As soon as I walked in the door, I could smell something was amiss. As soon as the Husband could see that Toby was in his cage facing the "wrong way", he knew something was amiss. As soon as we both got to the kitchen and saw the dog poop EVERYWHERE, it was pretty evident something was most definitely amiss. My Darling Husband thought Toby just had the runs and couldn't hold it any longer, however, I knew better. The patterns of poop splatter told me that Toby had, without a doubt, sharted.
The multi-directional splatter indicated that Toby was facing his regular way and farted, but when he felt something come shooting out of his back end like water through a hose, he turned around in a panic as if to say "What the hell was that?!". That's when it either happened again to a much smaller-scale, or it was an ongoing shart and his turning around was merely providing a sprinkler effect. (Why do so many of my blog posts contain poop talk?!) We had poop splatter all over the floor, all over the wall, all over his cage, and worst yet, all over Toby.
Do you have any idea what it's like bathing a 115lb dog (or small horse) who is terrified of the hose? My greater concern was no longer getting a little sweaty on my birthday.
What I learned from Surprise #2:
1. Having a sick dog is very much like having a sick baby who's the size of, has the same attitude as and produces the same amount of poop as a 13 or 14 year old.
2. I missed my calling as a crime scene investigator. No one can read poop splatter quite like I can.
UPDATE: I failed to mention that I also learned I'm a TERRIBLE mother as I could not help but laugh hysterically when the Husband and I watched from the window as our poor dog was suffering from constipation and would assume "the pose" with no effect. Again, picture a giant dog, back arched, butt facing down, and tail over 2 ft long jetting straight out as he looks around waiting for something to happen. When he had no success he'd walk forward two feet and try again. It looked so goofy and I think if I didn't laugh at the situation I'd cry.
Surprise #3
The progression of social media tools has changed the rules of social etiquette (an argument that has no-doubt been overdone by countless people over the short but eventful lifespan of Facebook, Twitter, etc). While on the one hand you receive countless messages of well-wishing from people you haven't spoken to or seen (in-person) for years, those who may carry the social expectation to call you or see you determine that sending you an electronic message along with the masses meets their obligation. Is this an issue of circumstance? Convenience? Does it reflect a subtle change in the direction of your relationship with that person - the equivalent of a demotion in relationship status? Or does it basically all even out in the wash and one should just be happy she got anything?
What I learned from Surprise #3:
1. The "me me me" mentality of a birthday can cause one to become slightly hypocritical. On one hand I complained about the inflated expectations surrounding the celebration of a birthday, and when I felt that what celebration did take place wasn't quite enough I considered it as a reflection of my existential status.
2. As a result of point #1, I need drugs. Lots and lots of drugs.
I guess now I know what to ask for for Christmas :)
Sunday, August 28, 2011
The Time I Got Someone Else's Poop In My Eye
My dad's biological mom lives out on the east coast, and has for the majority of my life. It's pretty routine that she and her husband Ed come to visit every two years. Generally, they would spend one week or so with Ed's kids, and then a week at my dad's house before starting the trek back home. During those formative years when living with my dad, I would obviously be present for the visits with Grandma and Ed. It didn't take long for me to form a negative opinion of Grandma's husband, and being the person that I am, I naturally made it clear that there were things about him I did not approve of.
The first time this happened I was home with Ed and Grandma (who, by the way is the SWEETEST WOMAN EVER), and it was approaching lunchtime. Ed decides he's hungry. Ed turns to Grandma and tells her that he wants a sandwich. Knowing that Grandma is more than ready to promptly get up and make his sandwich for him, I am quick to notify Ed that if he's hungry there's deli meat in the fridge and the bread is in the cupboard. When Ed gives me a dirty look, Grandma gets up and makes his sandwich. She puts it on the dining table, we all sit down together and eat (I made my own sandwich thankyouverymuch). As soon as Ed finishes, he gets up, leaves his dishes at the table for Grandma to put away and proceeds to walk past the dishwasher. I alert him to the fact that since clearly his legs and arms aren't broken, and since he has to pass the dishwasher anyways, he's certainly capable of taking his own dishes and putting them in the dishwasher since Grandma was kind enough to make his lunch for him. It worked. Several similar circumstances have occurred over the years, which have taught Ed that I do not tolerate seeing him treat my Grandma like his servant. Not once do I ever see him get her a drink or a snack or ask her if she needs anything, but he expects her to be at his beckon call.
A couple weeks ago, Grandma and Ed came for a visit, and this time, they stayed at our house for a night. True to form, Ed tried to get Grandma to do everything for him, short of wiping his ass. To be honest, I'd have preferred if he got her to do that for him, because then maybe I wouldn't have contracted PINK EYE.
Ed got his revenge. Knowing he was on my turf, he was in prime position to engage in some subtle biological warfare to retaliate against my modern-day, woman's-lib mentality. He decided to stop washing his hands after using the facilities, spreading his fecal bacteria on countless surfaces. I think I can say with confidence that I contracted the conjunctivitis when electing to do my make-up at the dining table so that Grandma could have the bathroom. After using the facilities myself, I washed my hands, grabbed my makeup bag and headed off to the table where I was touching my eye. My mistake was not washing my hands again after opening up the bathroom door.
Do you know what it feels like knowing that your eye is discoloured because you have someone else's poop in your eye? Even worse when you know precisely whose poop it was, and it comes from someone who should not only know better, but was actively trying to get you all worked up the whole time he was in your home?
This is an 82 year old man who found it appropriate to wear nothing but tighty whitey's as pajamas and walk around the house that way with no intentions to cover up. *Shudder*.
Grandma, you're welcome back anytime - but next visit? Let's have you leave Ed and his dirty hands at home, yes?
The first time this happened I was home with Ed and Grandma (who, by the way is the SWEETEST WOMAN EVER), and it was approaching lunchtime. Ed decides he's hungry. Ed turns to Grandma and tells her that he wants a sandwich. Knowing that Grandma is more than ready to promptly get up and make his sandwich for him, I am quick to notify Ed that if he's hungry there's deli meat in the fridge and the bread is in the cupboard. When Ed gives me a dirty look, Grandma gets up and makes his sandwich. She puts it on the dining table, we all sit down together and eat (I made my own sandwich thankyouverymuch). As soon as Ed finishes, he gets up, leaves his dishes at the table for Grandma to put away and proceeds to walk past the dishwasher. I alert him to the fact that since clearly his legs and arms aren't broken, and since he has to pass the dishwasher anyways, he's certainly capable of taking his own dishes and putting them in the dishwasher since Grandma was kind enough to make his lunch for him. It worked. Several similar circumstances have occurred over the years, which have taught Ed that I do not tolerate seeing him treat my Grandma like his servant. Not once do I ever see him get her a drink or a snack or ask her if she needs anything, but he expects her to be at his beckon call.
A couple weeks ago, Grandma and Ed came for a visit, and this time, they stayed at our house for a night. True to form, Ed tried to get Grandma to do everything for him, short of wiping his ass. To be honest, I'd have preferred if he got her to do that for him, because then maybe I wouldn't have contracted PINK EYE.
Ed got his revenge. Knowing he was on my turf, he was in prime position to engage in some subtle biological warfare to retaliate against my modern-day, woman's-lib mentality. He decided to stop washing his hands after using the facilities, spreading his fecal bacteria on countless surfaces. I think I can say with confidence that I contracted the conjunctivitis when electing to do my make-up at the dining table so that Grandma could have the bathroom. After using the facilities myself, I washed my hands, grabbed my makeup bag and headed off to the table where I was touching my eye. My mistake was not washing my hands again after opening up the bathroom door.
Do you know what it feels like knowing that your eye is discoloured because you have someone else's poop in your eye? Even worse when you know precisely whose poop it was, and it comes from someone who should not only know better, but was actively trying to get you all worked up the whole time he was in your home?
This is an 82 year old man who found it appropriate to wear nothing but tighty whitey's as pajamas and walk around the house that way with no intentions to cover up. *Shudder*.
Grandma, you're welcome back anytime - but next visit? Let's have you leave Ed and his dirty hands at home, yes?
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Scarred for Life
Some things you just can't unsee.
I'm pretty sure I just brushed the top three layers off of my tongue to make sure it doesn't look like this. Maybe you should too.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Kill the zombie turkeys by masturbating with the stolen used-underwear
Those who know me in the real-world understand that I choose to live in a "bubble" that consequently leaves me oblivious to current issues. I find the news to be too depressing, and I get quite rageful when the news anchor goes from talking about some gruesome and tragic death to a light-hearted story about a water-skiing squirrel. When I'm eventually murdered or die in some sort of freak-news-worthy accident, please kill the news anchor who reports on it then follows up with a weather report where they complain that it's too hot, too cold, too wet, etc. Unless it's armaggedon, that asshole has nothing to complain about compared to the tragic-loss of yours-truly.
When it comes to newsprint, I generally stay away from my city's paper because (according to what I heard from other well-informed individuals), our local journalists are about as talented and insightful as a drug addict in withdrawl (no offence to any addicts reading this...).
One day this week though, I went to the local newspaper's website to discover the following hot-topics deemed news-worthy (aka, front page) for my area:
![]()
When it comes to newsprint, I generally stay away from my city's paper because (according to what I heard from other well-informed individuals), our local journalists are about as talented and insightful as a drug addict in withdrawl (no offence to any addicts reading this...).
One day this week though, I went to the local newspaper's website to discover the following hot-topics deemed news-worthy (aka, front page) for my area:
First, let me please say that I live in a CITY. We don't generally have free-range turkeys running about. What concerns me is the follow-up which states that a turkey flew into a pickup truck and caused damage. What the hell kind of fucked up turkeys are these?!?! I'm thinking that they are in fact ZOMBIE TURKEYS, and thus the title should read "Zombie Turkeys Coming to 'Gobble Gobble' Your Brains".
Way to fail us all, local journalists.
More interestingly, and hopefully much less fatal is the front-page story about the stolen underwear. Why does this make the news???? Unless it's been discovered that used underwear doubles as a suitable weapon against the zombie-turkey apocalypse, then I don't want to know about the panty-fetish of one of my fellow citizens.
 |
| I think we know who stole the underwear... |
Can we please note that story #1 is about a tragic death, followed by a story about masturbating. I believe I'll call this a case-in-point.
Back to the bubble I go...
Friday, July 1, 2011
**UPDATED: And this is why I don't play sports.
As indicated by my last post, I may not be much in the kitchen, but I try to be a good wife where it counts...the golf course. To celebrate Canada's birthday, the husband asked if I would like to join him in a round of golf to which I agreed, thinking this is the perfect opportunity to work on my tan.
He comes from a family ofobsessed avid golfers, and I? Well, I'm trying to adjust as best I can. The thing is? I don't like things I'm not good at - and when you're playing with people who kick-ass, you feel like someone should take one of your irons and beat you with it to put you out of your misery, and to simultaneously give the club the best action it's seen all day.
Today however I didn't really care how poorly I was playing because,well....
What the fuck?!
The worst part about this is that I didn't even get to pop it myself. Popping and peeling is the only respectable thing about bubble blisters - especially one that size. The stupid thing popped and peeled itself with the support of my sock and golf shoe, who were also the culprits of said blister. I feel like I've been robbed.
This kind of shit? This is why I don't play sports, my friends.
****UPDATE:
He comes from a family of
Today however I didn't really care how poorly I was playing because,well....
 | ||
| This is your heel. |
 |
| This is your heel on golf. |
The worst part about this is that I didn't even get to pop it myself. Popping and peeling is the only respectable thing about bubble blisters - especially one that size. The stupid thing popped and peeled itself with the support of my sock and golf shoe, who were also the culprits of said blister. I feel like I've been robbed.
This kind of shit? This is why I don't play sports, my friends.
****UPDATE:
 |
| This has become the blister 2 days later. This? Is not attractive. |
Undomestic Goddess
I will never be considered a Stepford wife, possibly much to my husband's dismay.
Last week a woman at work brought in some banana bread and brownies for the rest of us to gorge ourselves on. She almost instantly started identifying the 'flaws' of her baking, pointing out that it's too dry (which it wasn't...it was delicious, and quite frankly? Beggars can't be choosers). At one point she even mentioned that her hubby commented on the dryness of the baked goods. When I almost choked on brownie upon hearing this she explained that it was because he has gotten used to a certain standard when it comes to her baking, and can now readily identify anything that doesn't make the grade. This? Is her first mistake. Her second mistake is baking anything from scratch. If it doesn't come from a box, I don't know what to do with it.
It seems as though subconsciously my approach has been to bake as little as possible so that husband appreciates the few times that baking does take place, regardless of how bad said baking might be.
Unfortunately for him, the same approach applies to cooking. Every week I generate a meal plan that outlines what our dinners will be. Sometimes the execution of this meal plan is a little lacking and it takes little to no effort to support a plan for ordering in or dining out. For the most part, the meals cooked at home are simple - partially to accommodate my equivalent 5-year old palate, and partially to accommodate my/our laziness. Once in a while I will take on a 'big' meal - a vat of chili, a cauldron of spaghetti...but even these satiate my rebellion against domesticity as I know that this one-time commitment to preparation will provide enough excess to feed us for a week or two. And indeed it does.
I honestly and truly can not wait for the day that we bring in enough income to justify paying people to clean up after us. Don't get me wrong - we don't live in filth or thrive in squalor, but when I have time to be at home, I can most likely be found curled up on the love seat reading young-adult-pornography. Mind you when that glorious day comes and the cleaning staff are on their way to our doorstep, I will most likely be found cleaning because I couldn't possibly have the cleaning-people thinking that we keep a dirty house.
Not every Stepford wife will be top of the charts in the looks department, but it certainly isn't for lack of trying. The dedication to grooming, accessorizing and keeping up appearances seems exhausting. If I'm not going to or coming from somewhere, darling husband is most likely looking at a wife who looks like she just got electrocuted thanks to the frizzy hair and yesterdays make-up relocating about an inch lower than where I initially put it on. It may also be a few days before I remember what that razor and tall slim aerosol can in the bathroom caddy is to be used for. I wouldn't say that I'm an Amazon, but "smooth as a baby's bottom" would rarely be a term used to describe me.
Despite these things, husband stays by my side. We just celebrated our 2 year wedding anniversary (9 years together) in a last week at the all-romantic zoo (a place where a teacher-friend of mine recently said "Oh! I just took my grade 2's there last week!"). Stay tuned for a re-enactment of the zoo festivities using "grow-your-own-safari-animals".
Last week a woman at work brought in some banana bread and brownies for the rest of us to gorge ourselves on. She almost instantly started identifying the 'flaws' of her baking, pointing out that it's too dry (which it wasn't...it was delicious, and quite frankly? Beggars can't be choosers). At one point she even mentioned that her hubby commented on the dryness of the baked goods. When I almost choked on brownie upon hearing this she explained that it was because he has gotten used to a certain standard when it comes to her baking, and can now readily identify anything that doesn't make the grade. This? Is her first mistake. Her second mistake is baking anything from scratch. If it doesn't come from a box, I don't know what to do with it.
It seems as though subconsciously my approach has been to bake as little as possible so that husband appreciates the few times that baking does take place, regardless of how bad said baking might be.
Unfortunately for him, the same approach applies to cooking. Every week I generate a meal plan that outlines what our dinners will be. Sometimes the execution of this meal plan is a little lacking and it takes little to no effort to support a plan for ordering in or dining out. For the most part, the meals cooked at home are simple - partially to accommodate my equivalent 5-year old palate, and partially to accommodate my/our laziness. Once in a while I will take on a 'big' meal - a vat of chili, a cauldron of spaghetti...but even these satiate my rebellion against domesticity as I know that this one-time commitment to preparation will provide enough excess to feed us for a week or two. And indeed it does.
I honestly and truly can not wait for the day that we bring in enough income to justify paying people to clean up after us. Don't get me wrong - we don't live in filth or thrive in squalor, but when I have time to be at home, I can most likely be found curled up on the love seat reading young-adult-pornography. Mind you when that glorious day comes and the cleaning staff are on their way to our doorstep, I will most likely be found cleaning because I couldn't possibly have the cleaning-people thinking that we keep a dirty house.
Not every Stepford wife will be top of the charts in the looks department, but it certainly isn't for lack of trying. The dedication to grooming, accessorizing and keeping up appearances seems exhausting. If I'm not going to or coming from somewhere, darling husband is most likely looking at a wife who looks like she just got electrocuted thanks to the frizzy hair and yesterdays make-up relocating about an inch lower than where I initially put it on. It may also be a few days before I remember what that razor and tall slim aerosol can in the bathroom caddy is to be used for. I wouldn't say that I'm an Amazon, but "smooth as a baby's bottom" would rarely be a term used to describe me.
Despite these things, husband stays by my side. We just celebrated our 2 year wedding anniversary (9 years together) in a last week at the all-romantic zoo (a place where a teacher-friend of mine recently said "Oh! I just took my grade 2's there last week!"). Stay tuned for a re-enactment of the zoo festivities using "grow-your-own-safari-animals".
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