Jen But Never Jenn

Yello!

2012-01-27T10:51:00.001-05:00

This has the potential to be both awesome and depressing at the same time:

Eeee?!

And yes, that's a trailer for a commercial. A commercial. We don't know what product it's for yet, but if Ferris ends up shilling for an insurance company, I might kill myself.

Regardless, this buzz for an ad confirms that the cultural tastes of future generations will be exactly as they were portrayed in Demolition Man:

(I'm actually not judging; I would totally be charmed by a jingles-only radio station.)

But let's hope for the best that this mini Ferris Bueller reprise is fun and doesn't send us all into a grief spiral over our lost youth and lame dulled adult lives.

Eeee?!

Happy Friday?

Here's a song for the road, my favourite one from Ferris Bueller's Day Off:

Oh, what the hell, here's a few more:

The best for last:

God, I really love everything about that movie. Don't fuck Ferris up, ad people!

Overheard: How Do You Know You Don't Like It If You Won't Even Try It?

2012-01-26T10:50:00.001-05:00

Overheard while walking along Danforth next to two college-aged girls:

Girl in Puffy Jacket: Ooo! When the weather warms up we should totally go to that gelato place! It's supposed to be so good.

Girl in Green Scarf: Isn't that where Sarah found a pube in her cup?

Girl in Puffy Jacket: *genuinely annoyed* Oh my GOD, you are SUCH a picky eater.

(Not Quite) Sweating to the Oldies

2012-01-24T21:35:00.002-05:00

A couple of months ago my Aunt Diane emailed me and mentioned that she was taking Zumba classes and that she was quite enjoying them. Now, even though I thoroughly and giddily love learning about trendy diets (maybe I delight in the too-good-to-be-true promise of them? Or maybe I'll just take any excuse to sit around and think about food?), I am highly suspect of trendy exercise things. THEY DO NOT FARE WELL WITH ME. But seeing as my Aunt Diane knew that and since we are related and no doubt share an aversion to sweating, I decided to take up her advice and ask for Zumba DVDs for Christmas (which my dear mother-in-law then bought for me! Thanks, Mern!). I figured I would try it with minimal shame in the privacy of my home first rather than explode onto the Zumba scene in all my fat, uncoordinated glory at a gym.

Now, this is not my first dance-based workout video. I'll have you know that I am also the proud owner of Old School Dance Party with Donna Richardson featuring live performances (and a strip show from the guy in white) by The Sugarhill Gang:

It is so choice. If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up.

But oh my gawd, am I ever the very definition of 'pathetic' while doing Zumba. I basically lurch around clumsily, my feet a full beat behind while my upper body is half a beat ahead and everything in between just swings around confused and untamed, as if I were a drunk, upright pot-belly pig. And this is all done to the sound of attractive Latinos goading me with false compliments meant for the aerobically unchallenged. "Good, good! Now you're getting it!" cheered Beto as Jen gave up and waddled to the kitchen.

So - while I promise to keep trying to Zumba, I think I'll keep supplementing my day with a workout more my speed: The 1959 Good Housekeeping Plan For Reducing Off-The-Record:

I love you, vintage fitness.

This album is basically the LP version of Jack Lalanne (who also had his own exercise records, including one called Glamour Stretcher Time that used a tension band!). Now, I don't just like this little workout because it only takes half as long as Zumba and has absolutely no cardio component to it. I like it because it is super classy. In my living room, I do little scissor kicks and waist bends to the charming accompaniment of the The Bob Prince Quartet.

I couldn't find a video online of someone doing the Good Housekeeping Plan for Reducing Off-The-Record exercises - and there is not enough money in the world for me to create one where *I* perform these beauty boosters for you - but I did manage to transfer an exercise from the LP onto a USB (just a snippet!), so you can get a sense of the dignified loveliness that is exercising the Good Housekeeping way. I present to you, the crappiest clip ever made with Windows Movie Maker:

I know I'm a sarcastic SOB most of the time, but I think this record is delightful. Ridiculous, laughable, and oh-so antiquated, but none-the-less delightful. I feel like a soft and lovely lady while exercising to this, as opposed to the gyrating barnyard animal I normally feel like when I do modern workouts.

It probably has something to do with the fact that it ~~features old white people music~~ is all so calm that no sweat emerges from my body. That, and the movements feel familiar - like this one for the double chin where all one needs to do is tip the head back and open one's mouth repeatedly - which is funny, because that's a really similar movement to how I got my double chin to begin with:

I don't care if it doesn't work (and I know it's wrong of me to super secretly hope it does). It's darling and fun and doesn't give out scheduled praise. And it makes me laugh every time do "bust enhancing exercises" to a very plucky version of The Yellow Rose of Texas.

Thumbs up, 1950s! Thumbs up!

I Am So Very, Very Easily Charmed

2012-01-20T12:09:00.000-05:00

I'm not a fan of "performance" reality TV competitions (like American Idol or X-Factor or Dancing with the Not-Really-Stars) nor do I watch musicals or, ugh, Glee, but when I see a politician sing well, regardless of what political stripe they wear, gosh darnnit if I'm not just positively tickled pink.

Barack Obama only gave a couple lines of Al Green last night, but I am on the verge of fan-girling:

It's not the first time he's sung for a crowd:

And he's certainly not the only politician to do it. Here are a few other examples ...

Canada's Prime Minister Harper is a surprise guest of the National Arts Centre a few years ago and performed this Beatles song:

Italian Prime Minister Berlusconi sing something I don't know:

Philadelphia Mayor Michael Nutter drops some Sugarhill Gang:

Russia's Prime Minister Putin is more cringe-worthy than charming in his rendition of Blueberry Hill, but check out all the Hollywood types in the audience:

And it's not singing, but remember this? Ha. Oh, Bubba, those were the days:

It almost makes you wish all elections had a talent component. Almost.

And Now For Something Completely Different

2012-01-18T10:32:00.001-05:00

Compliments of The Oatmeal:

a.k.a. Why Wikipedia is all fucked up right now.

Want to help in the fight against SOPA / PIPA? First, go learn about the bills. After that go contact your elected officials. Wikipedia has a handy-dandy page set up which allows you to locate your state representative.

Have at 'er, Americans (I would, but crabby letters from Canadians are generally regarded as toilet paper alternatives by American politicians).

The Way Things Were a.k.a. Holy Fuck, 1965

2012-01-16T14:00:00.000-05:00

If you know this blog, you know I loves me some vintage living. But what I like to explore - however ridiculously at times - is how a chapter in history was reflected in its media (and, in turn, the ideals and values that were impressed upon the culture). Well, that, and disgusting retro recipes. This is not, however, entirely reflective of reality. If you were to go purely by the 1950s women's magazines I own, you'd think, "race relations? What race relations? Shouldn't we be busying ourselves with a Jell-O mold right now?"

But come 1963-ish, magazine cover stories became less about "Soups Men Love!" and more about stuff like this (you'll know it when you see it):

"When A Negro Family Moves Next Door", written by Suzanne Hart Straight for Parents' magazine, January 1965. Oh, cringe.

I debated posting this entry because, well, it's totally horrible. That, and I'm a giant pussy whose intellect is more on the level with topics of Marshmallow Fluff than racism. But seeing as Martin Luther King Jr.'s life is celebrated today, it seems appropriate to remind people (and in some cases, educate people for the very first time) what he and those who fought for civil rights and dignity were up against.

Despite the unfortunate opinions expressed by some of the people interviewed in this article, I'm quite thankful for it, as it provides a look into what people really were thinking and feeling at the time without a PC-filter. It shows how far we've come, but it can also, perhaps, allow us to connect a few dots between those attitudes and how we view other groups and minorities in society today.

Isn't it weird to see those words in a magazine? It startles me that an article like this was relevant just 47 years ago and during my parents' lifetime (Barrack Obama would have been four years old, and my mom - whose birthday is today! Happy Birthday, mom, sorry to hijack it with this hate crime! - would have been eight.). It is downright strange to read what "normal" people once (?) were concerned about when it came to black people and all kinds of horrifying to read the vile things less-than-normal people were proud to express to a nationally-read magazine.

What's more, as I was reading, I had to keep reminding myself that this discussion wasn't about some weirdo town in the South that we all figure was full-on batshit racist, but was instead a middle-class neighbourhood in New Jersey. Yeah, buddy.

Let's not kid ourselves, there are still plenty of shitty things going on out there, said and done by people who weirdly claim it's not hateful (it's free speech! It's my religious belief! It's a genuine threat! It's hilarious! It's against my vision of America! The founding fathers wouldn't like it! Their hair products cloudy up my pool!). Give me a fucking break, you fucking fuckstains.

The author of "When A Negro Family Moves Next Door" does what I clearly can't do (as I just demonstrated); she responds to some really heinous opinions calmly, with facts and without a lot of judgement, possibly because she knew that you win more flies with honey and that, at the time, Parents' probably had a fair share of readers who related to what was being said by these neighbours.

But that shouldn't stop you or I for letting a "holy fuck!" or a "oh, hell no!" fly out of our mouths while reading this, particularly when you get to the part where "Mr. Heath's" shithead opinion is shared. I mean, just look at what this asshole has to say:

Ugh. Yes, please leave, Mr. Heath.

But the article isn't just a bunch of awful quotes. It shows a turning of a tide, people who were clearly rational and thoughtful and no doubt helped to shape the attitudes of their own neighbours. And - as a lesson for me, they did it without calling anyone a "fucking fuckstain":

So, without further ado, here's the article in its entirety, followed by a "Group Discussion Article" - some questions and information for people to use when discussing this article with friends, family, co-workers, or neighbours (I love that! Gold star, Parents'!). You should be able to open these images into a separate tab where you can expand them to a legible size:

Discussion Prompts:

So, thoughts? Anything surprise you? Can you share any memories (or perhaps stories from your parents) from this time? Does any of it feel familiar when thinking of other groups that are currently marginalized in our society?

And finally, how are you spending Martin Luther King Jr. Day?

A Whole New World

2012-01-13T13:25:00.009-05:00

(Scroll down for the Update!)

When I was in Europe this Christmas, I was surrounded by coffee fanatics. I don't necessarily mean Europeans (although they certainly enjoy their Nespressos) - but the members of my family whom I was holidaying with: The day did not begin until everyone had coffee. I've generally been a take-it-leave-it kind of person when it came to a cup of morning Joe; I've never really been that big on Starbucks and generally I hadn't been bothered to make it, except for maybe on the weekend. But seeing as coffee was being made every morning, I'd help myself to some each day - and since I've been back in Canada, I've been drinking it somewhat regularly. Just a cup in the morning, made with the french press. I've been learning how to make a better brew, by letting the grounds "bloom" first - and it's been weirdly interesting to discover that there really is an art to everything.

But as we all know, art is highly subjective - as demonstrated in Redbook's November 1965 magazine article, "How To Perk Up Your Day With Coffee."

As you can see from the cover stories,
it's just one of MANY great finds in this issue.

The article starts out sane, explaining what roasting the beans does, how long one should allow coffee to percolate and so on ...

... but it's when the magazine goes into the specifics on how one can add touches that make coffee "a bit different" and what "foreign flavours" can bring an "elegant note" to the evening that things take a turn for the worse:

"... coffee with any or all of these: cinnamon sticks, allspice berries, whole cloves, orange peel, lemon peel or sliced oranges."

Hwwwhhahhgh.

Ok, so perhaps I just happen to be someone who really hates when orange flavours are put where nature never intended them - I'm talking to you, Terry's Chocolate Orange - but sliced oranges in coffee? Really?

"It's delightful! You should try it!" says some random crazy person on the Internet.

No, no. I'm going to try another of the magazine's suggested flavour combinations. Prepare to get your elegance on with a dessert that blends coffee with gelatine, peanut butter and - I shit you not - Marshmallow Fluff:

Fuck yeah.

You know when certain religious conservatives get all hysterical about "gay marriage" and start talking about a bizarro world where people can marry dogs and children can marry toasters? They really need not worry about it because the most brutal of combinations has already happened in the above recipe, and God hasn't smited (smitten? Smut? Yes! Smut!) us yet.

I'd like to thank the above recipe for giving me the excuse to do something I have ever done in my life, and that's buy / have Marshmallow Fluff.

I know somewhere in America there's a person connected to an air tank who cannot believe that someone's gone 33 years without Fluff, but it's a fact. I wasn't even sure if the grocery store carried it, but there it was among the ice cream condiments and cones. I'm almost scared to ask where in the store it's found in the US. Please don't say dairy aisle.

In buying this strange little product, I was also introduced to something totally new that I had never heard of; a Fluffernutter:

Fluffernutter: Product of USA.

Oh, we already figured that one out, Fluffernutter.

If I hadn't seen the picture, I would have thought it was something else, but thanks to the label, I take it that a Fluffernutter is marshmallow fluff and peanut butter, in bread. And this is what people eat? For lunch? At school? Why hasn't Michelle Obama mentioned this in, like, every single one of her speeches?

But what's truly sad is that Coffee Gelatine With Peanut Sauce is actually worse than a Fluffernutter, nutritionally (and, probably, spiritually). In each serving of a CGWPS is 1/2 cup of coffee, gelatine, 1.5 tablespoons of sugar, 1.5 tablespoons of peanut butter, 1.5 tablespoons of marshmallow creme, 1.5 tablespoons of milk, half a tablespoon of molasses, and a sprinkling of salt.

Hwwwhhahhgh.

And with that dry heave, let the cooking begin.

Oh Jesus Christ.

The coffee gelatin was easy enough to make. I don't have sorbet glasses, so these highball glasses will do.

In the meantime, I got the topping to look deceptively normal:

I've popped it all in the fridge to chill. I'll update this post with the final product once my ~~Guinea Byck~~ husband is home to try it out. Stay tuned!

UPDATE!

The dessert is complete and the Guinea Byck is standing by!

If you didn't know what was in it, I wouldn't call it a repulsive looking dish:

Since we're talking about an elegant dessert, it should no doubt be accompanied by candlelight, cloth napkin, and an eager gourmet!

Ok, maybe not so eager.

"What's in this, again?" the poor dear asked.

"Coffee. Gelatin. Peanut butter. Marshmallow. Sugar." I said.

"I like all those things," replied the sweet GB optimistically.

I steadied my camera to capture his first reaction.

"Wait. There isn't shrimp in this, is there?" he-with-the-shellfish-allergy asked.

Sigh.

"When has there ever been a dessert that had shrimp in it?" I yelped.

Iron Chef, replied the voice in my head. The voice in my head watches a lot of TV.

"You didn't answer my question," my husband said suspiciously.

"No. I promise, there is no shrimp in that," I sighed.

I held the camera again, ready to take a picture.

"So, do I just eat this, or start with the top or ...?"

"Whatever you want, dear," I said, realizing how rather stupid blogging is.

He put his spoon in and skimmed some of the topping and sniffed it. And then he put some in his mouth.

And then he had another bite. And another.

"Thoughts?" I asked.

"It's good," he said. I just don't get him sometimes.

"I can't finish it all right now, but I'll have the rest later! Don't throw it out!" said the strange man I married. He got up and kissed me on the cheek and I quickly learned of an immediate side effect of eating this dessert: seriously disastrous breath.

Poor GB.

But then I couldn't help it. I decided to become Guinea Byck #2 and give it a try.

I wish I could tell you the taste was a surprise that really did warrant a thumbs-up. It wasn't. It's like having cold, jellied coffee with a fuck-tonne of sweetened peanut butter.

It makes ... no sense.

None.

The topping and the gelatine don't compliment each other, they don't blend together - they are simply two awful things that just happen to coexist in the same container, like as if Josef Stalin and Naomi Campbell shared a limo.

You puzzle me, Redbook. You puzzle me.

It's Time To Invest In A Full-Length Mirror

2012-01-11T16:43:00.002-05:00

I just realized that I went to the grocery store wearing ankle-skimming palazzo pants, harlequin-adorned socks and Mary Jane slipper shoes. People probably thought I was an off-duty mime:

There should be a rule that the next time I dare to wear this combination, The Music Box Dancer should suddenly start playing, and I should have to twirl and skip around regardless of where I am at that moment.

Somedays, I Feel A Real Kinship With Homer Simpson

2012-01-09T19:15:00.001-05:00

Today I was working on the computer when I happened to look down and notice something on my thumb.

I freaked.

There on my thumbnail was a thick, bumpy, white-ish, yellow-ish, gnarled-looking growth. It was disgusting and surely fungal or viral and undoubtedly aggressive as I didn't think it had been there the day before.

I was afraid to touch it and somehow spread what was happening, so gingerly covered the gross appendage with a Kleenex and went to everyone's favourite alarmist website, Web MD:

Ugh. Fungi. Viruses. Warts. Cysts. The barfy possibilities were endless.

I unwrapped my thumb to get a closer look. It had all the symptoms of all of the things Web MD had listed. Oh, how humiliating. I kept thinking about the meeting I have to go to tomorrow and whether I could get away with wrapping the thumbnail in a band-aid and tell some elaborate story about how I nearly cut my thumb off cooking dinner. There was no way I was going to parade its sickly hideousness out in public.

I wondered if the nail bed underneath it had already died or if there was a chance of saving it. Carefully, I took a pair of tweezers and ever-so-cautiously picked at the gnarled bark covering my nail. It lifted easily and exposed a perfectly healthy, normal patch of thumbnail. And then the part that I lifted flaked off.

I yelped. And then I bravely inspected it closer.

And that's when I realized it.

It was melted cheese.

How Many Tacos Will This Buy Me In Heaven?

2012-01-06T14:04:00.001-05:00

I received this in the mail today from someone who reads my blog:

Um, thanks?

I will say, however, that it sure beats the email I received a month ago from someone who attached a copy of her TV cable bill and asked if I wouldn't mind paying it "as a way of saying thank you for being a blog reader". Yes, that's right, I should be paying you to read this blog (that is, when you're not watching TV, of course!). What's more, the "fan" suggested that I surely must have "come into wealth" from all the traffic on this website, much of which she feels she contributed to by "posting the 50s experiment on Facebook".

Guys, the only profit that I've directly reaped from his blog is pictured above: a Seven Dollar Jesus Bill - and I'm pretty sure I can't even redeem that until I've a) accepted Him as my Lord and Saviour; and b) died.

You know, if this is what I receive, it really makes you wonder about the kind of mail Oprah gets. Just take a minute and picture it.

Wow.

Pinplement

2012-01-05T09:07:00.002-05:00

Pinplemented!
(not "Purplemented" as it kind of appears.)

I'm making up a new word:

Pinplement
pin-ple-ment v. pin-pluh-ment
verb
To create, buy, do, or otherwise actualize the things you pin on Pinterest.

I really love Pinterest, but I've quickly realized that I've been pinning and pinning stuff rather than actually doing or making these things that I'm so charmed by.

And so it should come as no surprise to those who regularly read this blog that the first thing I decided to pinplement was a recipe: lemon poppyseed pancakes.

This was the pin, originally from the website, Picky Cook:

And this was the pinplementation:

Not as pretty, but yay!

It was the world's smallest batch of pancakes as Patrick wasn't interested in having any (I just don't get him sometimes), and I really didn't need a load of them, so that's all I made; three little pancakes (that's a bread plate they're on, not a dinner plate).

Making such a small amount sort of felt like that scene in Bridesmaids where Kristen Wiig creates that single, elaborate cupcake; the only difference is that I didn't eat what I made as glumly as she did.

Fact: Never in my life have I ever eaten something glumly - not even the food at a funeral.

Wow. Congratulations, Jen. After all, who could ever wallow in sadness when finger sandwiches* and date squares* are around.

* The Official Refreshments of Funerals since 1894.

Yes. Exactly. Exactly.

Where was I? Oh, right: Lemon poppyseed pancakes. Did these differ much from regular pancakes? Not really. Just a tad crunchier, as if I was eating pancakes with flavourless roe baked into them. But that's not really the point. The point is this: Hurrah for doing something and not just pathetically staring at things that other people on the Internet have done.

... Ooh. I hope that last sentence didn't make you feel awkward, People of the Internet. You're not the pathetic ones - I was totally talking about myself and those other weirdos out there. Every second you spend on this blog actually makes you cooler. It's a fact.

Oh, God. Please don't ever leave me, People of the Internet. I need you.

Good Morning, Good Morning To Yoooooou

2012-01-04T08:24:00.001-05:00

I'm still kinda feeling flu-y, so I've been conking out early each evening. Last night Patrick assured me, "don't worry about it. You need your sleep. I'll do the dishes tonight."

And this is what I awoke to:

Patrick's idea of doing dishes usually involves stacking dirty dishes next to the dishwasher, filling up the pots and bowls with hot water, dumping some utensils into said pots or bowls, and then promptly walking away. The dishes are done, man.

God, he's lucky he's cute.

The Only Thing Missing is a Never-ending Discovery of Miniature, Flattened Cat Bodies

2012-01-02T13:12:00.003-05:00

From the Hoarders-inspired art series, Barbie Trashes Her Dreamhouse, by Carrie M. Becker.

My life will be complete if she creates a miniature version of a stockpiling room from Extreme Couponing.

Wishing You A Happy New Year From Jabba's Barge

2011-12-31T14:23:00.000-05:00

I'm still gross and sick, so I'm spending the bulk of my time laying down while sniffling, hacking, consuming liquids, and having impromptu, drool-heavy naps. This activity, combined with my slug-like physique, has led me to dub the platform bed that I'm conducting this important business from as "Jabba's Barge". Maybe it's the Buckley's, but this all seems like a pretty accurate reflection of what's happening in my room right now (except instead of demanding the death of Han Solo, I'm simply satisfied with orange juice and Jane Austen films. That, and Patrick no longer fits into the metal bikini):

Sadly, this is how I'm going to be spending New Year's Eve this year: out with a pathetic gurgle.

Hopefully your New Year's Eve is more fun than that and that 2012 is your best year ever!

Thanks for reading the blog and I hope to see you next year! U kalle rah doe kankee kung!

I'm Home, I Have a Horrible Cold ...

2011-12-30T14:02:00.000-05:00

... and the only reasonable way to deal with it is to lie in bed, drink orange juice and watch this:

Ah, Mr. Darcy. Is there anything that isn't made better by you?

Do They Know It's Boxing Day?

2011-12-26T02:08:00.001-05:00

Greetings from San Sebastian, Spain!

Today is our last full day here before we ship off to Barcelona, so we hope to make it a good one. The plan is to take a look at the city from atop a great hill (that can mercifully be reached by some kind of pull car. Señorita Fatty here has been assured of this), eat pintxos, drink Getariako Txakolina, and perhaps pick up a few deals on some cute plates I saw for my next home décor project.

Yesterday was Christmas and it didn't feel particularly Christmas-y, but it was still great as it was spent with family: Patrick, my sister, my brother-in-law, and my parents. Awesome, no? As most of the shops and restaurants were closed, we spent the day exchanging little gifts, having mimosas (with real champagne, n'est pas), watching Apple TV movies, playing cards, eating chocolate and going on little walks.

A Christmas gift to my well-travelled dad (who refers to himself as "Uncle Travelling Matt" now and again) from his Muppet-obsessed daughters:

Mel and Ben with treats from Canada:

My pretty mother, modelling her new necklace - all before she had a chance to put on make-up and do her hair (but isn't she still lovely?):

My handsome husband, modelling his new beard (picture was also taken before he had a chance to put on make-up):

My sister and I are crazy in love. I act like posing with one's fist on her hip is somehow natural:

My whole family in San Seb on Christmas Day:

You see how we're all in coats? The weather here is nice, but, like, mild-September-day-nice to put it into a Canadian context. Still totally pleasant - but you can just imagine how crazyballs amazing the place probably would be in warm weather. Dreamy!

Blue skies, old buildings:

It was the birthday of the dude on top of that hill ....

... but we didn't go into one of these to celebrate it:

Rather, we went to a holy place more our style (my mom's maiden name is "Martinez", so this shot is perfect as at wilder points in our lives, "Bar" was each of our middle names, too):

Homemade vin chaud and playing a very classy, strategic, intellectually-challenging game from our childhood:

Hope your Christmas (however you celebrate or don't celebrate it) was happy and healthy!

Chat soon!

Paris Does Everything Better

2011-12-24T00:37:00.001-05:00

This blog post is about Paris even though I'm in Spain now; that's partially because my first day in Spain was spent feeling sick and napping and pooping and basically acting like a miserable cow. I think it's my body's way of expressing that it's angry to have left France. I keep telling myself that, because the likely reality that I just can't drink wine and eat cheese like I used to is too sad to accept.

But anyway - Paris!

Even though it isn't snowy, being in the city around the Christmas season has been pretty cool as we've experienced different aspects of Paris we hadn't witnessed before. For example, they have these Christmas villages (Festival Noel) set up all over the place that sell cheap gifts and serve what is the Parisian version of carnival food.

You know how at North American carnivals, everything wrong in the world is combined, cooked in grease and then hilariously called "food"? The Parisian version is like this except made by people who understand the concept of shame. It's still "junk food", it just isn't filled with such obvious self-hatred. For example, the thing that we would call a "cheesedog" at the fair, in France consists of a fresh baguette and a sausage that has been smeared with dijon mustard and topped with melted brie.

Mouthgasm.

I wish I had pictures. We forgot our camera's USB cord at home - but here are some pics from other people on the Internet:

These are all from Soundlandscape's Blog:

Vin chaud! A very tasty hot wine that tastes quite a bit like sangria if you served it piping hot:

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire:

Can you imagine anyone at a country fair serving deep friend Mars bars in a chef's outfit?:

A booth:

The festival isn't the only thing the French do better - they also do 1950s Christmas tackiness better than us.

For example, take a look at this fantastically bizarre "spray tree" from the December 1957 Better Homes & Gardens:

Now take a look at what you can find in Paris - the same idea but in a glorious, over-the-top red!

From Art Girl's Guide to Paris

Le swoon.

We are now in San Sebastián, Spain - the Basque region known as a foodie and party capital of the world. The streets are filled with restaurants that specialize in pintxo, little tapas of every fantastic variety. I cannot speak the language at all, so there will be lots of grunting and gesturing toward things I want to eat. In other words, I'll be acting as I normally do.

Ciao for now!

Things You Should Know About French Fashion

2011-12-22T23:06:00.002-05:00

Image source:
http://easyfashion.blogspot.com/

Everyone (men and women) knows how to wear a scarf. It is never lazily tied in a knot in front of your neck, like how yours truly dares to venture out into the world. It is expertly draped in ways that look effortless but aren't - should you be a North American trying to recreate the look.
They hem their pants. If you see a scuffed pant leg, it is a sure sign the person is either homeless or a tourist.
Unless they're wearing a sweater and jeans, you can bet the outfit has been seen by a tailor. "Why wear something that isn't for me?" is the rationale de nationale.
The final touch to the perfect, tailored, well-thought Parisian ensemble is to urinate in it. That's the only explanation I can come up with for the persistent (and I mean persistent; from every Metro station to the most Jesus-y corners of the Louvre) waft of eau de peepee that I kept smelling everywhere I went. I figure wetting yourself is like tucking a carnation into your jacket lapel - it's the extra touch of effort that gets one noticed.

La Vie Ne Suce Pas (Or Something Like That)

2011-12-20T02:11:00.000-05:00

It's not the most amazing or flattering picture of Patrick and I, but what's fantastic about it is that it was taken yesterday in this city on top of this thing:

It's early in the morning here now, but the day is already filled with promises of pain au chocolat, a visit with Mona Lisa, and many, many glasses of stupidly affordable champagne.

Wee!

And I Would Do Anything For Love ...

2011-12-15T12:51:00.000-05:00

I'd run right into hell and back.

I would do anything for love,

I'll never lie to you and that's a fact.

But I'll never forget the way you feel right now,

Oh no, no way.

And I would do anything for love,

Oh I would do anything for love,

I would do anything for love,

But I won't do that:

No, I won't do that:

Image Source: Betty Crocker fruitcake ad (back cover of Woman's Day, December 1957)

Our Half-Assed 1950s Christmas & Why I'm Going to Ohio Next Year

2011-12-14T12:34:00.001-05:00

Of all the places in the world that are on my travel wishlist, I can't pretend Columbus, Ohio was included - until now. Thanks to my Twitter friend Jodi, I've just learned that this fall the Ohio Historical Foundation plans to unveil a fully functional, totally authentic, super dreamy 1950s home as part of a project to educate people on how Ohioans lived in that decade. I have a feeling that if I walked into this, I'd go into full-blown 50s Housewife Experiment mode faster than you can say "sleeper cell":

Roadtrip?

But that's nearly a year away ... what am I up to now? Getting out the holiday decorations, of course! As you might recall, we did a 1950s Christmas last year, so I was all jazzed to break out the vintage and vintage-inspired holiday décor again this year.

Alas, a small and very gross-looking problem was revealed when I took out the paper garland:

When you're sliding into first and you feel something burst ...

Blarf. Perhaps someone out there who has more than a foggy Grade 11 understanding of chemistry can help explain this, but it seems like the glue holding the white pieces of crepe paper together oxidized (?) into a most unfortunate colour. And since the song does not say "deck the halls with boughs of shit stains", I decided not to use these. To quote The Great and Powerful Snooki: Waaah.

Thankfully, my darling aluminium (or aluminum - as spelled on the packaging) tree and mercury glass ornaments appeared free of anything that could be interpreted as a bodily secretion:

We rearranged the furniture so that I could put the vintage Christmas tree in the window as to ensure the neighbours knew that we were the weirdos on the block. Mission accomplished:

And with the colour wheel and rotating stand flipped on, it just gets better and better. Every time I turn those on, this song goes off in my head. Camp-a-rific!:

(You can see the tree in motion in this nerdtacular video I created last year.)

Our Putz village, compliments of the workers in "Occupied Japan", also made a reappearance. I should really get some white-wired lights instead of these green-wired ones; it sort of looks like my village is surrounded by festive barbed wire. Ah well, but I like it all the same:

And besides that stuff and a few vintage angels and a bottle-brush tree strewn about here and there, that's the extent of my holiday decorating.

Meh?

Well - I'll probably do a bit more for our big dinner on Saturday, but I can't say I'll bother with this interesting find from the December 1957 issue of Better Homes and Gardens:

Nothing says "happy birthday, Baby Jesus" like a pineapple made of newspaper. Or a flaming turkey ushered in with a song. Or a flaming cabbage at a cocktail party. Ah, the things you learn.

A Holiday Suggestion for the Hysterical

2011-12-13T15:39:00.001-05:00

If you're one of those people who believes there is a war on Christmas going on (to which my usual reply is either tackling a Christmas tree or waterboarding anyone with a manger on their yard), I found an ad in my December 1969 Woman's Day magazine that should help you out.

All you need to do is emerge from the kitchen with this flaming turkey in your hands on Christmas Day, and I assure you, you will hear shouts of "Jesus!" and "Oh, Christ!" and perhaps even "Call a priest!":

Brought to you by everyone's favourite gourmet, Wrigley's Spearment Gum.

Hallelujah!

I'll understand if you want to skip the suggestion of singing "Happy Turkey" to the tune of "Happy Birthday" as suggested in the ad; but I'll also respect your beliefs if The Flaming Turkey Song quickly becomes a cherished family tradition as well. The bird, after all, did die for us.

My Somewhat-Sexist-1950s-Inspired-Home-Décor Theory

2011-12-07T21:06:00.000-05:00

When we bought our home this summer, I was really excited to ~~get to clean two bathrooms instead of just one~~ decorate and buy some new furniture. I had the same IKEA couch for 11 years, and while it was fine and will continue to labour under our asses for years to come in the basement, I really, really wanted something new for our furniture-less front room. And so, like everyone in North America who has a vagina and way too much time on her hands, I got all obsessed with Pinterest and pawing the Internet for ideas.

But the things that really got me thinking were my 1950s materials. It wasn't the specific design suggestions that got my old noggin thumping, but the way everything in the magazines seemed to point out whether something was masculine or feminine. Boy things and girl things were clearly defined - even when it came to food (remember the post from the 50s Housewife Experiment that talked about making meals for husbands with "masculine tastes"?). As you can imagine, home décor choices were discussed in a similar way. In fact, one article I read in The Bride's Reference Book titled "The Masculine Bill of Rights" specifically lays out what men like in home furnishings and advises women not to get too carried away with "feminine" details. Like so:

A man needs furniture large enough to accommodate his binge drinking.

Clearly, this advice to respect the Masculine Bill of Rights fell onto deaf ears for some. Here's a 1955 ad from Armstrong that features pink linoleum floors, a pink rug, pink walls, pink curtains, pink canopy beds (two of 'em!), and pink furniture that might have you wonder if a giant Barbie was about to walk through the door:

The picture above is why articles like "The Masculine Bill of Rights" were written. And maybe those articles worked because we don't see ads or rooms that are that unabashedly girly anymore. That is, unless it belongs to a little girl with a princess-obsession. But an adult woman? Or a married couple? As if.

While we still identify some décor items as feminine or masculine, I think a lot of everyday people (or maybe just me?) try to appease everyone in their home by turning to items that feel gender neutral. We don't go for those "feminine" prints or pieces because we worry they'll look childish or silly - as if we haven't outgrown our little princess ways. Or we worry that by having something "girly", even something small, we will somehow upset our male partners - as if a simple floral bedspread could make a man uncomfortable.

But the problem with gender neutral décor is that it's often really, really boring. Unless it's a super fun and eccentric piece that defies gender, it can come across rather personality-less. This doesn't mean that it's not nice looking, it's just ... rather forgettable. You can see what I mean when you look at the pictures of our condo:

Yes, part of the blandness is the never-ending IKEA, but the neutrality of the place also lent to the whole 'meh' factor. In looking back at those pictures, I found that the ones I liked best were the ones that had rooms with flowers - a nice unmistakably feminine touch.

And so when we were creating the room in our new home, I specifically went for things that struck me as masculine or feminine. It needed a him or a her-ness to it. Eventually, we pulled the place together. Our couch reminded me of a nicely tailored men's suit. The curtains are bold yet undeniably feminine. The teak coffee table is simple, but definitely on the butch side. And our area rug is like a woman's colourful makeup palette. (I had a naughty 'rug' joke lined up there but decided to take that high road I keep hearing about. I just want you to know that.) I should probably change the lampshades to something with more colour and I realize I need to fill our bookcases in a more appealing way (it feels rather lacking) - but I love the direction it's going! It all looks way nicer when the sun is shining in, but here are some pics:

And you know who pointed out the rug to me in the store? Patrick. Because it turns out that if you have a nice balance of things (respecting that whole Masculine and Feminine Bill of Rights), dudes balls don't actually shrivel up around pretty stuff. In fact, they really quite admire it.

If I get my act in gear, next post will have some pics with our Christmas stuff up. You just know that aluminium tree is making a return appearance.

In the meantime, tell me about your home décor theories and practices!

35 Facts About My Parents That I'm Going To Share With The Internet Whether They Like It Or Not (Because They're Not The Boss Of Me Anymore)

2011-12-03T21:45:00.005-05:00

35. It's my parents' 35th wedding anniversary today!
34. My mom's name is Marie-Paule, but she just goes by Marie to appease the anglophones of Alberta.
33. My father's name is Joe, he has always gone by Joe, even though in his high school yearbook he's referred to as "Joey". He claims he has no idea why someone would have written that.
32. In my mom's high school yearbook, she was given the nickname "Lips". She claims it's because she has big lips, but we all know that isn't true.
31. I mean, this is what she looked like back then. You just know she was beating the boys off:

30. With a stick. WITH A STICK, you sickos.
29. But surely my dad was quite the catch, too:

28. Uh ... anyway ... they got married in a tiny ceremony at city hall. They had a party at their home afterwards.
27. The bride was 19. She wore a white dress and gigantic glasses.
26. The groom was 26. He wore a velvet clip-on bow tie.
25: See for yourself:

24. It was the 70s.
23. Evidence:

22. They lived in a town that looks like what every American thinks of when they think of Canada:

21. Back then, they did weird things for fun:

20. And wore a lot of short shorts with sandals with other people who wore short shorts and sandals:

19. But then after a couple of years, they ruined it all:

18. Parenting did not always come naturally:

17. But despite that, they decided to have another kid and this weirdo showed up:

16. And because no one used sunscreen back then, their older child turned into a little Mexican. The couch stayed the same:

15. See - no sunscreen!

14. It got to the point that the little Mexican eventually turned into a small Indian woman. And the couch still stayed the same:

13. They celebrated many Christmases together and styled their children's hair into festive mullets during the winter months to make up for their lack of ethnically-confusing suntans:

12. Now that the family had conquered style, Marie decided to finally get a new couch. Actually, she just reupholstered the old ugly one. This was right around the time the eldest child's looks peaked and she started to look Italian, while the younger one had turned into a boy:

11. But Marie and Joe kept up the glamour; Marie with a can of hairspray a day and Joe with his promise to not let his beard get all "I-am-the-leader-of-a-cult" again ...

10. ... like it had been in the '80s:

9. And Joe and Marie kept on living it up with things like curling at MacDonald Island, hanging out with their friends, and working at companies that make Al Gore cry.
8. Eventually their children grew up and moved away and Marie and Joe ~~had nothing left to live for~~ celebrated this by moving into a whole bunch of houses - first to Edmonton, then to Saskatoon, and finally settling in Okotoks.
7. They've retired and now do lots of travelling, especially to areas of the world that allow them to let it all hang out:

6. But when they're home they like to do the very opposite of what I like to do, and that's go outside and not eat. They especially like it if this outdoorsy-ness involves hiking up the side of a mountain:

5. But they also do things that I can relate to:

4. And during all this time and despite all the challenges - like cancer, stresses of raising a family, 80s fashion experiments, and jerk children who spill family stories on the Internet ~~like the time Marie went nuts and threw out ALL of the children's toys~~ - they actually still seem to like each other.
3. You can even see it in other people's wedding pictures:

2. They are such a nice couple and such nice people that even when their silly children talk to each other on Skype they say things like, "how cute are Mom and Dad?" and "I love how they're still in love" and "they really showed us what good marriage was" and "I can't believe how lucky we were to have them as parents". It gets even more mushier and smooshier than that if one or both of the children has been drinking.
1. Everybody who knows them, and even some of the people who don't (right, Internet?), wish them a very happy 35 years of marriage and many, many more happy years together.

We love you.

I Am Incredibly Immature

2011-12-02T00:02:00.000-05:00

Should I "Daddy Disclaimer" this?

Presuming you know what tops and bottoms are when it comes to sexual lingo, maybe this little tiny snippet from the claymation classic, Santa Claus is Comin' to Town - that I ended at just the right time - will never be viewed quite the same way again. Or maybe you'll just never view me in quite the same way again. It's the risk I take.

I couldn't resist. Jr. High humour never really dies:

Old-ish Songs That Should Enter More Earholes

2011-11-29T15:12:00.002-05:00

You know how you sometimes have to play a tune a couple times before it will snag onto you? I feel like each of these are love at first listen. How is it these songs weren't hugely popular? They're so hit-worthy it hurts!

So let's correct that, shall we?

I'm a bit biased on this one as I pretty much love everything Buddy Holly ever did. For some weirdo reason, "Heartbeat" only reached #82 in the charts in 1958:

I've been crapping my pants about this song since I heard it four years ago, telling pretty much everyone I meet that they should listen to it. It was recorded in 1968 and never made it on the charts. A little while ago I heard it in that weird Seth Rogen mall cop movie and felt like I should have gotten credit for it somehow. The song, not the movie. Totally not the movie:

This song did alright - reaching #5 in 1968 - but seems to have been rather forgotten unless you're already a Donovan fan. My poor old roommate Will would barf if he found out I still listen to this one as I used to put this song on every.single.day when we lived together. And speaking of crazy, is it just me or does young Donovan kind of remind you of Kristen Stewart?:

I love Terry Callier's voice. It's kind of Hendrix-y, no? This track didn't make a blip on the charts when it was released in 1973. Pity.

I think this is one of the best We're-Probably-Going-To-Break-Up songs ever. It reached #9 in 1985, which is great, but it was dwarfed by The Boss's other better-known hits:

Share your favourite underappreciated songs!

Fill in the Blank

2011-11-28T00:00:00.001-05:00

The kisses featured on TLC's Virgin Diaries look like ________________________________.

A) A mother bird feeding a baby bird.
B) An incompetent zombie trying to gum someone, face first.
C) You. Summer camp. 1992.
D) None of the above. Write your own answer in the comments!

Peppermint Patty Is Not Amused

2011-11-25T08:37:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I told Patrick that I was going to make something very special and rather traditional on account of American Thanksgiving. I assured him the meal would be not be from one of the vintage Thanksgiving recipes, so he was fairly pumped. Correction: VERY pumped.

He knew something weird was up when he arrived home and I was playing jazz music.

(This is only the tip of the iceberg of how funny and clever I think I am. It's sickening, really.)

Patrick enjoyed it, sort of.

Until ...

"Okay, Okay ... so what are we really having for dinner?" he said after indulging in my silliness for about a minute.

"This is it. I didn't make anything else," I said.

"Are you kidding me? This isn't a real meal."

"Patrick - be grateful. It's American Thanksgiving and I clearly slaved all day to make this," said Mrs. Laugh Riot.

I was too busy enjoying my shit-eating grin to take a picture of his reaction. He refused to "recreate" his expression, but this is pretty much exactly what he looked like:

And then, through the magic of MS Paint, I can show you what Peppermint Patrick did immediately after that:

Wait, That Was Real?

2011-11-24T11:33:00.000-05:00

Do any of you remember this clip from Sesame Street about a flea circus?

Did you know that flea circuses were real? Sadly, they didn't raise flags or light canons, but they did push miniature carts around and got everyone feeling itchy. In the second one, the fleas also bring to life a merry-go-round and roll a ball:

Grody.

Flash Mob Jr.

2011-11-23T17:38:00.000-05:00

Today I was in the backyard when I noticed a kid - maybe six-years old (or maybe 15, I have no frickin' idea) watching me from the side walk out front. What do you do in those instance? Smile? Wave? Offer them ribbon candy?

I chose to not be creepy and just ignore.

Eventually, the kid pulls out an iPhone (seriously?) and is typing away on it, but still standing there. And then, suddenly, there are TWO kids standing at the side walk peering in. And then THREE. Three kids perched at the end of my property, staring in like vultures. Is it pathetic that I felt scared? By kids wearing Cars backpacks?

Based on their gestures to each other, I figured out what had caught their interest. It wasn't me so much (er, rather, at all), but what I was making in the backyard:

With three trees and no raking until this point in the season, I had just created the motherload of leaf piles.

And those little shits wanted to jump in it.

So, naturally, even though I wasn't done raking, I started stuffing the leaves into craft bags and then locked them in my shed like some kind of miser.

That makes me the weird old lady on the street, doesn't it? Do I get an award or something? Can it be pepper spray?

American Thanksgiving: 1940s, 1950s & 1960s Editions

2011-11-22T15:38:00.004-05:00

We've already had Thanksgiving here in Canada, on account of ~~us having thought of it first~~ our earlier harvest, but since most of this blog's readers are American, I figured I'd share some Thanksgiving menu ideas from my vintage magazines. Maybe it will give you ideas of what you'd like to serve this holiday should you be in the mood to mix things up. While it's true that Thanksgiving dinners haven't really changed all that much in the years, it's still fun to find those little nuances in meal planning and the treatment of Thanksgiving from decades past.

For example, in my November 1942 Ladies' Home Journal, writer Ann Batchelder says:

This year is slipping out of its green binding and getting a new edition ready in brown covers with silver tooling. It's a great comfort to know that no matter how things are in this hectic and confused world, we still have a Day. Let other days come and go and do as they will. We have this Day - with a capital D - a Day set aside from a long time ago for being thankful. Thankful for what? Why, for more than the harvest home, more than the corn in the cribs and the hay in the lofts, for the pumpkin pies and turkeys, for the crocks of pickles and bins of apples and barrels of cider. We have a heritage to give thanks for. We have America. Let's be thankful!

Swoon.

Compare this to what I imagine is the modern ode to Thanksgiving:

BACON-WRAPPED TURKEY! OM-NOM-NOM!

Yep. The classy generation, we are not.

So, on with the show!

The first is from the magazine I mentioned above, circa November 1942. Isn't the cover just positively dreamy?

And here's the spread:

And the menu:

And a recipe page:

So ... you know how I just said that Thanksgiving dinner hasn't changed that much over the years? Maybe I was wrong. What the hell is this stuff? Grapefruit-Apricot Salad (all from a can)? Hard-Sauce Balls? Deviled Crackers? But the menu does get a big ooh-la-la for the Oyster Cocktail. I'm also quite charmed by the Victory Cranberry Sauce - it's a nice attempt to lift the moral of a condiment when sugar wasn't as available due to wartime rationing. Victory is a tad tart, it seems.

Let's jump ahead to the 1950s. I found two Thanksgiving spreads. The first is from the November 1952 issue of Today's Woman (you can actually see the cover in my pic from the 50s Housewife Experiment - it's the red magazine):

And there's two menus, based on your kitchen size (how thoughtful!):

I'm feeling lazy and haven't taken pics of the recipes (eight pages of them ... so much clicking) - so unless someone out there is really, really dying to know how to make Molded Mincemeat Salad (and if you are such a disturbed individual, let me know in the comments), you'll just have to use your imagination with these.

Next, the November 1956 issue of Woman's Day, which has this unfortunate cover:

Ugh.

Anyway ... here's dinner! Doesn't this couple look dapper? And I love the colour of their hutch in the background!

Here's a close-up of the meal. Much of it seems normal to me ... except for the pineapple (surely harvested from America's heartland) and the heaping plate of carrot and celery sticks ...

Here's the menu and recipes for this 1950s Thanksgiving meal:

On the whole, nothing too crazy, no?

So - onto 1961. Here's Woman's Day November 1961 cover:

Nice.

And the Thanksgiving spread:

Whatever they have around the turkey looks pretty repulsive. What is that? From this close-up and from the process of elimination of the menu, it appears to be Onion-stuffed Onions. Jean-Claude Van Damme that is awful:

And the recipes, should you lose your mind and want to make these:

So what can we say about Thanksgiving in the 1940s, 1950s and 1960s compared to now?

There was more mincemeat on the menu then.
There was no aversion to using the word "giblet" (my spellcheck doesn't even identify it).
I'm pretty sure none of those grapes got eaten.
Food stylists really do make a difference.
ETA thanks to BloggerBride's comment!: Check out the size of the 1942 turkey to the 1961 turkey! Roids or Factory Farming Gone Wild?
How cool is the name "Preble Bailey" (from the 1956 spread)? Do you think it's pronounced PREB-lee or PREH-bull? Or something else? I think Bambi Jesus and Nutella HotDog Byck officially have a challenger!

What are you making (or made) for Thanksgiving? Any passed-down family recipes?

Does This Mean We're Safe? Maybe Not.

2011-11-21T13:56:00.001-05:00

Because I'm a boring self-obsessed hag, I like to now and again peruse my web stats and traffic. By "now and again", I of course mean obsessively and several times a day.

Well, remember when I posted how someone from the Department of Homeland Security was reading my blog for a few hours? It turns out that their counterparts on the other side of the border like to do the same:

They even goof on my site for the same amount of time! This particular person from the Department of National Defence came here looking to learn how to create a 1950s Christmas, which I gotta say is pretty adorable of them (and I cannot wait to get my aluminium tree up again this year!).

But you know what's not so adorable? That the Department of National Defence uses Internet Explorer. And not even the new version. Oh my ever-loving Pappa Smurf, WTF. We're doomed. DOOMED!

Songworms!

2011-11-18T16:16:00.002-05:00

I've had a bunch of music stuck in my head this week and it's only fair that I infect you with these too (sure beats the other things I could have infected you with, right?). As you'll see, my subconscious brain is a touch spastic in its musical interests.

??? My enjoyment of this song comes from the same strange place in my brain that inexplicably adores The Duggars:

(This is my friend Ken's band)

I'll leave it at that, as the last one is appropriate for a Friday. Happy weekend.

Head Games

2011-11-16T11:46:00.001-05:00

Are you someone who occasionally watches television that hasn't been Tivo'd and want to find an alternative to mindless eating when the commercials are on?

My new favourite game is to mentally replace the word "hair" with the word "penis" whenever a shampoo or dye ad is on the TV. I find it especially entertaining when the commercials talk about all of us girls being "tired of weak, limp hair" in which we need a shampoo that "coats the hair shaft from root to tip."

Just look at how much fun these new and old commercials become when you use the power of your dirty, childish brain:

You're welcome.

Vintage Nail Ads Again Prove That Nothing We Do Is Original

2011-11-14T13:12:00.004-05:00

Remember that gross pointy nail trend that had women everywhere silently wondering how Fergie was able to masturbate safely? It turns out The Dutchess didn't invent the tapered talon look - your Grandma did.

I was flipping through some 1943 Ladies' Home Journals when I came across this ad from Cutex:

Yep, should the vivacious Mrs. Stringer take a break from washing dishes, I suspect those claws could totally do some damage to her lady bits.

I found an even more extreme example of the tapered nail on another page. Admittedly, this is an artist's rendering of nails - exotic "Oriental" nails at that - so I have serious doubts that anyone outside of The King and I theatre productions were sporting these in the 1940s. But what's even more surprising? Look at the colours available! Green Dragon? Blue Lagoon? Ming Yellow? Black Luster? Who knew Chen Yu had essie beat by a good 40 years?

Edit: I have no idea why the ad is appearing sideways?! Blogger is being a weirdo. Here's a right-side-up close-up of the nails and colours I mentioned:

Neat, huh?

The Generation Gap

2011-11-11T15:11:00.001-05:00

It's Remembrance Day and hopefully you've used this as an opportunity to reflect on the wars of our past, the sacrifices of veterans, and what we have to be thankful for. November 11th (and every day, really!) also presents us the opportunity to think about the struggles going on today and what we can do to make the world a more peaceful place.

In reflection of World War II and the rebuilding process of Europe, Eleanor Roosevelt said in 1950:

I, personally, am not for rearming Germany, but I am for giving her every opportunity to get back on her feet in an economic way and to trade with the rest of the world so she will not have to depend on trade with the eastern part of Europe.

It is true that, given a free hand, Germany by its ability and industry may again dominate the economic situation in Europe. That, without military power, is not a catastrophe.

I think it is essential that we help her to regain economic stability and a sense of pride in her citizenship, for no one can live happily under constant humiliation. If we want Germany to understand democracy we must realize that it has to be demonstrated over a long period of years. She has never had democracy except for a short time and her people have never understood the processes of democracy or the individual responsibility entailed.

And I think we can all agree that this attitude (and economic and political actions) led to a beneficial and healthy relationship between the world and The-Once-Biggest-Bad-Ever, Germany, yes?

While our conflicts today are different (and in some ways not), compare the attitude above with the words of another woman in the political arena right now:

Sweet Cheesus.

Yeah, that's the ticket to creating peaceful relations and pro-America, pro-democracy sentiments: send a bill to a traumatized, vulnerable, volatile country that you went into under false pretences. Sounds like a winner of an idea to me. Hey, while she's at it, maybe Michelle Bachmann can track down the people who were liberated from concentration camps in WWII and see if they can pick up some of that military tab, too.

Le sigh.

It's important to think about these things, reflect on what history has shown, and to compare approaches. Because if we truly want to de-escalate violence and foster democracy, it's really not about withdrawing troops - it's about what you do after they've come home.

An Entirely Inappropriate Homage

2011-11-09T18:22:00.001-05:00

So long, Bil Keane. Thanks for the supremely wholesome laughs. That, and naming the dog "Barfy".

Image Source: The Other Family (a warning - it is bad. Like baaaaaaad).

This Is Why You And Your Husband Don't Have Sex Anymore

2011-11-08T11:37:00.002-05:00

Edited to Add: If you can't see the embedded video, you can watch it here.

I Can't Imagine Walter Cronkite Doing That (And I Won't Try To Either)

2011-11-07T22:46:00.002-05:00

Watch the whole thing. Pay special attention to his right hand. Those are your orders.

As seen on The Soup.

Further Proof I Might Not Be Cut Out For Parenthood

2011-11-04T15:34:00.002-04:00

So you know how I was all I Am Childfree, Hear Me Roar (and Then Smugly Sleep In Late In A Bed Stuffed With Disposable Income) in my last post? Well, despite all that, I still like to indulge in the very fun pastime of coming up with kid names now and then. Yep, I'm the worst. THE. WORST.

Even though we don't know if we want to have children, can you all please respect that I've called dibs on a name? The inspiration came to us from an email found in my spam folder - and, I think you'll agree, it's simply the best name ever:

Bambi Jesus Byck. Or "BJ" Byck for short.

It is perfection and it's overtaken my previous choice - a name comprised of our favourite things: Nutella HotDog Byck (or "Nut Weiner Dick" as he / she would surely be called on the playground).

I Get That I Don't Get It, So Get Off It

2011-11-02T16:34:00.004-04:00

Recently there was an article posted on Jezebel titled, "Oops, I Must Have Been Too Busy Bitching About Not Getting Any Sleep to Mention How Great My Kid Is." by Tracy Moore. The piece (which is conversational, light-hearted and an easy read, so go munch on it for a minute) is largely a response to a conversation she had with a childless co-worker, who, upon listening to the writer complain about some truly heinous child-related sleep deprivation, commented, "Whoa man, you make it sound like your baby ruined your life."

The article goes on to explain that she wishes all of us childless people could simply grasp the awesomeness of parenthood and how, while it's not always a ray of sunshine - in fact, far from it on some days -, that there's something just so marshmagically delicious about babies and being the proud maker of one, that we just can't possibly "get it" if we've never had a child of our own.

Uggghhhh.

You know, I get it. I get it that I don't get it.

I can quite plainly observe friends and family members who find their social lives radically altered, are elbow-deep in the grossest of bodily fluids (some of which aren't even their own!), who come over for a little break and end up sitting on my couch uncontrollably crying (and that's the dads!), who are on the verge of losing their minds over a kid who refuses to sleep more than an hour at a time, who see money spraying out of their bank accounts - like the projectile vomit they have become so accustomed to - on new furniture, clothes and daycare, and who have confided in me that they have moments where they just want to lock their toddler in the room, leave the house, and get wasted in the middle of the afternoon.

But you know what I also observe? That many these same people go and have another baby! Or light up when they see a picture of their kid. Or sit there with a truly enamoured smile long after they've finished telling you a story about their child.

So even though I am an ignorant, childless heifer (though I prefer "childfree" heifer), I understand that there's something - something huge and verging on magical - that counters all the shitty, horrible things about having a kid. It is the "it". "It" is the thing that is more powerful than logic or memory. "It" is individual with each child, "it" is hard to describe, and for most parents, "it" is the best thing that has ever happened to them.

I get it, even if I've never personally experienced "it". You don't have to sell me on "it".

From Jezebel:

For us, it's not about whether a baby is "special" enough to take on all the shit that comes with parenting, it's about whether we are willing to deal with all that specialness, especially since we really like how our lives are now. Why the author thinks people who "get fucked up a lot" would make ideal parents is beyond me, but whatever. Do those people want kids? Because we're personally unsure. Call us "Team Undecided But Sorta Leaning Toward No". Neither of us has felt a big yearning for kids that wasn't fleeting, so to just go ahead and have a child in the hopes that we'd experience "it" and "it" would be worth the risk, is a big leap of faith for us. And since I'm an agnostic and he's an atheist, "faith" isn't exactly our forte.

What's irritating, is that articles like the one on Jezebel presume that everyone who has a child experiences "it", guaranteed, that "it" is what's missing in their lives, that "it" outweighs all other perks of a childfree lifestyle, and that once you experience "it", all those worries about whether you want a kid / would make a good parent / can stick with it until you're dead, will melt away.

And that's something I just don't buy.

I know, without a doubt, that there are people who regret having children. It's hard for them to say this out loud because it goes against, oh, everything, and people somehow derive great pleasure in pointing that out. Many of these people get called every name in the book for admitting what a "real parent" is never supposed to feel. But whether you like it or not, they're proof that "it" isn't universally appreciated. They're ~~selfish monsters~~ adults who discover that they'd be happier without kids - and I don't mean hypothetical children, but their actual kids - healthy, well-behaved little people with faces and names that they have feelings for. Children they believe are more burdens than blessings when it comes to achieving happiness in life.

And there's another nagging regret to the issue; the fear of "but what if I figure out I want kids and it's too late!" It's something articles poke at, although subtly. If we're too ignorant to "get" the obvious amazingness that is being a parent, surely we're also incapable of knowing how we'll feel about this in the future. How could we possibly know we'll be ok with a decision to not have kids in five, ten, or twenty years from now if we're too [stupid, self-absorbed, immature, goofy] to realize how crazyballs fantastic it is to make a small human being who loves you unconditionally?

Articles on this topic weren't always as cutely presented as the one on Jezebel. From an article by a woman simply referred to as "The Country Contributor" in the April 1911 Ladies' Home Journal (100 years ago!), this awesome opinion was splayed out:

In case you can't read that, the snippet says (to be read aloud in a ridiculously regal voice that I like to call "Lady Boddemboddem"):

No Woman Should Ever Marry Unless She is Willing to have a child or children. If you are not willing to institute a family you should remain single. It not immoral to refrain from having a larger family than you can support, or from subjecting a wife to child-bearing until her strength is exhausted; but on general principles it is immoral to marry with the positive intention of having no children, and it is very vulgar, too, as you will certainly understand some day when you awake to the plain realities of life.

Epic, no?

But beyond the part about being vulgar, isn't the message that "you will certainly understand [it] some day when you awake to the plain realities of life" all that different from "sigh. It's hard to explain till it happens to you directly."?

I think Tracy Moore's article is fine and cheerfully-natured, but I wonder if she realizes that it comes across a touch belittling. What's funny about all this, is that no real person in my life has ever tried to press me on the fact that I don't have a deep understanding of what it means to be a parent, nor the idea that having a child might not be for me. So maybe that's why I find it funny that articles like these keep getting churned out.

Do people really talk like that to one another, or did I win the friend lottery?

Double Duty

2011-11-01T17:40:00.000-04:00

Think I could leave these up as Christmas decorations? I bet I could find something in the Bible to justify it.

Spooky Stuff

2011-10-31T14:09:00.000-04:00

Image Source:
Bluwmongoose on Flickr

We had decided that tonight we would turn off all the lights, ignore the people outside and quietly hide in the basement, miserably eating mini Kit-Kats and Coffee Crisps - but then we remembered it was Halloween! So out with our regular routine and in with the spirit of the day!

I figured that I'd go to my 1950s housewife vault and dig you up something Halloween-related (rather "Hallowe'en" - that's how they most frequently spelled it then) from my magazines - and you know what? There wasn't anything in them! My cookbooks had a few recipes for Halloween-themed cakes and other baked goods, but that was pretty much it. Mind you, I don't have a ton of September and October issues from that decade - but of the few I do, there's not a lick of info or advertising pertaining to Halloween. It makes me wonder if that's an indication that people didn't shit themselves over this holiday nearly to the extent we do now.

It should come as no surprise that I'll be answering the door in a tried and true costume, one that I've been doing since 2005. Well, that or answer the door topless.

BOObs!

But you know what costume I won't be? The one someone searched online for and somehow ended up on my website:

Gross.

I hope that person, whose IP was from a rather prominent university, was simply researching for a paper they're writing titled, What Horrible People Dress Up As For Halloween: A Seasonal Study of Douchebaggery.

But probably not. Do we really need to point out that dressing up as someone who's the victim of a real violent assault isn't funny or clever? Sigh.

But enough finger wagging ... instead, I shall leave you with a find from my favourite 1950s cookbook, the Good Housekeeping 10 PM Cook Book. There, I spotted a picture of people in costumes that I found interesting, especially considering everyone (including me) acts like "sexy costumes" are something new.

I give you the 1958 Sexy Devil:

Yep, Grandma embraced Halloween as an opportunity to tramp it up, too.

Trick or Treat!

He's Lucky He's Cute

2011-10-28T18:03:00.003-04:00

Maybe I just like to play with fire. I'm about to post something that falls under the headline of Cruel Wife Publicly Picks On Her Husband, despite the fact that Patrick is in possession of a very embarrassing, very cringe-worthy video clip starring moi. It isn't kinky. It isn't politically incorrect.

It's a video of me attempting to climb over a fence.

Like the sex tape we will never make, Patrick swears he will never show it to anyone but wants to keep it for his own private and personal amusement. I'm probably testing that promise with this blog entry, but I think this is funny and I'll risk almost anything to entertain you faceless strangers. And, wow, that is fucked up.

So here's the scoop: For some reason, Patrick either wasn't exposed to a wide variety of foods growing up or simply never paid attention to them until he met me. I've documented his picky eating habits quite a bit, but I haven't shared with you my other strange observation: he doesn't know what a lot of food even is.

I'm not talking trendy foodie snob stuff or ingredients from those "ethnic" aisles - I'm talking about what I presumed was everyday, regular food.

Can I give you some examples of things that I've put on grocery lists vs. the things he came home with? And no, none of these were things he accidentally picked up or misunderstood. These are things he really, really had never been exposed to, so he made his best guess. It gets progressively alarming as you scroll down.

I asked for:

I received:

I asked for:

I received:

I asked for:

I received:

I asked for:

I received:

And then this week, the pièce de résistance ...

I asked for:

I received:

Sometimes I wish we had hidden video in our home so you could see the progression of facial reactions I had when I pulled Milkbones out of the bag, but we don't, so you'll get the next best thing: one of my MS Paint re-enactments:

Edited to Add: I sort of knew he wouldn't know what lamb chops were, so when I put them on the list, I made a point of mentioning to him that they were the types that "looked like they were mostly bone." So - my bad? He later told me he thought I wanted "lamb chops" in case our friend Barry stopped by with his dog. But still. THAT'S what he thought lamb chops were.

I ...? I ...? I ... am now drinking.

"And She's Living With A Waiter!"

2011-10-27T15:43:00.000-04:00

I honestly have a hard time convincing myself that the people on Fox & Friends actually believe the shit that comes out of their mouths. I mean, no one can really be this heinous and hypocritical, right? This is an Onionparody, right?:

Now Vs. Then: Toilet Paper Edition

2011-10-25T16:14:00.003-04:00

Here's something you probably already know: When advertisers have nothing clever to say about their product, there's a tendency to make up a problem that doesn't really exist and then claim their product corners the market in solving this fake issue.

Like what?

Oh, like having the CONSTANT PROBLEM of toilet paper pieces sticking to your anus. Uh-oh, that's not going to "pass inspection" (by whom, I'd rather not ponder too long on).

What do you mean that doesn't happen to you?

Oh, that's right, because that happens to NO ONE.

The thing is, I bet people now think this really is an issue because we're all somehow too embarrassed to admit out loud that this commercial is based on pure fiction and that our rectums aren't, in fact, made of Velcro (my bum, however, DOES get all Twilight-y when I clean it. Doesn't yours?).

And what's with the rubbing of the toiler paper against the face? Have any of you been so impressed with your toilet paper's softness that you took a bit with you for a post-wipe cuddle?

Have advertisers always been this silly?

Scott Soft-Weve ad from 1958

Yes, yes they have.

This ad isn't just goofy because no one ever stopped in awe over the luxuriousness of "facial quality" toilet paper, but because of what she's wearing in the ad. If you read the copy, you find out that that isn't an evening gown - she's in what advertisers suggest are essentially pyjamas:

Is it pathetic that, despite finding it all rather ridiculous, I sort of love how overly glamorous that ad is? In any case, it sure beats a sales pitch anchored around the idea of toilet paper "bum crumbs".

Edited to Say: Ok, a few of you have emailed and a few of you have commented to say that Charmin actually does address a real issue with its "toilet paper bits left behind" shtick. WHA? I don't ... understand. Is there a way you guys can explain this to me without me throwing up? How does hair (and how much hair could people possibly have around there?!?) cause bits to shred off and cling?

Why I Won't Be Using FedEx Again

2011-10-18T19:07:00.005-04:00

Companies can make clever ads, they can get "engaged" in social media, and they show how much they CARE ABOUT THE CHILDREN [insert Sally Struthers emoticon], but none of that builds real trust. "Trust" isn't a silly marketing buzzword - it's a business's greatest bond with its customer, and it's developed, strengthened and broken during real interactions. And it's trust that caused FedEx Canada to lose precious little me as a customer.

But let me back up, because this story actually starts with something pure and good. It started with this:

I love that damn show, as does my dear husband. This husband that I love almost as much as Community had a birthday in July and because I am a clever, thoughtful and pop culture-obsessed wife, I ordered two of these mugs from the NBC store as a birthday gift:

$12 a pop for mugs is a bit much, but whatev. Birthday, right? Troy and Abed, right?

The package was received by our concierge and the mugs were in perfect and wonderful working order. Total state-of-the-art liquid containment. Husband was happy, the birthday was splendid, and I retained my position as Patrick's Favourite Wife.

On August 12th, I received an invoice from FedEx, looking for their "Advancement Fee" - which is supposedly the charge that's meant to cover duty and "managing customs" on account of this being a cross-border shopping experience. YOU'RE WELCOME, AMERICA:

I think it's rather strange that I'd get charged HST (a tax on goods and services provided in Ontario) on a product from the US, that it's all kinds of fun that FedEx's total charge for something worth $24 was $14.29 (60% of the product cost. Splendid!), and that you have no idea what the charge will be until long after you make your transaction - but that's not even what this blog post is about.

This blog post is about the fact that I paid it. That day. I called the little 1-800 number and paid that ridiculous charge without complaint. Aren't I a good little drone? YOU'RE WELCOME, CAPITALISM.

A screen shot from my bank account. It's really small.
But you can click it!

I'm pretty anal about paying bills on time and keeping records, so when they give you that reference number that most of us either a) pretend to write down but really don't or b) write down on a scrap of paper which we later wrap our gum in, I actually write them down. On the bill. And date it. And then file it. In file folders. Actual file folders! It's like every day is 1993 in my home.

I should get a pre-inked stamp, right? I love stamps.
I especially love having a legitimate excuse to get a stamp.

This is where the story should end, with FedEx Canada humping its pile of money and Patrick and I pouring ~~vodka~~ coffee into our Troy and Abed in the Morning mugs over breakfast.

But it doesn't end there.

On October 6th, my mailbox greets me with this letter from FedEx:

WHHHHAAT?

You know, I might be the kind of person who gets a sick thrill from embarrassing my husband while he's on business calls, I might have no idea how to open a coconut, and I might be that lady who strips her clothes off on the sidewalk - but I am NOT the sort of girl who gets Past Due notices.

So I was kind of stunned. What was this about? The letter gives no information about the services rendered, only an invoice number. I order things now and again from across the border, so I'm not sure exactly what it's for. And so, to the '90s I went, and I dug up the info from my file folder.

I was quickly able to match up the invoice amounts, see that I had called to pay, saw the reference number, went online and confirmed that amount was indeed charged. Some people would see this and feel mad. But you know how I felt? Relieved. As I was digging up my info, the entire time I genuinely felt awful that I might have skipped out on paying something that I owed. Because, like I said, I'm not just a drone, I'm a good drone.

So I call FedEx Canada.

Nicely!

There's zero need to get all uppity and crazy with the poor schmuck who happens to answer the phone - it's not his fault. And mistakes happen, right? I was just glad that I had the information I needed to correct the situation.

Oh, speaking of which - you know those reference numbers I mentioned earlier - the ones a company gives you that most of us don't bother saving or writing down? FedEx does the exact same thing with them. They're just like us! The number I quoted meant nothing to guy I was on the phone with. Neato.

But since FedEx clearly charged my credit card in the amount of gee-what-a-coincidence-that's-how-much-is-on-the-invoice, they've got to have a record of that somewhere, right? So I give the guy the last few digits of my VISA and he says he'll take a look at the transactions, have it straightened out and agrees with me that there must have been a miscommunication between departments.

"Thanks for calling and thank you for choosing FedEx."

Technically, NBC chose FedEx, but whatever ....

So, then I make my trusty note on the letter and file (!) it.

Today I'm up to whatever shitty thing I do between meals when:

SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP.

The letter is dated five bloody days AFTER I called FedEx.

ARE THEY KIDDING ME!?!?!

I felt a Troy Barnes-style Nosebleed of Rage coming on (no quicky linky on that reference, you'll just have to go watch Community to get it. YOU'RE WELCOME, YOUR BRAIN CELLS).

The letter threatens to transfer the balance to a collection agency where "all related costs will be your responsibility and your credit rating may be affected."

Here's a zany fact, kids: credit ratings are somewhat important to adults. It impacts our ability to do things like get mortgages and rent apartments, get a business loan or establish a line of credit. They're not the sort of thing you should be screwing with.

But FedEx will! Over $14.29. That you already paid in August. And already called them about. Oh, tra la la.

I again took out my file folder, which is now marked "SERIOUSLY?!", and called FedEx for a third time.

I'm told it's now "resolved".

But do I trust that FedEx has made things right? Do I trust their data management? Their customer service? Their ability to send a message from one department to another? Am I confident that they won't "accidentally" keep escalating this to a level of harassment that is completely unwarranted, unnecessary, and potentially financially damaging?

Nope. I don't trust them at all.

And I don't do business with companies that I can't trust.

Things I Shouldn't Like, But I Do

2011-10-17T16:32:00.000-04:00

Case in point: The Duggars

Even though they support causes and have political / "moral" views that make me want to vom ... they are just so GOSH DARN nice that I can't bring myself to dislike them.

But it's ultimately Michelle Duggar who does it for me. She's got great skin, seems incapable of yelling, and OMIGOD - THIS:

She's wakeboarding. In a dress. With her exposed knees digitally blurred out. And you know what? She looks pretty badass doing it.

Sales Friends

2011-10-14T13:11:00.000-04:00

I've recently discovered a fun podcast called The History Chicks. The two hosts, Beckett and Susan, research and then gab about interesting women in history (plus the occasional fictional female). Last week, they covered "The 50s Housewife" and did me the honour of mentioning that they liked my blog and the 50s Housewife Experiment in particular - so, thank you, HCs!

Still on a 1950s kick, they recently did a mini podcast on Betty Crocker (and if you comment on their website, you get entered for a chance to win a swell apron! Do it!), whom you hopefully know is the Tony the Tiger of baking - a corporate character rather than a real person. These trusted friend / big sister corporate icons were very popular in the 1940s through 1960s, and women actually wrote to them for advice (I would love the see the craziest letters Betty Crocker ever received. I wonder if the Freedom of Information Act covers that?). Just a flip through one of my 1956 Woman's Day magazines captured a few of these Sales Friends. Funny how incredibly similar they all are to each other:

Mary Blake of Carnation:

Mary Hale Martin of Libby's:

And rounding out the Mary Trifecta ....

That last one, Mary Lawton Wright, may have been real, although it's hard to accept that there really was a "National Red Cherry Institute" and that it was so busy that it actually had to employ people. Maybe that's the solution to the unemployment problem - just create random, weirdo institutes that give away free booklets. That's the ticket!

One Floating Lady Head, Mrs. Dan Gerber, even addressed that she was a real person. Her evidence? The amount of breeding her family members have been up to (which ... I guess means that my existence is up for dispute):

Since I have no children or grandchildren to prove that I have a corporeal form, I might as well get on the corporate character train too! The name I'd go by is easy to figure out, but what products would my likeness have represented at the time?

My best guesses:

I know it will be hard for you to believe, but those were all created with my go-to design program, MS Paint. Seamless, no?

Bangs And Thick Hair Are Great ...

2011-10-11T11:30:00.000-04:00

... but sometimes when I wake up in the morning, I look *just like* Mandy Patinkin from The Princess Bride.

At least it starts each day with a laugh. For Patrick.

It's ALIVE!

2011-10-07T15:24:00.002-04:00

Remember when we took possession of our new home on our anniversary in July and I joked about how long it would take until we killed the roses?

It took one day.

It turns out the previous owners had moved at least a month or two before we got the keys to the place. And it just so happens that they didn't leave anyone in charge of watering the roses or the lawn. And it also just so happens that we had one of the hottest summers on record. So when we rolled up to make it a home sweet home, our rose bush and front yard looked like kindling. Seriously, Smokey the Bear was *this close* to mauling us.

I tried to bring it back to life. I fed it water and dead headed the rose flowers. I trimmed off the vicious black spot fungus that had overtaken the leaves. And trimmed it again when it came back. And again. And again. I used a special organic fertilizer to spur on healthy growth. The fertilizer seemed to work, not in producing roses but in allowing the branches to grow super long like thorny octopus legs. So I trimmed those dang branches down and continued the cycle of watering and trimming.

And finally, a few days into October:

VICTORY!

There are now two roses on the bush that once had dozens. Whatever! It's progress - and, naturally, just in time for the frost season.

iSap

2011-10-05T21:37:00.000-04:00

This is the mushy note I had engraved on Patrick's first (and clearly dinged up, scratched up, well-loved) iPod. It's a lyric from a song we both liked called Such Great Heights - and it feels rather fitting right now.

Thank you, Steve Jobs.

Oh - also - FUCK. CANCER.

Yes, Some Of It Was Pure Fantasy

2011-10-04T16:45:00.000-04:00

I sometimes get asked if I actually believe there were women who behaved like stereotypical '50s housewives or if it was a manufactured image. I think the answer is yes to both; there were women who aspired to (and were also pressured into) that particular way of life (and those who loved it, hated it, and existed somewhere in between) and there was indeed a marketing and media machine that perpetuated it. But there were also women who purposefully led completely different lives from what was so prominently idealized, and those whose days featured bits and pieces of what was in the media at that time, and women who carried on, seemingly oblivious to social pressures, as housewives / career women / artists / mothers / labourers / philanthropists / community leaders as they felt that was what they needed to do for themselves and their families. We all know this, right? No? Maybe?

As it happens, I'm in the process of interviewing women who were wives in the 1950s who are willing to share their own life stories (and if you or a member of your family is such a woman, feel free to email me for deets!). Because while it's fun to flip through magazines from that era, to take the 1950s advice to heart for a few weeks, and to theorize about what life was like for women then and what they must have been thinking at the time, isn't it just so much better to talk to them about it? No two women are alike, but it's so far been fun to see what they had in common and how those things differ from the "modern women" I normally interact with.

But here's something that is a universal truth and it's compliments of today's random retro find! I found this ad for a toilet sanitizer called "VANISH" in the September 1958 issue of Ladies' Home Journal:

Let's set the record straight: Nobody in the history of the world has ever twirled and danced from the joy of cleaning a toilet (or because of a tampon, for that matter). Nobody. Never. Ever. Just mark that one down as The Craziest Nonsense You've Seen Today.

The Wolf Used To Scare Me

2011-09-30T19:57:00.000-04:00

I kinda wish all cartoons had plucky music and narration via Winnie The Pooh Voice. Imagine how different Spawn would have been if that was the case.

Updates From A Delinquent Blogger

2011-09-29T18:32:00.001-04:00

Heyo. It's been a little while, eh? The Internet just isn't the same without my Doogie Howser-esque need to relay the minute and unimportant details that is my life, so here's what you missed over the past week:

A) I got banged!

After a few weeks of folding my hair and staring at myself in the mirror, I decided to make THAT BIG GIRLIE DECISION and get bangs - but this time I kept the rest of my hair long rather than going for a bob. The darlingness of Zooey Deschanel in New Girl may or may not have contributed to that decision.

B) I got older!

As is my birthday custom, here's a pie chart where I've turned peoples' nice actions of wishing me a happy birthday into cold, heartless data:

I wonder how much Hallmark hates Mark Zuckerberg.

I was gifted with all kinds of wonderful things like a dinner out at Allen's, a new Janome sewing machine (EEEE!!!!!!) from Patrick, some Basque linens from my France-ified sister, some nice serving trays from my mother-in-law, lovely sewing supplies, Season Two of Community on DVD and a Chatelaine subscription from my parents. Am I spoiled - and super domestic - or what?

C) I got lighter!

I've lost of total of 12 lbs. since embarking on my Eat Less Crap Diet. Mind you, that's before I did a faceplant into the Dairy Queen ice cream cake we got for my birthday ... but I'm sure that damage was minimal-ish and not the start of a DQ Blizzard Addiction. Heh.

D) I got grossed out!

Our toilet leaked through the floor, causing a major stain on our kitchen ceiling. We were lucky it hadn't dripped all the way through. We spent the morning of my birthday with a plumber who determined this was a problem that had been forming for years, only to make itself known that day. Which was terrific timing as ...

E) I got parented!

My parents, The Father of the Monkey and Sweet Marie, flew in to visit us for five days to check out our new home and help ring my birthday in. There is nothing that says "I'm An Adult Who Makes Great Real Estate Choices" like having your parents walk into your house that has a toilet on the verge of leaking "shit water" (I believe that's the technical term) into the kitchen. Sigh. My parents also gently (but thankfully) pointed out a few other issues with the place that Patrick and I were oblivious to because we're idiots who clearly have no business owning a home. We might as well replace our current doorbell with one that plays Scooby Dum sound clips.

But besides the home maintenance issues it was a very nice visit in which they forced us out for walks (one that was 15 km! I mean, WTF!?!) and I retaliated by forcing them to try green smoothies and raw vegan food, to which my father brought up this Far Side cartoon:

Clearly, in my family, we show our love by imposing obnoxious, healthy habits on each other (which we later completely counteract with lots of wine).

In all, it was a lovely time and a good week, even with the evil birthday plumbing surprise.

Let Me Assure You, I Truly Am That Hideous (When I Want To Be)

2011-09-19T21:51:00.000-04:00

From a recent phone conversation with my parents:

Mom: We saw your recent blog post.

Me: Uh huh ...

Dad: That picture you of put up of yourself ... you used some kind of Photoshop or picture effect thing, right?

Me: No.

*Awkward Silence*

Mom: So ... what would you like for your birthday?

Congratulations On Your Random, Unfocused Writings

2011-09-16T14:16:00.001-04:00

Jessica from the blog Jessica, Why Are You So Bossy? recently contacted me to let me know that I had won "The Versatile Blogger Award". It's not so much an award as it is a modern-day chain letter among bloggers, but I takes what I gets, especially when it affords me the opportunity to do something I so seldom do: talk about myself. So, thanks, Jessica!

The OFFICIAL rules of the award are:
-Thank the award-giver and link back to them in your post.
-Tell your readers 7 things about yourself.
-Give this award to up to 15 recently discovered bloggers.
-Contact those bloggers and tell them the exciting news!

Here's seven achingly fascinating facts about yours truly:

I believe that everyone should have to - yes, be forced to - work in the service industry for six months at some point in their lives. It would be like military service for the capitalist soul. The result? Our society would become 30% less dickish.*
While I can hear things pretty well, I can almost never tell what direction the sound is coming from.
I'm always surprised that when we talk about things that happened ten years ago, we're no longer referring to the early '90s.
I want to get a bicycle but I'm oddly rather scared to ride one.
I sometimes take intentionally bad photos of myself and send them to friends to cheer them up. I feel sorry for people who avoid doing things like this because they think they might one day have a career in politics:
I get really nervous around balloons. I'm certain they're going to pop at any second. I particularly want to barf when a helium balloon is touching a popcorn ceiling.
Roughly 90% of the things I say on Twitter are about things I see on TV. That should embarrass me but it really, really doesn't.

* Fact.

And I now ceremoniously bestow the Versatile Blogger Award on:

Check 'em out!

I Hope That When We're Old, Grey, And Trying To Figure Out The Jet Packs, Patrick Will Still Like My Boobs

2011-09-15T15:04:00.000-04:00

Guarantees: Because There's Nothing Worse Than Coming Home From School and Finding a Dead Monkey in a Dress at Your Door

2011-09-08T12:34:00.001-04:00

Today's random retro find is compliments of the classifieds section of the July 1962 edition of Redbook:

A human-like pet to caress and play with, this golden-haired SQUIRREL MONKEY makes a cherished gift for both adults and children. Brings fun and companionship into your life with its heart-shaped face and very lovable eyes. Easy to train and care for, eats what you eat, needs only understanding and affection. Comes to you 6 months old, grows 12 inches tall. It's an education just owning one. Free cage and instructions with each monkey. Guaranteed Live Delivery.

One day we should compile a list of all the things that fall under the category of "It's an education just owning one." It would be phenomenal.

They Missed One

2011-09-07T21:31:00.001-04:00

The CBC is turning 75 and there are a bunch of commercials featuring random Canadians recalling the best moments of CBC broadcasting. It's a good thing they didn't catch me on the street, because I know precisely which moment I'd be shouting over and over again like someone off their Tourettes meds:

Looking back, it seems so tame, but envision it's 1992 when the hardest thing heard on TV was "damn", you're 13, and you're watching the network that brought you such bad-ass programming as Road to Avonlea and The Edison Twins. Oh, and you're sitting next to your mom. This is how everyone experienced the moment that Caitlinso clearly said, ""TESSA CAMPANELLI! YOU WERE FUCKING TESSA CAMPANELLI?" It was epic. Ep-ic. The next day, everyone had to admit the shameful secret that they actually watched Degrassi so we could all lose our minds over what we just saw.

And it's a line that probably still wouldn't make the cut on American networks, as you can see from this compilation of hilariously horrible "clean" for-TV edits made to classic movie lines:

Much love to the Mr. Falcon CBC!

Delivered: Raw Vegan, Cooked Vegan and Totally Not Vegan

2011-09-06T16:56:00.000-04:00

I recently joined Front Door Organics, a Toronto-based company that delivers mostly-local, certified organic or wild edibles and eco-friendly sundries. ~~Bask in my air of green, crunchy superiority, everyone.~~ The jewel of the program is its "Fresh Box" - a box of fruit and veg that is super seasonal and based mainly on what's most abundant that week in the region.

Tasty, no?

You can choose to get a basic Fresh Box, where you get what they give you, or do a custom box where you can swap items for others online before delivery. I mainly stuck with what they offered as there were some lovely veggies that were new to me and I figured this was a good opportunity to try them. Should you be in the GTA and want to give Front Door Organics a shot, let them know Jen Byck sent you! (Yes, they have a referral program and piggy here needs more greens.)

Here's some of the stuff I've made: a raw vegan salad, a cooked vegan soup, and one darn naughtilicious Ukrainian dish featuring beet greens.

First up: (Raw Vegan) Garlicy Kale-Lettuce Salad! Because I am ~~lazy~~ so into the environment, I tend to make my salad dressing in the bowl I'm going to put the salad in rather than dirtying (and needing to wash) another dish. My salad dressings almost always consist of lots of garlic, lemon or lime juice, a splash of cold pressed olive oil, a splash of Wheat-Free Tamari and herbs. I'll sometimes also use raw, organic Tahini, but didn't this time.

Washing your lettuces is important even - or especially - when eating organic, particularly if you want to keep your meal vegan:

Yup, that be a caterpillar I found in the sink. I eventually found two more after I finished washing all my leafy greens. Blarg! Better than finding half of one after eating, though.

For whatever weirdo reason, I love cutting leafy greens into ribbons - the easiest way to do this to use a Chiffonade cutting technique. I especially find that raw kale is more palatable when it's in little pieces that can marinade in your dressing.

I then basically add whatever fresh produce I want - in this case I tossed in some fresh herbs, red pepper, green onion and cherry tomatoes - all from my Fresh Box. Voila!

Next up - a cooked vegan dish of Earthy Veggie Soup (I'm making up these titles as I go along). My Fresh Box had something called Blue Russian Potatoes - aren't they pretty?

I used those and what I had on hand and in my delivery - a bit of olive oil, garlic, white onion, carrots, leek, thyme, rosemary, turmeric, sea salt and water.

Diced everything, sautéed it, covered it all with water and let it simmer for a while. Since I just *love* a puréed soup, I decided to pop it all in my much-fawned-over Blendtec:

Bring on the creamy, salty yum:

If you didn't care about the vegan thing, this soup would be balls awesome with a bit of goats cheese on top ...

And then, inspired by some really leafy beets I received, I decided to dig a recipe out of a memory I had: My mom had made beet leaf rolls for us once in like 1988 and I have forever remembered the tasty goodness of that dish. The name of my grade two teacher? No idea. What I was doing this time last week? A complete blank. The taste of a meal I had over 20 years ago? Totally front of mind. My mom sent me a link to a recipe that was pretty close to what she originally made, and it turns out it's a Ukrainian dish called Holopchi. It consists of frozen bread dough and beet greens.

I went off the vegan rails by creating the dill sauce with bacon. But, oh, hot fuck, is it ever good:

And all inspired by what's fresh and local! Care to share any seasonal dishes you're getting your grub on with?

The Cruelest Thing About This Clip ...

2011-09-02T18:24:00.000-04:00

... is that they named him "Leslie".

It Turns Out That Weeds Were My Friends

2011-08-29T14:05:00.002-04:00

As a kid, I never understood the phrase "ignorance is bliss". This is in large part because the only other times I heard the word "ignorance" being used, it was in relation to racism. So, in my mind, "ignorance is bliss" equated to "racism is bliss" - which sounds like the sort of thing you'd expect to see on a postcard from a KKK compound or a cross-stitch in Hitler's powder room.

But now that I understand the full meaning of the word and the phrase, I can agree that ignorance can, in fact, be quite blissful.

I bring this up because today, the day after Patrick mowed our jungle of a lawn, I can now actually see more of the goings-on in our backyard. Specifically, the rat that keeps running between our neighbour's junk pile, across our property, and into our other neighbour's garden. Gross, gross, gross.

This paired with the fact that I saw a shadow dart along the ground in our furnace room the other day has turned me into a giant, jumpy, possibly (but probably not) paranoid freak.

Ugh. I'm not sure if I wish I didn't know, I just wish rat (and friends?) didn't exist in my bubble. One thing is clear: I sure as fuck won't be taking a 'vegan' approach to all this.

OMG, you're going to *eat* the rat?

Uh, no. But I won't be "humanely" trapping them only to release them into someone else'e neighbourhood either.

Overheard: TV Relationships and More Weeping For the Future

2011-08-26T17:22:00.001-04:00

While waiting for the streetcar at Broadview Station. Two possible co-workers are standing ahead of me in a conversation:

Young woman in pink blouse (YWIPB): You know what I always wondered? Why didn't Ross and Monica ever get together?

Woman in pencil skirt (WIPS): Because that would have been incestuous.

YWIPB: Whatever! That whole show was incestuous! Rachel and Ross, Joey and Rachel, Chandler and Monica ...

WIPS: No, I mean, it would have literally been incestuous.

YWIPB: Wait ... I'm talking about the TV show, Friends, not a book! What are you thinking of?

WIPS (and me): Oh my God ...

Sew Excited!

2011-08-25T16:24:00.001-04:00

Guess what I did yesterday?

Trimmed your moustache?

Yes.

But I also went to my first sewing class! Relearning how to sew has long been on my list of to-dos for a lot of reasons - capabilities are good, I've always wanted to try to make my own clothes and home decor items, and I don't want to be a total moron when I eventually take on the 40s War Wife Experiment (eeee!), whose mantra of "Make Do and Mend" involved far, far more skills than I currently possess (and I doubt my strongest ability - yelling at the TV during Bachelor Pad while ignoring the little voice inside my head that says I should read a book instead - will be of much use).

Yesterday's was the first of six 'learn to sew' classes I'm taking at The Make Den in Toronto and it was awesome! It's during the afternoon, so there were only four of us there; two of us were the self-employed type, one was a Masters student and another girl who had an employer that basically lets her work from home and on her own hours (if only all offices were like that). In other words, three out of four of us taking the class were modern-day bums. Hurrah!

Along with learning how to thread the machine and checking out the different stitches, we made our first project - a headband with an elasticated back. Here it is modelled on moi - the girl who can't take a front-facing shot of herself to save her life:

Here's a shot that nine out of ten brooding teenage Twilight fans prefer:

Oooo. Can you feel the angst?

Before you know it, I'll be making other crafty headware, like the kind modelled on this lady from the I-shit-you-not-it's-actually-real cover of the July 1974 Women's Circle magazine:

If you thought the 50s housewife was a little nuts, I'm telling you, she had NOTHING on the 70s crafty housewife. The magazines I have from that era are full-on crazeballs (I'll scan some pics from those shortly. Total goldmine.).

I like to think that it's actually these women that got men on board with 'women's lib'; her husband would come home from work to discover his wife had spent the entire day making bizarre skunk hats, shitty teddy bears and a meal made with heaping amounts of 'healthy' margarine and Sweet n' Low.

"Honey, maybe you should get a job," he'd say as he'd bewilderedly stare at the growing collection of macramé owls and aluminium foil sculptures decorating the home.

"Oh, hush," she'd say, as she'd glue a googly eye onto her latest piece of art. "Do you really want a wife who works outside the home? I wouldn't have the time to do all these lovely things around the house. That reminds me, I made you a new vest ..."

Image Source: Handmade By Mother

I promise that this sewing class won't be the gateway drug into bad crocheted items. I hope.

A Colourful Post

2011-08-23T14:39:00.001-04:00

As the title suggests, this blog post is going to filled with the most filthy, adolescent, trashy, pearl-clutching language ever...

Or just a picture of my ~~motherfucking~~ salad:

A super colourful salad! It's watermelon, cucumber, lime juice, fresh mint and just a sprinkle of pink salt to tie it all together. It's like summer in a bowl - and now, summer is in my stomach.

I have still been at this mostly vegan, mostly raw business. The result thus far? Eight fatty pounds down, son! It actually would have been more had I not given in to the siren's call of wine and cake and hamburger and chips at a recent event, but, whatev. Now and again, crap is good for the soul.

The aforementioned event was my friend Siobhan's daughter's 2nd birthday. And because I am AWESOME and because I am ~~CHEAP~~ crafty, I made Charlotte a gift of homemade playdoughs.

But these aren't ordinary playdoughs! Not only did I use some rather uppity natural food dyes, I also scented each dough wad with the most wonderful food-grade aromatherapy oils ever. Living Libations makes some of the best smelling oils and beauty products as well as yummy raw chocolate so 'buzzworthy' it was mistaken for hash at the Toronto airport. The goodies are made by a hard-working hippie couple operating out of beautiful lake country Ontario, so I like the added bonus that it's localish.

Anyhoo - I made lavender, peppermint, lime, cinnamon, lemon, and tangerine playdoughs. This is really one of the rare moments that I wish you could take a whiff of my surroundings. You'd have a nosegasm.

Charlotte's reaction to them was great and she basically stuck her face in each container and snorted them like an adorable cokehead. I point that out not only to emphasize how amazeballs me and my gifts are, but when the opportunity arises to use the phrase "adorable cokehead", you take it.

Things He Can Count On

2011-08-22T15:58:00.000-04:00

Just received an "urgent" text message from Patrick:

Bunbun!!! Man U game is on now. RIGHT NOW! Can you PVR it? Pleeeeease?

I think a part of him knew that I couldn't be bothered to put on underwear today, and would therefore be available at home to handle this timely favour.

Reliability, people; that's the special thing that I bring to a relationship.

I Won't Be Posting A Picture of This

2011-08-17T14:12:00.000-04:00

Image Source.

Ever watch those nature shows and there are flies - or even bats - on large animals, biting away at them, and you're like - WHY CAN'T THEY FEEL THAT? WHY AREN'T THEY FREAKING OUT? I BET THEY WISH THEY HAD ARMS!

I just discovered that I am such a beast. Apparently, some random insect chowed down on the buffet called Jen while I was tending to our dying rose bush (see? I told you I would kill it) the other day.

I didn't realize it until I was undressing that night and felt something raw, stingy and bumpy beneath one of my lady bags.

Yeah, that's right, some nasty little insect got in my bra and bit my tit about 20 times.

Ow. Ow. Ow.

Vegans: A History of Sucking

2011-08-16T21:18:00.003-04:00

The other day when I was at the organic market, I came across two people who made me want to roll my eyes so hard that I'd risk bursting blood vessels. They are the veggie hippies of the worst kind: the pretentious and the posers.

Jen, who are you to call anyone a poser? Aren't you barely a week into your veggie lifestyle?

Duh, I know. And I'm not referring to myself as a veggie or a vegan as I'm not one (meat's still on the table - just really infrequently). By poser, I mean people who buy and say all the peace love yoginess but then act like royal dickheads to their fellow (wo)man. Like this:

I was walking toward a refrigerated cabinet when another woman got there first (imagine that, someone moving faster than me). No biggie. Since it was a narrow-ish display, I decided to just wait until she was done. Patiently. Happily. No, really! I had just found Saskatoon berries! I was as silently ecstatic as I could be.

But then I saw the thing I had gone there for, right at the end of the shelf. The woman wasn't looking at it or near it, rather she was holding the door open as she read the ingredients on another package from the other end of the shelf. So, I calmly and smoothly - without touching or interfering with the woman whatsoever - plucked the package and popped in into my basket.

"I'm not holding the door open for YOU, you know," snapped the hag.

Ugh, seriously. Get over yourself. But that wasn't the worst of it or what made her a poser. What made her a giant fake was that when she was at the cash register, she turned to the cashier and said with blowhard hippie breathiness:

"Namaste."

OH, SHUT THE FUCK UP.

I'm sure if she wasn't carrying grocery bags she would have made the little prayer hands gesture along with it too.

Here's a fact for you: All the hemp milk, bamboo skirts and Sanskrit in the world can't make you an enlightened, spiritual being if you act like a self-centred d-bag to random strangers.

The other encounter, in the very same store, was brief but also indicative of why people hate vegans (and possibly Torontonians). As she was walking by the (organic, ethically raised) meat, a woman plugged her nose, glared at the man who was stocking it and quite audibly said, "SICK."

Again: SHUT THE FUCK UP. If you don't want to eat meat, fine, but the enemy isn't the business that buys pasture-raised beef. And if we're talking about things that inspire nose-plugging and gagging, consider adding your armpits to the list.

Because I can never steer far away from things vintage, I looked to see if some vegans have always been horrible or if it's just a new age thing. It's not. Check out this January 1953 article from the Milwaukee Sentinel:

Ugh. "You're addicted to the taste of dead flesh." Bah. You really think that will influence people to give up meat and go veg? Think anyone wants to be just like you?

Be the change, people. And learn to laugh at yourself while you're at it.

Brought To You By The Letter C

2011-08-12T13:30:00.000-04:00

Because "C" is for CUTE:

My favourite reaction is around the 1:09 point in the video. Ahh!

This Vegan Crap is Already Paying Off

2011-08-11T15:20:00.001-04:00

Oh, hey, what's that, Jen? Another ~~stolen~~ stock photo of Saskatoon Berries? Why, no, voice-in-my-head, it's not! It's a photo *I* took. YESTERDAY. IN TORONTO.

That's right folks, fresh Saskatoon berries are in my hands (or more accurately - mouth) thanks to a wee trip to The Big Carrot. I had gone there to pick up local dinosaur kale and other goodies for a green juice and when I rounded a corner in the produce aisle, I nearly wept. Fresh, wild, non-frozen Saskatoon berries ready to put in my face. MIRACLE!

Thank you, Hippie Vegan Jesus, for guiding me to them. Because that's how Hippie Vegan Jesus spends His time and powers - inspiring fatties to go to organic markets.

Now here's the horrifying part:

"But that's for a bushel of them, right?" my prairie friends and family ask.

Heh.

It turns out that Hippie Vegan Jesus is also a fan of butt crazy capitalism.

Turning Over A New (Kale) Leaf

2011-08-09T22:47:00.001-04:00

Hello! It feels like it's been forever, right? What can I say - I'm ~~slightly addicted to Rocket Mania~~ very busy and important.

Our new home still isn't pretty enough for the kind people of the Internet to judge, so no pics of the new place yet. The big hold-up is that we're waiting on some very necessary storage furniture to arrive. Right now the whole place has a Dude In A Dorm Room vibe thanks in large part to our various Rubbermaid containers strewn about the place. Talk about versatility; one in the centre of the room becomes a coffee table, and a stack of them double as lousy and confusing installation art (is there any other kind?)!

Until very recently, the Dude In A Dorm Room look was fully completed with a fridge (rather, freezer and cupboard) filled with Junk Foods From Hell. The process of selling our condo got us into awful, embarrassing eating habits that we gleefully brought with us to our new home. While we weren't eating out as much, we were, unfortunately, still going for those uber convenience "foods". I'm talking frozen pizzas, hot dogs, chips, dips ... and recently, a new low: A couple weeks ago, I brought home some purple stuff. Oh, the shame.

And then a week ago I found my scale in a box and for a self-hating lark, I stepped on it right there and then.

SWEET MOTHER OF LARD.

I'll put it this way; if I lost HALF my bodyweight, I'd be a very tiny, knobby-kneed, angry person - but probably not dead. And that is ... disturbing (and admittedly a strange way to gauge one's health).

This, paired with some truly unfortunate pictures of me that were taken recently at the Byck Family Reunion that I instantly untagged from Facebook like a fat assassin, has kicked me into gear. So ... I'm going back to a whole foods, largely raw vegan (but not totally) way of eating while incorporating more healthy holistic habits into my day. Don't worry - I won't be turning this into a diet blog - the world has too many of those as it is - but this post is a warning that I might yap about green juices, poor attempts at yoga and how much I hate attractive people ... more often than usual.

I'll be taking cues from Kris Carr, Alicia Silverstone (as if!), and other purveyors of random hippie nonsense - all to be taken with heaps of (ethically procured Pink Himalayan) salt.

It's about to get crunchy in here.

I'm Not Dead, I'm Just Unpacking

2011-07-25T16:59:00.001-04:00

.... I will be dead, however, if I follow the meal suggestions on our new Samsung microwave:

In case that picture isn't too clear, Samsung would like to help your fat ass with these everyday culinary chores:

Melt Chocolate
Soften Cream Cheese
Melt Butter

What? No "Explode A Marshmallow" button?

Get an A+ in parenting with nutrient-tastic "Kid Meals" like:

Chicken Nuggets
Hot Dogs
French Fries
Frozen Sandwich

Or create life-sustaining "Snack Bar" dishes like:

Nachos
Chicken Wings
Potato Skins
Cheese Sticks

It's all so amazingly awful and proof that ~~Koreans~~ robots are really are out to get us.

What's especially hideous is that we've already used one of those functions since moving in last week. Guess which one?

Oink.

Will return to regular blogging soon (with a vengeance!) ... just kind of buried in boxes and deadlines at the moment. Hope all is well with you!

Fruit or Flowers

2011-07-14T18:04:00.001-04:00

That, according to old-timey gift guides, is what you're supposed to receive / give for a fourth wedding anniversary.

And, hey, today is our fourth anniversary!

So, will these flowers do?

They even came with a free gift with purchase:

Eeee! Patrick just picked up the keys. It's officially ours.

Now how soon do you think it will be before I accidentally kill those roses? Place your bets, people!

35 Facts About My Husband That I'm Allowed To Share With The Internet

2011-07-13T20:05:00.001-04:00

35. Today is his birthday!
34. He just turned 35.
33. He shares a birthday with Harrison Ford and Patrick Stewart - and some guy named Julius Caesar (but has this Caesar fellow ever played a character who flew around in a spaceship? No? Then he isn't really important, is he?)
32. His favourite soccer team is Manchester United.
31. His favourite hockey team is the Habs.
30. His favourite baseball team is the one he created for his *snore* fantasy baseball league.
29. He'll watch any movie that has Matt Damon, Hugh Grant or Paul Rudd in it.Yeah, even Mickey Blue Eyes.
28. He watches Ocean's Thirteen every time he's hungover. In other words, a few times a month.
27. I've caught him watching so many "chick flicks" that we now refer to them as "Byck flicks".
26. Seriously. The guy has watched A League of Their Own, like, at least four times this year.
25. If his bitch of a wife would let him, he would eat Italian food every single day for the rest of his life until his body exploded, covering the earth with Marinara sauce, spaghetti, and garlic bread.
24. After reading Eating Animals, he decided to go veggie.
23. That lasted two days.
22. He ended his ~~suffering~~ meat fast with a chicken and eggplant sandwich from Uno Mustachio, a sandwich he eats almost every Saturday morning.
21. His favourite treat is either a Chunky Kit-Kat or a Peanut Butter Oh Henry. He's clearly into the "spin off" chocolate bars.
20. He has a little gap between his front teeth that I think is cute.
19. It was not caused by cavities from indulging in too many number 21s.
18. His hair has greyed massively since we got married.
17. That's just a coincidence.
16. His favourite TV show that's still airing is Community.
15. That's why he was so pleased with the birthday gift I got him:

14. He gave me something similar for my birthday:

13. Yeah, we're a little TV obsessed around here.
12. He does an impression of Robert De Niro that is about the most sexually unappealing thing ever.
11. He loves playing recreation league soccer, tennis, and golf.
10. But he hobbles and winces like an old man every time he comes home from doing those things.
9. Probably has something to do with all that TV and moving watching I mentioned above.
8. He's originally from Timmins, which he considers a northern town.
7. But it isn't really all that north. I mean, it's south of Calgary, for Pete's sake.
6. He married a girl from a REAL northern town.
5. Their fourth wedding anniversary is tomorrow.
4. They're celebrating that by closing on their new house!
3. He just said he's feeling really happy about life right now.
2. His wife feels the same way.
1. She wishes him a very happy birthday because he's a nice man and a good husband and he deserves it. She loves him very much.

Things That Make Moving Fun

2011-07-12T13:14:00.000-04:00

It's easy to get stressed out during a move, but I try to think of the little things that are nice about this process:

The prospect of exploring a new neighbourhood and finding new favourite places to hang out, walk to, shop and eat
Daydreaming about everything from paint colours to happy events in the new home
Purging your junk and donating stuff you no longer need to someone who could really use it
Realizing during packing that you're wrapping your Grandmother's tea set in shemale escort ads:

Yep, it's indeed these little things that make life sweet.

Firsts

2011-07-08T13:21:00.003-04:00

We've now been through them all: the first birthdays, first wedding anniversary, first Thanksgiving, first Christmas, first New Year, first Valentine's Day, first Father's Day - all without my father-in-law, Paul. And now today is the first anniversary of his passing.

Everyone says the firsts are the worst, and I truly hope so. But what's been unexpected is that the big waves of sadness haven't occurred on these momentous days. Maybe it's because we were all together for them and had things like gifts and meals and booze and The Settlers of Catan to distract ourselves with. But, really, the most gut-wrenching moments of sadness and reality have occurred when you least expect it, like you're walking down the street and a favourite song of his is playing in a car driving by. Or you find a picture of him as you're tidying up. Or you're just laying in bed, trying to fall asleep and out of nowhere the truth about him being gone bubbles up and stabs you in the heart. And there aren't any scheduled 'firsts' to hurdle over for those moments - they just happen and will keep happening. And it sucks.

And while it's OK to feel the grief, it's just as fine if not better to take solace in the antidote - which is remembering the good times and making new good memories. This weekend we'll be going to St. Catharines to stay at my mother-in-law's home to do just that - remember, share stories, laugh, and probably do and say some rather stupid and fantastic things under the influence of alcohol. All very Paul-like, I must say.

My husband and his family are doing one more thing today - and that's going to a tattoo parlour together. Yours truly won't be participating in that because I'm a giant pussy. But the rest of the Bycks have decided they're going to get Paul's signature tattooed on them. I suggested to Patrick that he should get his on his lower back with butterflies around it, simply so that I could giddily refer to it as his 'tramp stamp'. Strangely, he's decided against my suggestion. I think he's decided to get it on the inside of his arm. Ouch. One way or the other, there's going to be some healing this weekend.

We miss you, Paul.

Two Questions

2011-07-07T19:12:00.001-04:00

1. Cable access still exists?
2. What the hell is this?:

I think the Internet has broken me. I can no longer tell what's a joke and what is ... ______ (art? Legit hipster parenting? Non-legit hipster parenting?).

I Don't Know About You ...

2011-07-04T10:31:00.001-04:00

... but this isn't how I kiss:

It is, however, exactly like how I make love.

WWJD

2011-07-01T19:04:00.007-04:00

As far as years go, 2001 was pretty much a flaming bag of dog shit and donkey balls. Of course, there's that standout reason why 2001, as a whole, has a bad rep, but I've observed that a lot of people had additional things happen in their lives - before and after September - that helped cement 2001 with the title of Worst Year Ever.

For me, I broke up with my live-in boyfriend, which wasn't a big tragedy or anything and was actually / eventually a good thing, but it was a tough change. A week or two later while we were still living together, he got jumped by some real winners and was stabbed in the neck. He survived (and we're still friends. He came to my wedding, even!) but spent a good deal of time in ICU and recovering at home under my care and it was an incredibly fucked up time, to put it lightly. Later in the year, after I had just moved into a new apartment, I got unexpectedly laid off from my job and couldn't find work in my field for months. So, yah, 2001 sucked it just fine without terrorists coming along and mind-fucking everyone.

One day in early July of said heinous year, I got a call from my dad. His voice sounded so weird - so hollow. He said, "I have some really bad news."

My stomach dropped and I felt like I had turned to stone from standing so still and waiting for what felt like an eternity for whatever horrible thing he was going to say next. It had probably only been a week earlier that he had called me with a hesitation in his voice and with a similar lead-in to the conversation: He had then let me know that he had just been diagnosed with prostate cancer.

I mentioned that 2001 was a total asshole, right?

"No, it's not that. It's not me," he quickly said, guessing that this was now two bad news calls in a row and that I probably thought they were related.

A sense of relief flickered for a second, only to be replaced with a new sense of dread. God, what else? What now?

"Um," he stammered for a moment, "Your cousin Jonathan has died," he finally croaked out.

When your brain is running around in that moment of waiting for bad news, your 18-year old cousin dying in a car accident tends not to be among the possibilities. I remember feeling all cold and nauseous and then immediately feeling waves of sadness for his family and the shock and grief they must have been in the pits of.

That was 10 years ago this weekend.

At the request of his family, this anniversary isn't to be marked with sadness, but we'll instead remember him fondly, share memories, and as you'll soon see - partake in some of his quirky passions.

My strongest memories of Jonathan are mainly from when he was younger - he was probably around nine or ten-years old or so. We lived a solid 12-hours drive from the Staniec's farm in Lanigan, Saskatchewan, so we didn't see the family all that much, but when we did, the visits were memorable. We often did "kid switches" where I would stay with the Staniecs for a week or two and their daughter, Jill, who is my sister's age, would came back with my parents and hang with my sister in Fort McMurray (and then vice-versa where my cousin Kim and I would go back together to Alberta).

I remember thinking it was oh-so clever of Jon (although, sure, totally mean) that he used to call his sister "Heather" - "Heifer". It was word play! Farm word play! And he wasn't just calling her a cow, he was calling her a virgin cow! Oh, how hilarious I thought that was. Because I, unsurprisingly, was a ho-bag and a word-geek even then.

I also recall all us kids listening to this one particular Ian Tyson song in a car ride into Saskatoon called "The Coyote and the Cowboy" by Ian Tyson. It was recorded in a bar, and there's a part where Tyson and the crowd sing about a "son of a bitch", and just like the people in the bar, we would SCREAM the word "bitch" every time. Hey! Don't blame us! Just following the lyrics! There's also a part of the song that we would get into fits of giggles over because it sounds like Animal from The Muppets is hollering in the background (from around 2:05 through to 2:20 in the song, should you be listening for it. I listened to it today and it TOTALLY SOUNDS LIKE ANIMAL. We were so right!). We'd play the song over and over and over again until my Aunt Janice justifiably yelled at us to knock it off:

I remember after one particularly grueling trip out to the farm, my family had driven over a stretch of highway that was just being paved and was in no condition for a car to go over it. My dad was seriously pissed about this, as a bunch of wet tar and asphalt had kicked up and splatted all over the hood and around the wheels. We had gone to a professional car wash before arriving in Lanigan and even these guys couldn't get the muck off.

For Jonathan, this was his Everest.

"Can I wash your car, Uncle Joe?" he said, his eyes glimmering as he looked over the tar-speckled minivan.

"Oh, you don't have to do that, Jonathan," my dad said, slightly surprised by the request.

"But can I?" Jonathan asked again.

My dad was stunned. Maybe it was because he was the father of two ~~brats~~ girls who would view having to clean the car as a form of punishment.

"He likes it," my cousin Kim said. "Like, he, really, really, REALLY likes cleaning cars."

"Well, if you insist," my dad said, still perplexed. "But if you can't get that tar off, don't worry about it. The guys at the car wash couldn't even get it off."

This look crossed Jon's face as if to say, "this car hasn't met me yet."

The rest of us kids went off to do the things we most liked doing on the farm: ride the ATVs, form a secret spy club with headquarters in the barn, play with the new calf, and pee our pants from laughing too hard - something someone would later blame on an animal ("I sat in cat pee ..." Sure, Jen, sure. Something you should know about me: I've never let a full bladder get in the way of a good, hard laugh. It's disgusting, really.).

Jonathan, however, went to work on the minivan with a determination worthy of an inspirational 80s power ballad. I even remember him working through lunch, something I've never let happen in my 30+ years on earth.

Hours later, my dad had summoned us all to marvel over Jonathan's work. The beige-but-blackened minivan that had tiredly rolled onto their gravel driveway earlier that day now looked like it had just come off the sale lot.

"Jesus Christ," my dad said, staring at the sparkling vehicle before him. "You really did a hell of a job on that. I mean it. You really did a phenomenal job."

Jonathan smiled with a quiet pride, simply said, "thanks" and strolled off. This, too, stunned my father, as he was generally used to kids - namely a certain daughter of his - lapping up the compliments like a pig and spending the next hour explaining exactly what she had done and how hard it was and why it was so important that it be done in the manner she had painstakingly done them.

Jon's love of cars - and cleaning them - became a hallmark of his, as was the way he mowed a lawn (alternate directions each time, no going back and forth, and whenever possible, he'd get two mowers going to pretend that he had a dual combine set up). There was the wrong way, the right way, and the Super Meticulous Jon Staniec way of doing these things. These things were so much a part of him that this weekend, his family recently asked everyone to mow their lawns or wash their cars "as Jonathan would" while thinking of him.

D-bag Condo Girl here has neither a car nor a lawn, so I improvised:

It is so not the car Jon would go for, but alas, the little gift shop I went to had no sports cars. It was this or a pink new Beatle with flowers on it. Of the two, I'm pretty sure this is the better choice to honour Jon's memory with:

Sparkling new!

And for the lawn ... the closest thing I could find was organic wheatgrass at the market:

Thank you, superfood-loving-hippies-and-yuppies of Toronto.

Even with scissors, I didn't do nearly the good job Jonathan would have done. That, I can guarantee.

If you're a friend or family member of Jon's, please share your thoughts here or on the Facebook event that Jill set up.

To live in hearts we leave behind
Is not to die.
-Thomas Campbell

We miss you, Jonathan, but you are far from forgotten.

Dear Baby Dyke,

2011-06-30T15:37:00.001-04:00

I have a sneaking suspicion that this is your first Pride; I can see that you are very jazzed on the rainbow motifs, there's a thrilled look in your eyes that I'm guessing has never been there before, and boy, is your posture ever great! I'm happy for you and hope this weekend serves to further your sense of confidence, belonging, and a comfort with your own skin and mind. And, hey, double points if you manage to get laid, too!

But I'm going to give you this tip, and it's important, so please listen:

When you randomly and loudly holler at me while I'm walking by that I have "nice tits":
a) Duh.
b) It's just as lame and off-putting as when a man does it.

Have some pride, grasshopper. Now go have fun.

Photo borrowed with zero permission from
QueeriesMag.com and R.J. Martin

Say Hello To My Little Friends

2011-06-29T15:08:00.001-04:00

Late last week, I started writing a post titled "I Am Becoming The Honey Badger".

Because honey badger don't care. Honey badger don't give a shit.

I had officially had enough with this home selling business and no longer felt like being real estate's bitch. I realize that in most markets, having a home for sale for a month is totally no big, but for this market, it felt like it was dragging. People in our building typically sell their homes in two to six days. We were getting steady traffic in our place - between two and five showings a day everyday - but no bites. As someone who works from home, I was starting to find it just a tad obnoxious having to keep the place uber tidy and having to leave all the time to let people view our home privately. You know, so they could enjoy a quiet moment to pee on our floors. Ah, YAH, IT HAPPENED. There is nothing like opening your doors to strangers to make one think less about the human race as a whole.

As you may recall, I was feeling so fed up that I even turned to stupid no-good cupcakes and Catholic superstitions that involved burying a plastic religious icon head-first in a pot of flowers. In other words, my mind was unraveling.

And then on Friday I finally turned to something I liked: my 1950s magazines and books. We always had fun with our 50s Housewife Experiments and our home felt so devoid of fun recently ... so I decided to honey badger it up and do some old school cooking and baking in my cute little dresses between showings. I didn't care if these concoctions ruined the depersonalized aesthetic of our home, because I just didn't give a fuck anymore. Not one crazy honey badger fuck.

My Betty Crocker Picture Cook Book says:

Well, gee, that's all that was missing from people thinking of my condo as a home? Done! So I spotted a recipe for the ultra girly Pink Azalea cake:

... and added my own sweet touches to it. I'm not normally a "pink" kind of person, but this cake is simply adorable, especially once I housed it in a little glass cake dome:

Still on a wholesome kick, I made some strawberry pie:

I then came across an ad featuring the pre-Bob Barker host of Price is Right, Bill Cullen, shilling for a tea company. Just me, or does he sort of remind you of Matt Damon, if Matt Damon was completely drained of all sex appeal?:

And so, I made some home-brewed iced tea with lemon slices, baked some chicken breasts, prepped some corn on the cob and made some potato salad.

I was feeling really happy - finally able to get in the kitchen and DO stuff rather than delicately walk around my home afraid to disturb things. So, naturally, I took it too far: I decided to make The Crazy 50s Shit That Makes Me Laugh.

Remember that green soup with dicks in it? Remember the great names you came up for it? Well, I found the official recipe for it in my Woman's Day July 1959 magazine:

Wanna know what it looks like in person?

No. Definitely not.

Too bad!

Not nearly as green. More, brown, really. Dick a la Sewage. Ah well, in the fridge you go! Just be grateful, soon-to-judge-my-home visitors, that I didn't just leave it on the stove top. Because I was tempted. Seriously, seriously tempted.

And the pièce de résistance in my cooking and baking spree? Want to take a guess?

If you'll recall, the first "fancy" gelatin mold I tried to make did not turn out well. At all. It was a sloppy wet mess that exploded its contents all over the place - not unlike a teenager who has drank too many wine coolers in the woods behind her house. Certainly not speaking from personal experience there or anything. With this home situation being so out of our control, I decided that I was going to try to tackle something that had challenged me before, and I was going to succeed, dammit! I went for something layered and colourful with silly things inside.I was going balls out with this jello mold and if it splatted on the floor 30 minutes before our next showing, so be it.

Oh, what a thing of repulsive, fantastic, proud beauty:

That's lemon jello with lemons, orange jello with carrots and lime jello with celery. Sounds disgusting, but by golly, did it ever hold together well! I was one drink away from extending my arms and screaming out the window, "I'm the ~~James Cameron~~ king of the world, motherfuckers!"

I gave the gelatin mold the "glory spot" in our fridge - right underneath the bulb. There would be no escaping it, should anyone viewing our home open the fridge. It was my crowing jewel in my collection of Food I Made Once I Stopped Caring About These Weirdos Coming Into My Home:

We then had people come in for a showing early that evening.

And on Saturday?

They gave us an offer.

Today the condition on that offer was removed, so it's official. We've sold our damn condo!

Maybe it was dear St. Joe (who is indeed also killing the flowers as I predicted). But maybe, just maybe, it was the jello mold. Both shall have places of honour in my new home.

I Can't Believe I'm Doing This

2011-06-22T12:31:00.001-04:00

Meet St. Joseph.

Well, his tiny plastic counterpart, anyway. If you believe in Christian mythology, ~~you probably hated that I referred to it as 'mythology' just now~~ St. Joseph was Jesus's incredibly understanding step-father who married a preggo Mary even though she wasn't carrying his child. He had to be coaxed into it somewhat by an unnamed angel - who I think should be called Maury - who opened a manila envelope and confirmed that God ... (wait for it) ... WAS the father.

Anyhoo - because Joseph provided a home to Jesus and Mary and since he was a carpenter who could make stuff (like condos?), some folks (mostly Catholics and crazy people ... sometimes one in the same) consider him to be a bit of a miracle worker when it comes to buying and selling homes. Like everything concerning religion, it's a bit of a leap.

With our home-selling woes in mind, my mother-in-law and her sister went on a trek - a pilgrimage if you will - to find us a St. Joseph statue. They found one in what sounded like a church gift shop. I know it's been a while since I stepped in one, but churches have gift shops? Are there small McDonalds near the check-out too?

So, behold, my St. Joseph Home Selling Kit, direct from ~~China~~ heaven:

The ~~child labourers~~ angels forgot to paint St. Joseph's beard, so he appears to have a MASSIVE chin. He looks like what I imagine Brian Mulroney would look like if he was a happy stoner going to a toga party. And is it just me or does Jesus look like a baby Princess Leia?

According to the instructions, you're supposed to bury St. Joseph, head-first, into the ground at your property line, facing your home. You do this while reciting a prayer that basically tells Joseph he's going to stay in that uncomfortable position until he helps you sell your home ... which sounds rather terrible and Gitmo-esque. Hardly a nice way to treat someone, let alone a saint carrying your savior ...

But I don't believe in any of this stuff, right?

Down you go, Plastic Magic Man! Sell this home!

As I'm in a condo, I couldn't very well drill a hole in the sidewalk, so my planter had to do.

I believe that one of two things will happen: we'll sell this condo soon or my potted Kalanchoe will die from St. Joseph's wrath / the fact that I probably tore up some roots shoving him in there. Want to take a guess which will happen first? A third option of me getting what's coming to me due to my giddy blasphemy is also a valid answer.

How I Ruin Happy Things

2011-06-17T15:37:00.002-04:00

After the Stanley Cup riots, REAL Vancouverites showed us the spirit of their city by pitching in to clean up after the ~~Surrey~~ a-holes. Photographer Andy Fang noticed all this and captured the images of these awesome everyday volunteers to counter the images we've been seeing of the rioters.

Even the famous Vancouver Greenmen came out to lend a hand:

And here's me ruining this: I know I should be all inspired ... but all I can look at is that guy's overly-defined package. And I don't mean the garbage bag. It's almost as distracting as David Bowie's crotch was in Labyrinth. Almost.

Maybe this is why I never get taken to the ballet.

Enjoy This Vancouver Rioter's Instant Karma

2011-06-16T14:57:00.002-04:00

I don't usually cheer at what could be considered ~~a great shot~~ police brutality, but when it fits so well with the America's Funniest Home Videos formula for laughs, it really does get my approval. All that's missing is a high-pitched Bob Saget voiceover:

I Sold Out And All I Got Was A Fat(ter) Ass

2011-06-15T14:26:00.000-04:00

If you've read my recent posts from the past couple weeks, you'll know that we're attempting to sell our home. Yep, she's still on the market. It's not without interest, though. We've had all kinds of visitors everyday ~~and holy eff I cannot wait to unload a vent about the things these pig strangers have done in my home~~ - so it's just a matter of time .... heh?

Late last week we were in a particularly good mood as we had repeat showings scheduled with two different parties, both booked at 8:30 PM. For one of these couples, it was their third appointment and they were bringing their parents, which means ~~they're intellectual infants who should put on their big girl panties and make a decision for themselves~~ there's some serious interest going on. Patrick and I allowed ourselves to get totally greedy and start fantasizing about these potential buyers bumping into each other in our apartment and getting territorial and then us promptly getting two amazing offers the next day to choose from or bargain with.Oh, we were giddy.

And so, to seal the deal, I decided to go all out and sell my soul:

I got cupcakes. From Prairie Girl Bakery.

I still had my beloved donut display out (which I refreshed with new donuts as the original ones were starting to get, uh, warm). But then I thought, "Cupcakes have broad appeal. I can't count on everyone being as hip toward the prowess of donuts as I am. Let's charm the pants off these generically-minded people through baked goods!"

And yes, I really thought that. And, yes, I have that low of an opinion of people I don't know. And, yes, I really thought cupcakes would be the tipping point. And, yes, I am an idiot.

And so I ran to the bakery that I had previously been so disappointed in due to its misleading name and scooped up a half dozen of their cupcakes for the WTF price of $20. I imagine after reading how much I spent on six not-even-personalized cupcakes, several friends and family members from back home just had their suspicions confirmed that I have become a Classic Toronto Douchenozzle. It's true. I am. But, hey, selling and buying a home! Outrageous spending comes with the territory! Defensive Argument Followed By An Exclamation Point!

So I put some cupcakes in the fridge on a precious little stand, next to some bubbly and organic, local strawberries ("Did she just make a point of letting us know the strawberries were organic and local? Ugh. 'Classic Toronto Douchenozzle' is right"). Placed a few on the table - again, on a little glass stand with a note inviting our ~~chumps~~ dear guests to enjoy them.

And then I updated the flowers in our bedroom with peonies that were just on the verge of exploding into a fluffy feather-like bloom, because peonies are special and so is our apartment.

And then Patrick and I anxiously waited at the nearby bar for our home to work its cupcakey charm.

Bzz Bzz went my cell phone at 7:45 PM.

It was an e-mail from the real estate booking system:

"8:30 PM Appointment: Canceled."

Aw, crap. One of the parties (the people who would just be there for their second time), had decided to cancel their appointment. Unfortunate and it had surely ruined our dreams of a multiple-offer situation, but ... well, what can you do? Our Realtor later learned that the person coming to see our home was torn between ours and another one nearby - but decided to put in an offer, which was accepted, on the other place. You win some, you lose some, right? And it had always been these third-showing people that we had the most faith in.

So, we took it on the chin, settled in, and ordered another round.

Bzz Bzz.

At 8:35 PM, five minutes after the appointment was to start, was this note on my cell phone:

"8:30 PM Appointment: Canceled."

I had actually been in the washroom when the message came in. When I returned to the table, Patrick looked sick and said, "And the three-peaters just fucking canceled too."

And I thought he was joking because Patrick thinks giving people feelings of anxiety is hilarious. It's something I've told him really doesn't make for good jokes but really makes for good divorce proceedings.

But he wasn't joking. And so we dragged our sorry asses back home, defeated and disappointed - but still holding out hope that maybe these people just had to reschedule.

The next day we found out that they had changed their minds about the place. Their Realtor sort of sighed with ours, explaining that he had been to A LOT of homes with them, multiple times, and that they were extremely cautious first-time buyers. In other words, the worst clients he has ever had and the real estate equivalent of prick teases.

Which brings me to this question:

When you think of foods that you eat angrily (surely a topic we've all thought about. No? Just me? Of course.), what comes to mind?

Nuts you have to crack open yourself? Hard-boiled eggs? Anything from the Taco Bell Value Menu?

I have a feeling that 'cupcakes' probably don't come to mind. Despite the fact that I think they're overrated, even I have to admit that cupcakes are light and sweet and happy and the sort of things you serve to celebrate stuff like baby showers and businesses launched by twenty-something girls.

But after I got off the phone with our Realtor, my head slowly turned in the direction of the kitchen. And I know it makes no sense, but my eyes locked onto the puffs of cheerful icing. And I seethed. And I maybe accusingly screamed, "YOU! YOU DID THIS TO ME!" At cupcakes.

And then I ran over and showed those cupcakes a lesson. Disappoint me, will you? Mock me, will you? FEEL MY RAGE, CUPCAKE! The vanilla cake with chocolate frosting got bitten and torn up and then thrown into a vat of stomach acid for good measure. It wasn't an eating experience, it was food torture.

It's a small miracle that I didn't eat the rest of them on the spot. Sure, I had another later on, still angrily, and Patrick had a couple when he got home, not so angrily (unlike his ridiculous wife, he does not have a "strained relationship" with specific baked goods). The cupcakes had started to get a little stale from having sat out, so we tossed the rest, not even bothering to use them as props - out of principle.

Because cupcakes? Are so dead to me. Officially.

If I Ever Have A Son ...

2011-06-10T15:39:00.001-04:00

... may he be a gay son. Because this is far, far more enjoyable to watch than any lame Little League game (but he can do that too if he wants):

ME AT NINE, PERFORMING TO MADONNA IN SUMMER '91! from Robert Jeffrey on Vimeo.

Change Rooms for Dummies

2011-06-09T13:04:00.000-04:00

Signs that Someone is in a Change Room:

The door is closed.
The door is locked.
There are hangers on the door.
You can see a shadow moving about.
There's a voice inside embarrassingly singing along to the Phil Collins song that is playing on the store's speakers.
The voice suddenly stops mid-Sussudio to yelp, "Someone's in here!" when you repeatedly try the handle (funny how you didn't bother to knock first).
If you're unable to bust the door down (despite a great effort!) and it suddenly opens, revealing an annoyed and hastily dressed person inside, SOMEONE IS IN THE CHANGE ROOM, YOU FUCKING SAVAGE.

Seems I can never go to Winners without an incident ...

Name That Horrible Dish

2011-06-07T17:54:00.000-04:00

With our condo still on the market and people opting to schedule viewings mainly after they get off of work, we haven't been cooking in our home much this past week. Most nights, our place has been "booked" from 5:30 through to 8:30, our prime eating time (all other hours are "casual eating time"). Sometimes we haven't been given a lot of notice that someone wants to see the home - and the last thing I want to do is abandon something in the oven without warning. But mostly I just don't want to deal with cleaning up dishes in a big hurry or trying to get rid of "food smells" every day. Plus, the stove and oven look pretty amazing when you don't use them. Truly the trick to keeping a pristine home is to not do anything in it.

As much as eating out constantly might sound dreamy, it's getting rather expensive ... and fatty. Well, probably fatty. I have no idea just how much damage we're doing to our bodies as we packed up our scale when we staged the place. I imagine the day I bring it back in and step on it will totally coincidentally be the day that I start really paying attention to those Weight Watchers and Jenny Craig ads. You can tell if this has happened if I start mentioning Sara Rue for no good pop culture reason. And really, one can only refer to Popular so many times on a blog without it getting weird.

But I'm mostly missing cooking. I feel like I'm half a 50s Housewife - obsessed with cleaning, but completely devoid of cooking. For the past few days, I've really wanted to poach some salmon and serve it with giant salad with fresh lemon and dill and capers, but I figure fish is the very last thing I should be cooking up in a home people are going to walk into.

Well, fish or this:

A few posts ago, I highlighted that bizarro dish from a refrigerator ad. The best suggestion was from Frodelicious that it was "Goldfish Loaf":

Well, I found its friend in an ad for a weird stove from Tappan:

Sick. Are those sliced hot dog wieners in green soup? How on Earth is this selling the product? The only thing I want to do after seeing that ad is not eat at that woman's house. Maybe Tappan has secret shares in McDonalds or something.

So, can you figure out what's in that dish? And if so, what would you name it? The more penis-y the name, the better, please.

This is Meta, Right?

2011-06-03T15:34:00.001-04:00

You may recall a post I did a few weeks ago about a strange and wonderful voicemail accidentally left for me from a sorta-threatening Jamaican dude named Chad trying to reach a guy named Jeromy.

And then I recently got this postcard in my mailbox:

On the reverse:

For a split second, I was super confused. How could Chad get the wrong phone number and the wrong address? ... And then I started to get concerned. And then I remembered my sister went to Hawaii for her honeymoon. And then I remembered that I'm an idiot. And then I remembered that everyone in my family is hilarious and always willing to take a joke to the next bizarro level.

Well done, Melanie, well done.

Jury Panel ...

2011-05-31T19:05:00.000-04:00

... is nothing like this:

Well, no shit. It's at night and there isn't a jury. Why the hell did you think jury panel would be like Night Court? And did you really think Dan would be there?

Quiet, you.

No, if there was a sitcom about jury panel it would be of a waiting room where ... nothing happens. It's a room filled with of a couple hundred people, all bored out of their skull. Someone would turn the page of their book, someone else would cough, someone would get up to use the washroom and everyone would watch them walk by. (Cue the laugh track.) That said, it would still be more entertaining than any Chuck Lorre sitcom.

So far, none of us has seen the inside of a courtroom, with the exception of us all having watched the extremely dated 1982-ish era instructional video on our first day that explained how the court system worked. The only thing I paid attention to was the big hair and shoulder pads of the women in that video. So, in that sense, it has been a little bit like Night Court, in the Markie Post fashion department sense.

Sigh. Why can't civic duty come with wi-fi? Or magazines that were printed after 2002? Or cake? I'd take cake.

No shit.

Quiet, you.

Guess Where I'm Going This Morning?

2011-05-30T08:09:00.000-04:00

Think I have time to swing by a convenience store in the gay village to pick up a Playgirl? Because that's actually the craziest bit about Liz Lemon's Getting Out of Jury Duty character - she's a lady with a Playgirl.

It's not that I really want to get out of jury duty - it's something I've always thought could be a neat experience. But could the timing be any more crap? I'm self-employed and swamped with work, in the midst of selling my home and just recovering from a rather nasty bout of pneumonia AND bronchitis (yep).

But most importantly, Robert Pattinson is in my neighbourhood right now shooting a film and I should really be out there stalking him.

Ugh.