An Update For Those Who Still Accidentally Come To This Site

Heyo!

So, yesterday, my dog ran away. WHY DO ALL THE BOYS LEAVE ME? The back gate was somehow left open, I hadn't noticed, and Huck bounded out to freedom while I was inside - eating, n'est pas. When I glanced out the window and saw the gate, I just about died and did one of those silent screams you only have in nightmares and dreams about making out with your gross old boss. 

I ran outside without any shoes on and ... thankfully, Huck was only at the end of the street. He was running his happy little heart out toward me while an old man - clearly spooked by a goofy dog on the loose and convinced Huck was coming for him - beelined to the other sidewalk, swearing in Greek, and nearly tripped in the process. If I hadn't been so overwhelmed with losing and then finding my dog within the span of 30 seconds, I probably would have laughed at it all - because there is nothing quite as funny as old people tripping Huck in a moment of joy.  

If I had lost Huck, at least there would be a solid Plan B to turn to: There is enough shed hair in this place to build another dog. It's so gross ... and, yet, still so much better than cleaning the bathroom during my married days. I won't expand on that further. No, wait, I will: 

In any case, I've added another DIY level of security to the back gate, making it a little harder for this to happen again. I think.

Anyway, since you last saw him (unless you follow my All Huck All The Time Instagram Feed!), Huck has managed to gain an amazing 24 pounds in two months - which is astounding because his diet only consists of kibble. And my sandals. And any and every shred of paper in the house. And that bottle of green food dye that I didn't notice he had until I walked over to my wool carpet and saw that it looked drastically different. 

Sigh. Mother Nature knew what she was doing when she made puppies - being way too cute is their best defence against being murdered.

Whereas Huck has been packing on the pounds (but still looks pretty skinny ... bitch), I've been slowly losing them. I've been downgraded from Marineland Attraction Fat to Season Eight Chandler Fat. Hurrah! Still a ways to go, but I hope to one day take a picture of myself smiling while holding out the stretched waistband of the tent pants I used to wear. That same day, I think I'll also wash my hair in a waterfall and put gum in my mouth by bending it on my tongue:

So, yeah, there's that.

I've shifted from sticking to freelance work to now actually looking for full-time opportunities. I'm hoping within the next month or so, I'll have found the right fit. I love freelancing, but waiting to get paid "whenever" vs. having a steady paycheque has become a little too much of a struggle - plus there are some things I've applied for that would be really cool to do, so we'll see! I've updated my portfolio site at Jennifereve.com (yes, it still needs a bit of work) should any of you fine, random people of the Internet know someone in Toronto who is looking for a writer / marketer / communications / self-depricating type - pass it along!

I'm also officially one-year separated from ___________ (fill in your own blank! I did!), which means divorce proceedings are now just a matter of the court getting to it ... and how long that will be, I have no idea. But it's definitely something I'm looking forward to so that I can close that sad sack chapter and move on. I had thought about making a big blog post about Then vs. Now, what's changed since then and what hasn't, but .... meh.  For now, I just don't really care. Oh, for sure, there are things that I'd like to and will probably talk about - particularly some lessons learned from that marriage and divorce that hopefully others can avoid, but I'm not ready or willing to drop those beats yet. 

But in all, I feel pretty darn lucky to have what I have in my life, starting first and foremost with family and friends. I had a visit from my folks a little while ago and, man, did I ever win the parent lottery. I think I need to convince them to write a book about how to do what they do, because the world needs more of it. Seriously, all problems in life can be solved by Joe and Marie in a five-day visit.

Ok ... that's it for another two months. Or not. I do hope to get back to this just-for-fun writing stuff in a more consistent way, if only for an excuse to look up animated gifs - like this one!:

See ya!

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I'm Basically The Worst Unemployed Person Ever

Image Source: FunCheapSF

... because instead of refining my résumé for the millionth time and glumly living off of Sapporo Ichiban, I'm going to Mexico this week.

HEEEEEEEEEEEE!

It's my incredibly irresponsible way of rewarding myself for not having a job or a husband anymore. (And I must say, I've really excelled at both.)

I'm going with a girlfriend who also had a crappy 2012. We've vowed to make it one of those trips where the details of what goes on during it aren't allowed to be shared with anyone we know, and that probably includes "The Internet". (Sorry.) Just know that in reality, I will most likely spend at least two days of this vacation watching episodes of Friends dubbed into Spanish in the hotel room while I recover from a sunburn brought on by falling asleep by the pool. But let's all at least pretend that I'm going to have a wild and glorious time in the land of sun and tequila, ok?

After booking the last-minute deal, we started diving further into the reviews of the resort and there was one - a complaint - that gave both of us hope that it may indeed be a dandy of a trip after all:

... everything was great until a new group of guests came in, which unfortunately included a couple Argentinian football teams. These guys were interested in anything in a skirt ...  

To which my friend and I responded:

Oh, please, Baby Jesus, make it so.

And if going to Mexico isn't indulgent enough for someone with no income, yesterday I went and got eyelash extensions (so that I didn't have to bother with mascara on the trip), a manicure and a pedicure.

You see, I received a bit of Christmas money from my grandfather, and I'm pretty sure at the bottom of the cheque it said, "For whoring it up." - so I kind of had to spend it on this:

Local Business Plug: I am wearing zero make-up in the picture, and look at how dolled-up my eyes look! If you want to get eyelash extensions in Toronto, I highly recommend Balanced Beaute - she is so good, won't make you look cartoonish, and is probably one of the most affordable pros in the city. Yay!

My other bit of prep work from this trip actually saved me money: not buying food. Not buying food meant I couldn't eat anything, which resulted in me going down a glorious 11 pounds since Christmas. Thanks, starvation! High five, desperation! This weight will all come screaming back on as I stuff my face at the resort's buffet and swim-up bar, but whatever.

The final thing I did in anticipation of going to Mexico involved harnessing my very novice skills as a seamstress: I made my own bikini. I can already smell the humiliation that will surely happen while wearing this. Not simply because it's a bikini (GAH!) but because I chose the fabric based on how pretty it was and not based on the trivial matter of how well it deals with water. Heh. So, you have that account to look forward to, readers.

I'll probably do one more tiny post this week, but that will likely be it until I get back. And then hopefully I'll become a bit more regular with the updates and thoughts and first-world gripings after that.

Your notes from my previous post were all really appreciated. How did such nice people end up stumbling on this blog? Boy, I'm lucky.

Adios for now, muchachos!

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(Not Quite) Sweating to the Oldies

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!

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Somedays, I Feel A Real Kinship With Homer Simpson

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.

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Updates From A Delinquent Blogger

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.

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The Cruelest Thing About This Clip ...

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

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A Colourful Post

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.

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Turning Over A New (Kale) Leaf

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.

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I'm Not Dead, I'm Just Unpacking

.... 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!

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Parents of 1961: Crueler, Hilarious & Probably Better Than Us

I'm in the midst of working on a bit of a follow-up to the 50s Housewife Experiment, and so I've been diving into more glorious vintage magazines. It's really a lot of fun to see what's changed and what hasn't. What I find most obvious is the impact political correctness has had on us all - including moi, the girl who doesn't care much for political correctness for political correctness' sake.

Don't get me wrong - it's not like I go out of my way to disrespect people or make people feel uncomfortable (hence why I started wearing a better bra). Being aware of others' feelings matters and if I'm using a term that is truly, legitimately a shitty thing to say (and not just a term someone 'dislikes'), I'd prefer to know about it than continue to be ignorant. However, I can't stand how some people like to make a point of policing every little word others say in fear of the risk of possibly, maybe, potentially insulting someone. Can't you just disagree with the way someone puts things (or their ideas) without turning it into a campaign? Ugh. We're becoming such language pussies.

While they're not alone nor is everyone among them this type of person (like the amazing and hilarious Kelly Oxford), one of today's more prominent roving vigilante gangs of PC-enforcers are the Mommy Bloggers / Social Media Moms. It's a sweeping generalization, I know. People have gone from writing an online diary about poopy diapers and those adorable things kids say to becoming a part of impressive online communities and networks that offer moms a ways of connection and commiseration - and companies an identifiable target to pander to. This is fine in itself; if peeps want to chat with each other and make cyber friendships, and if companies find a demographic that will buy what they're selling - more power to them. Plus, sometimes Mommy Bloggers and their social media firepower do a lot of good - like raise awareness and funds for childhood diseases, support a mom who's going through a rough time, or just simply provide a connection to others who are in the same position they're in. However, more and more, Mommy Bloggers have grown a reputation for creating a united front against anything mommies disagree with. And if a mommy disagrees with it - it's clearly wrong and should be scrubbed from the earth. At times, it feels like they're actually on the look-out for things to get all uppity over, or as I like to brand it:

Mommy Bloggers: Let's Get Offended™

The fact that there is a growing and noisy group of them, that they can spread the word quickly (via blog, Twitter, Facebook, etc.) and because they offer a certain coveted collective buying power, Mommy Bloggers and Social Media Moms have some perceived clout - and they really, really know it. Well, let me tell you - if BlogHer or any other lady / mommy network was transported to 1961, there would be a colossal pantshit and / or noisy-but-ultimately-not-really-bottom-line-impacting boycott of Ladies' Home Journal. (And, yes, I wrote that article I just linked to. I am nothing if not self-promoting.)

Here is what is entertaining me immensely today: "Cheerless Chubbies: Our Fat Children" by Dorris Conway in the April 1961 edition of Ladies' Home Journal:

"What causes your little fatty's insatiable hunger for food?" the article matter-of-factly asks. And without quotation marks around "fatty's" to suggest that they're simply using someone else's term and not their own? It surely paved a direct path to Hell, but, oh, how I howled. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I don't often laugh out loud by myself, but it totally happened when I saw that. And that's just the opener. Check out the rest:

Can you imagine someone telling a person that their child is "obviously too fat", has a "psychological problem" - or referring to them as "mothers of fatties"? Oh, the Mommy Blogger Indignation Machine would be fired up to an unheard of level. Dying.

Perhaps some of the most blunt reflections are from the mothers themselves, like Ernie's mother:

"... she can hardly believe that he's hers - with that repulsive spare tire around his middle and his pink, puffy face!" Oh, man, poor Ernie. "Repulsive"! I'm sitting here trying to visualize someone today daring to say such a thing about their own kid. I'd put money down that someone would call Child Protective Services on her. That said, even those in the 1960s acknowledged that Ernie's mother was being a bitch, in a round-about way:

Maybe I'm taking a leap, but I have the feeling that Mrs. Minton probably came to see and accept her own faults regarding her son more quickly when speaking with a doctor than if she had been shit on and shamed by hoards of self-righteous and offended mommy bloggers, but who knows.

And since this article is brimming with retro honesty, the issue of Ernie's obesity couldn't be mentioned without blaming her and other active mothers for contributing to the problem to begin with:

Now, I'm not going to disagree with the assessment above because it seems lady-blaming. My disagreement with it is just out of personal experience. Whenever I had a babysitter and I had some lame stories from school that I was "bursting" to tell - telling the babysitter was always way more enjoyable because she was a much more attentive audience than my own parents. Don't get me wrong - my parents are wonderful, loving, caring people. But you know how 'interesting' a seven-year-old's stories are? Unless by some miracle they've caught wind of actual adult gossip, their stories are the worst. "Oh, really? You tried to do a somersault in gym? And what happened? Nothing? No twist to the story? Well, holy fuck! I better call up the papers and let them in on that one." This is especially true if you have to hear their disconnected rattling streams of consciousness everyday, as most parents do. A babysitter, on the other hand, is paid to do what parents can't be bothered with be engaged and generally finds the experience of a chatty kid much more novel than tired parents or crusty assholes like me. Hence, having your kid yap to a babysitter after school doesn't strike me as a reason for being a "fatty."

I only include this snippet because of the frequency the f-word is used, by a doctor, at that:

Should you be curious about the solution, the article goes on to suggest that you should tackle the issue head-on: See a doctor, have them checked out, use a sensible doctor-approved diet, look for reasons that cause overeating (like boredom, unhappiness, mindless snacking in front of the TV - it existed even then!), and acknowledge how you, as parents, contribute to those issues - which you then must tackle as a family. In all, not bad advice.

To be clear, I'm not giggling at these children - I'm laughing at how much we've changed when it comes to how we speak about kids and parenting. I'm laughing at how shocking even I find the bluntness that was apparently pretty commonplace 50 years ago. I'm not suggesting that we go back to a day where we can casually refer to overweight kids as "little fatties" - but maybe we don't have to be so darn delicate about an obvious issue either. And I say that as someone whose seldom used Wii Fit character is more wide than it is tall.

With the exception of anonymous Internet trolls, we're so busy being offended or trying to avoid offending others that we (including doctors!) can no longer say things or be told things as they are. And to suggest that someone (be it a mom or a dad or the kid themselves) actually played a role or has some responsibility in an issue? Off with their heads! Diabetes, high cholesterol and a risk of early death are apparently nothing compared to a bruised ego. Good grief, are we ridiculous or what?

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My Latest First World Outrage

The other day Patrick offhandedly mentioned to me that a new bakery had opened up just down the street from us. Unlike most of the things he says, this got my immediate attention.

You can pretty much bet that any time the word 'bakery' is mentioned in my presence, I'll stop what I'm doing and make this noise:

(Link)

"Yah, it's an Albertan or Saskatchewan bakery or something?" he said. "I think it was called Prairie Girl."

And that's when I nearly crapped myself.

Since moving to Toronto from Alberta over ten years ago (OMG! Ten years?), I have been missing the sweet, sweet edible love that is western baked goods. Matrimonial Cake, Peanut Butter Slice, Puffed Wheat Squares, Regular and Mint Nanaimo Bars, Alberta Honey Tarts, Lemon Poppyseed Cake - and the Grand Poobah of prairie treats: Saskatoon Berry Pie.

*Droooooool* Source: Saskatoonberry.com

Whenever I've described Saskatoon berries to people, I hear, "So, they're like blueberries?" No, goddamit, they are NOT like blueberries. They are heaven in the mouth. They are sweet orbs of love. They are a taste sensation that your little Ontario minds can't wrap around. And when you put Saskatoon berries in pie (or pierogies, tarts, cobbler, crisp, pancakes ... *slobber*), you create perfection. Pure, calorie-filled perfection.

Surely a place called Prairie Girl Bakery would carry this western staple and satisfy my fix. So, despite being in the midst of some editing work, I put on my underwear shoes, grabbed my purse and headed out.

If you read my blog regularly, you'll by now know that if I've gone into detail about something I'm excited about and have a big, long lead-up for it, you know the story is headed toward something soul-crushing.

Like this:

Fucking. Cupcakes.

How dare they use the prairie name in vain! I didn't realize "prairie" had joined the ranks of other meaningless words like 'unique' and 'social media expert'. YOU KILL ME, PRAIRIE GIRL BAKERY.

Toronto surely needed another cupcake shop. But you have red velvet cupcakes, you say? WHO GIVES A SHIT. It's a cupcake with red friggin' dye in it. Enjoy eating ground-up bugs, you Upper Canadian hipster chumps! I HOPE YOU CHOKE ON IT.

WHERE'S MY SASKATOON BERRY PIE?!?!?

WHERE IS IT!?!?

AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAHHHHH!!!! AAAAAAHHHHH!!!

***

 
I have calmed down since initially writing this post, thanks to an emergency Ativan that we kept from one of my many previous run-ins with the dentist.

Now that I'm in a more mellow place, let me say that I do not bear Prairie Girl Bakery any ill will and will probably shop there one day. In fact, it's miraculous that cupcake crumbs aren't falling from my mouth and onto the keyboard as I type this.

However, should anyone know of a Toronto-based restaurant or "import" company that provides Saskatoon berries and Saskatoon berry products (besides jam and syrup - I've been able to hunt those down), please pass their name along to me. I will be their very best customer.

If there isn't such a place, there really should be. I mean, if we can get dragon fruit from Asia, we can surely ship some berries (or at worst - frozen Saskatoon berry pies) from a few provinces over, right? So, if you're an entrepreneur who wants to start a business but you just need a good idea, there it is: Saskatoon berries. And Puffed Wheat Squares. And Matrimonial Cake. Oh, also lacking? A good donair place. There - that's two good businesses (or one amazing business).

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Best Diet Ever?

Whenever I'm feeling peckish, I'll watch this video and lose my appetite.

Whenever I've just eaten, I'll watch this video and immediately throw up.

Skinny jeans, here I come!



Ok, but seriously, did anyone else suddenly think of the song "Ben" when they saw this?

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Lighten Up

This is an account of Day 4 of the 50s Housewife Experiment: Husband Obsessed Edition.

I've learned that a "good" 50s wife acts as her husband's press agent, so with that in mind, I'll avoid discussing why he was feeling shaky in the morning, and simply say that Patrick was a bit under the weather when he got up yesterday.

I figured it was best that I not make the breakfast I had intended to serve so as to not aggravate the situation. You merely need to see the beautiful picture of it (from Good Housekeeping's Egg and Cheese Dishes) to understand this decision:

Instead, I served him oatmeal, orange juice and toast. I didn't take a picture of it - I mean, you've all seen oatmeal before, right?

The change in plans was actually a good thing - I was beginning to feel like we were OD'ing on grease. Plus, the Eating Animals shirt I had received the day before was haunting me from the wardrobe like a ticking heart beneath the floorboards (not familiar with that reference? If you had a less than stellar English program at your high school, just think back to the episode of The Simpsons where Lisa was in the diorama contest).

Eating less fatty food is actually brought up in Help Your Husband Stay Alive! The author, Hannah Lees, is determined to show women how to avoid early widowhood by reducing the stress and risk factors in their husbands' lives. She suggests knowing how much your husband weighs and comparing it to weight charts published by insurance companies. It just so happens that on the first page of Redbook's May 1956 issue (which I just so happen to own), such a chart is printed (click to expand):
Considering that's what you're supposed to weigh while fully clothed and wearing shoes (2" heels, ladies!), I'm in trubs (ok, even if I was barefoot and stark nude I ain't hitting those numbers). Yikes, it's almost enough to make you take up a habit of ice cube-eating and vigorous Stairmastering. Well, not quite. Patrick isn't actually that far out of his ideal weight but it's enough that Lees would have insisted I take! action!

Some of her tips for 1950s dieting include:

• Serving "high energy" foods like steak, roasts, lamb, veal and hamburger
• Cutting down on all pork products
• Broiling foods instead of frying them
• Adding extra green vegetables and salads to meals, possibly even replacing potatoes, rice and macaroni
• Diluting whole milk with skim milk, eventually 'weening' him from whole milk altogether
  
• Serving fruit cocktails and gelatin instead of cake and pie
• Finding low calorie versions of favourite products (like bread, canned goods, cottage cheese and soft drinks)
  

All in all, it's not entirely crazy advice. She suggests avoiding the 'too-good-to-be-true diets' frequently advertised in magazines. Curious about the miracle diets available in the 1950s? Here's a sample of what I've found in my magazines, and even one that I spotted in my vintage Sears catalogue:

The before and after pictures kills me. That posture, that pout, those shoes!:

Yum, yum. I'm guessing this is the mother of Nutrisystem:
There's nothing I can say about this diet ("lose weight the way nature intended!") that hasn't already been said by the writers of South Park:

Smize and lize while you Relax-A-cize! You might recall that the Relax-A-cizor was actually featured in an episode of Mad Men (the one where fat-but-really-pregnant Peggy accidentally discovers the 'special glow' a girl gets from wearing her client's product). It's described in just as vague terms in the ad below:

Consider them all avoided (although it's interesting to see how little the diet industry has really changed, isn't it?).

As usual, the morning rushed by quickly and Patrick was home for lunch.

Emotional! Antennae! Activated! Husband Status: Tired

I kept things simple and in accordance with the dieting advice; I served Patrick a roast beef sandwich on enriched bread with a side salad and a glass of water. I even served his food to him on the couch so he could relax-A-cize a little more. The calm lunch seemed to settle his stomach and he went back to work with a bit more pep in his step.

I decided to do a simple meal-sized salad for dinner with bread and fruit for dessert. This meant my afternoon was freed up from the usual white sauce and meat cooking. I decided to visit my friend and neighbour, Siobhan, for a bit of tea at her place.

I've read a few 1950s-era articles and letters to the editors about housewives who moved to the suburbs where they really didn't know anyone. Their lives were purely focused on their husbands and their children, and without social outlets of their very own, they sort of lost a sense of themselves. The advice they often received was to basically stick it out and enjoy their children while they were young, as they'd kick themselves for being so sulky when their children were grown.

What crap advice.

I'm not one for pity parties, but I think the loneliness of women then (and now) should be taken seriously. Being able to have a break to chat with a friend today reinforced to me how important it is for people (be they female homemakers or not) to have moments for themselves, to shoot the shit, get a chance to vent and have a laugh with people they don't have to cook for and clean up after. I think doing this in-person is a really important element, too.

Why? Because visiting with Siobhan has a nice bonus: being able to crack up at whatever her 14-month old daughter, Charlotte, gets up to. Here's a pic of the kiddo, fresh from a nap. She's standing and walking around now like an actual human being. It's so weird and crazy and funny to see how she's changing and to see her personality emerge. I love her to bits.

The visit was quick but great (thanks, Shobe!) and I headed back to my apartment to get started on our healthy dinner.

It turns out that the Betty Crocker Picture Cook Book is excited about salads ...
Salads are easy enough for a man to make!
Salads bring the family together!
Salads are for lovers!

Just look at how frisky Grandma and Grandpa get when a salad is being tossed! She's getting hot, he's getting bothered, and I'm getting ... uncomfortable (where exactly are Grandpa's hands heading? Do they not see that small child right in front of them? Awkward.).

I had to wonder, though: would my salad bring out the horndog in my man?

Not quite.

Emotional! Antennae! Activated! Husband Status: Calm

When Patrick discovered that all that was for dinner was a big salad, some buns, and fruit cocktail (which I knew he wouldn't eat anyway as it included all sorts of things on his loathe list - but I was being hopeful after his recent mustard acceptance), his reaction wasn't exactly to start groping me.

"No meat?" he said confused.

"It's a healthy day," I replied.

"Meat can be healthy," he said.

"True, but we've been eating a lot of it lately. I think a night of salad will help clean out our systems from the recent Porkapalooza," I said.

"I'm fine with salad ... but we still have some leftover roast in the fridge, right?" he asked.

"Yes," I said with hesitation, "but let's see if we can do without it first."

"But if I have some roast beef, that won't be a problem, right?" he asked. A shit-eating grin then spread across his face and he turned his eyes toward The Nag Jar.

Oh, that dirty son of a ...

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A Dream Is Dead

Yesterday afternoon, when I pried myself away from the computer to grab something from the kitchen (imagine that), I immediately smelled something .... smokey. Frightened that I had left the oven on, I searched the kitchen for anything that could cause something to smolder. No burners were on, the oven was off, the microwave was off, the toaster wasn't plugged in - just the dishwasher was finishing its cycle. I stood there stretching my nostrils as wide as I could, tilting my nose upward, trying to detect where the smell could be coming from. The smell was distinct. Woodsy. Hickory. Smoked.

I remembered that right below our suite, a new wings and ribs restaurant was finishing renos and was about to open. The smell was exactly like a smokey, hickory BBQ sauce. There also just happens to be a vent in our kitchen that could plausibly be connected to the downstairs. I imagined that perhaps they were getting their kitchen ready and were starting a process of making vats and vats of rib sauce. I imagined this was just the beginning and that I'd be smelling more of these vats in my future.

I'm ashamed to say that I was not upset by the possibility of living in Wing Manor. I was thrilled. When Patrick came home, the smell had subsided, but I excitedly chatted with him about how good our place was going to constantly smell. Mmmm ... hickory smoked wings and ribs ... Mmmm. It would be like living in a BBQ hug.

Today I learned something new.

If you don't put things away properly in the dishwasher, they can fall to the bottom and be directly exposed to the heating and drying coil of the appliance. Like, say, this wooden spoon that I found in ours this morning:

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THE SECRET ...

... to being slim and cute ...

Ha - for a second, Jacquelyn was going to press the Comment button and continue her daily rage about The Secret - the world's lamest "new-age" trend. Alas, that is not what this post is about.

Today, we celebrated a birthday in our office in the only way North Americans know how to celebrate birth - lighting waxed items on fire and placing them on sugared, baked goods. In other words, a birthday cake, for all to enjoy.

So, anyway, I'm munching away ... lalala, bliss bliss, forgeting the hell that is my existence, eat, eat, eat ... when I notice that the office sprites, two young, exceptionally slender, cute girls that remind everyone of enchanting wood fairies except that they have a flair for marketing (and one of whom has a blog and appears now and again on MTV), have left half their cake behind. The good end, mind you, the awesome ass end. If for some reason you are filled with crazy and don't understand, this is end I speak of (many thanks, again, to Paint, the light of my design life, for making this graphic possible):
So ... looking content (or trying to look content, I can't tell), they stand up, ditch the beloved cake ass into the garbage and leave the room. BLASPHEMY. For me, eating the cakey part is practically torture. I trudge through it, saving the icing caboose as a reward ... you know, for all my hard cake-eating work.

And this rationale, ladies and gentlemen, is why I am the blessed "curvy" size that I am.

Sigh.

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Gem of a Gym

For the past few months - let's say July through present - I've taken on a few unhealthy habits: avoiding the gym, eating out regularly, drinking too mucha de booza, staying up late, having lots of coffee, dining on foods that start with "Big" and end in "Mac" ... the list goes on.

For an array of reasons, ranging from vanity to sanity, I've decided to put an end to this and get back on the healthy train. I've been reading more about nutrition, started making healthy meals again and have made my return to the gym.

But not just any gym.

Oh, no, sir. This is a swanky gym. It's actually part of the same chain of gyms that I'm a member of already, but this one is "superior", where you sweat in style. The place is just like a spa - it has lemon-infused waters, tea, personal saunas with eucalyptus filters, free primping products, leather massage chairs ... You'll notice that nowhere in my description is there a mention of anything calorie-burning. Really, you've seen one treadmill, you've seen them all.

But the best part about the gym, is how close it is to me. I can get up and be there in under 5 minutes, so I'm relieved of excuses. I have none. It's close, it has the equipment, it has the ever-important eucalyptus - and it's now a part of my day.

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Yay Me

I've done good since last posting. Good indeed. Here's how:
* I have not had any booze despite being handed a glass of champagne at work for a toast. I raised my glass and did the pretend drink thing where you keep your lips closed but look like you're tipping one back. NOW THAT'S RESTRAINT!
* I've kept to my diet plan and have been using my slow cooker! Chicken with Basil & Lemon is crockpotting itself right now.
* I've been seeing my personal trainer and I really like it. It's good to be excited to work out.
* I got a raise! I've been doing a swell enough job that they want to keep me and bumped up my salary even before I officially hit the end of my probation period. Wee!

It's now less than a month until I go to Mexico. Yay, yay, yay.

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Here Comes Santa Claus ...

... and that would be me and I don't mean in the jolly, generous way. More in the round, bloated way. Just in time to see my family again, I am pushing maximum density. YARRRG.

I'm at the point where I am just so, so uncomfortable with myself. I feel gross and dumpy and just 'not right'. And it is just such a lovely cherry on top of it all to be in this state of blob for a long-awaited family visit. I am a dolt.

My family is great. Wonderful. But we can't help but make little comments when someone has gained or lost weight. And we're not very good at being subtle when we check each other out to determine whether said weight has been lost or gained. Eyes always seem to settle on that new double-chin or the makings of a gut. No one means any harm - it's just the way we are. And this is what I keep thinking about as Friday approaches (my flight home is that night). Oh, Anxiety, you come around at the greatest times.

The new job (can I still call it 'new'?) has caused me to take on different habits that are really loaning themselves to this situation. I have:
* Been working late
* Getting up and going to work earlier than before
* Mindlessly eating my lunches at my desk due to the busyiness
* Enjoying the free Diet Cokes that are provided rather than drinking water

While I have joined a gym and have been going to it faithfully, I'm realizing that my eating has turned to crap. I haven't cooked a real meal from scratch since I don't know when. It's either frozen or pre-made or ordered in or out a box. Despite many of these things being 'calorie wise' they're still all loaded with crap that no doubt keeps my body in a state of storage. On top of that, I'm eating way later than I normally do in the evenings and skipping breakfasts.

All of this has mounted into my being where I am now: paunchy and borderline miserable.

Sigh. I know what I need to do. I just wish I had been doing it sooner.

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More Gym = Weight Gain?

What the bloody hell?

Despite hectic and long work days, I have managed to drag myself to the gym 3x a week. In addition to this, I've been bringing lunches to work in the form of Lean Cuisines and other calorie-aware frozen chemicals.

And what happens?

I GAIN WEIGHT.

And not just 0.5 lbs here, or there. LIKE 8 LBS. THAT ARE STAYING. LIKE BITCHES THAT CAN'T TAKE A HINT.

I'm so annoyed. It's not like I can try to dismiss it as muscle growth either. I'm mainly just doing cardio at the gym, plus, whenever I do weights it's not impressive. It's more like I'm casually grazing on the weight equipment like a cow, not totally sure of what I should be doing or if I should put a solid effort into whatever it is I'm trying.

GAAAAAAAH.

I'm going home to visit the parents this Xmas. I love them, but they ALWAYS notice if I've put on pounds. So. Not. What. I. Want. To. Deal. With.

And what annoys me most: It's that I'm consumed by this. How stupid. Of all things to fret about, eight pounds has my attention? I haven't even bothered to care about those poor hostages in whatever middle-eastern country. That's how bad I suck! I don't even know where the silly wankers are, but I do know how many ounces I am!

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Oh, Right ... Tuesday!

Ok, so ... I have not gained "TEN FUCKING POUNDS" but I have gained, all the same. This sucks, but was totally deserving because I didn't actually do much in the way of weight gain prevention let alone weight loss promotion. My bad.

I'd love to blame Patrick for this, as he continues to bring home chips on a weekly basis, but it's not like he forces them into a feed bag and straps it on my face. No, I do it to myself and need to smarten the fuck up. I need to just snap out of it and stick to the bigger, long-term priority over the short-term yummy, lazy, fatty pigfest known at our place as Saturday and Sunday.

Yesterday, I joined the gym. The money I dropped will not be revealed here, but it was sick. Tomorrow, I plan to actually go forth and use this gym membership. I just need to do SOMETHING, and the gym that is 2 minutes away from work is a hard thing to ignore (ha, who am I kidding, I RULE at ignoring obligation and work). But I will go. I need to form a habit, that for once, is actually positive and healthy, rather than those that make my breath stinky and my thighs expansive.

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