This morning when I was taking the crowded subway to work, I noticed in my peripheral that there was a man sitting across from where I was standing who was slowly checking me out.
From the corner of my eye I could see that he was starting at my face, was making his way slowly down my bod, down my legs, all the way to my ankles and then back up again. He didn't seem to care about how obvious he was.
It was a little boost of self-esteem, and I found myself casually trying to stand a little straighter as I oh-so-gently ran my fingers in my hair.
And then I decided to glance directly at him.
It turned out that he was asleep and was merely bobbing his head.
I wish the TTC had the means to gently electrocute passengers who disobeyed the courtesy rules of public transit.
I have it all worked out. Here's a small example of crimes and suggested punishments, based on what I've seen just this week while 'riding the rocket':
Wearing your backpack in a crowded subway: a wee reminder shock
Leaning on the poles when people are trying to hold onto them: a short buzz of electricity
Trying to get onto the subway while people are still filing out: a quick tazing
Pretending you don't notice the person with mobility issues who you should offer your seat to: a jaw-clenching jolt
Hello! The good people at the UK-based Appliances Online have asked if I could link to their Smeg appliances in exchange for my weight in Marmite and warm beer. I've long loved the retrodorableness of Smeg, so it was a corporate whoring made in heaven.
Who's ready for some vapid consumerism?! I AM. I swear I didn't spend this much time looking at things I wanted to buy before Pinterest came along. Now, looking at lovely things has practically become my hobby (and thanks to today's sponsored post, it's also my job. How great is that?).
One of my reoccurring fantasies is that if I won the lottery (I'm talking about All-That-Is-Wrong-With-The-World money), I'd buy one of those old homes in the Annex that has been split into several apartments and renovate each unit to reflect a different decade. I'd then rent out the apartments temporarily to professionals looking to do period photo or film shoots, or to people who wanted to host a fun dinner party or bridal / baby shower with a retro-ish theme.
SAD FACT: As you can see, I've actually spent time coming up with a business model to support my fantasy - because even in my dreams there is no way in hell, regardless of how rich we ever were, that Patrick would let me buy a million dollar house just to decorate for "funzies". I don't entirely blame him; I doubt I'd be jazzed to purchase a home that would pay homage to his interests. The Manchester United House of Hot Dogs would have to wait until after my ashes were scattered.
But anyway, BACK TO ME AND MY IMPORTANT POST. If I had three apartments to decorate, I think I would do Art Deco 1930s, Wartime '40s, and Mid-Century 1950s (that last one's a total surprise, right?). I'd obviously want to track down original pieces from those periods to put into the apartments, but realistically (and possibly safer in a health and fire hazard kind of way) I'd also snag vintage-inspired pieces, especially when it came to appliances.
So - wanna see what I'm what I've been up to today while I was "working from home"?:
1930s Art Deco Home Decor Inspiration (I'm down with the pinks in this era):
And this doesn't fit into any era accurately (although it has a lovely 1950s vibe) but I'd want it in ALL of these apartments: the Smeg washing machine. HOW ADORABLE IS THAT? It is killing me with cuteness:
Ok - so, if money was no object, what would you put in your vintage-inspired dream home? Which era turns your design crank the most?Read more...
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.
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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.
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":
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!:
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.
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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:
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?
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:
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).
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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.
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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.
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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.
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.
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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.
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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 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.
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My beloved former roommate Will used to describe things he was doing by likening the activity to a banshee. A sample sentence of this would be "Oh, I'm going to eat this like a banshee" or "I was sweating like a banshee trying to catch the streetcar." He'll probably kill me for using those real-life examples. Of course, it makes no sense to say these things, as a banshee is a screeching Irish ghost that wails when someone is about to die. They're not particularly known for gorging on cheese or perspiring through their shirts. (And if Will didn't want to kill me before, pretty sure he wants to now.)
But I can say with confidence that for the last few days, I have been cleaning like a banshee, moaning and howling as if I was going to die. My 50s Housewife Experiment, my mother's neat-freakisms and my rich Spanish and Portuguese heritage combined have failed to prepare me for the amount of work it would take to get our home presentation-worthy to put on the market. Depersonalizing, packing, decluttering, deep cleaning, moving furniture around, more deep cleaning based on what was revealed under said furniture, and then 'beautifying' took us a solid four days of dedicated work. I'll show you the pics of the result of this effort soon - probably tomorrow. All I have to say is that it had better be frigging worth it - I missed so much TV hanging out with friends because of this.
Since we've been so distracted with this banshee of a task, grocery shopping and cooking were nowhere on the radar. I honestly can't even tell you what I ate in the last few days as it was a total blur. I believe a sandwich artist was involved in at least one meal. And there were pretzels at one point. Maybe an apple.
The proof of this lack of food shopping can be found by looking in my fridge at the collection of edibles I like to call This Is Why You Have Acid Reflux:
So, condiments galore. Then assorted pickled peppers. And pickles. And Red Bull. And beer. And Pizza Pizza creamy garlic dipping sauce. And Parmesan cheese. Yup, all the food groups are well represented there. Before people come to look at our house I'm going to get a few things (oh, like, VEGETABLES) so that anyone who spots our fridge contents doesn't immediately think bad things about what our toilet encounters day in and day out.
This 1959 General Electric ad showcases all the great food you can store in it - like "MEATS", milk, cake, Coca Cola and a mystery bowl of something green and pink that you'll surely horrify your family with:
Any guesses? I'd like to believe that's just the design of her casserole dish, but I think we all know better by now, having experienced the wackiness that is 1950s cooking. I'm thinking it's a cabbage salad with frankfurters that is called something misrepresentative like "Deli Delight".
But even further down the ad is where the true WTF Gold lies:
Below the ridiculously large watermelon and below the (Strawberry? Ham? Strawberry and Ham?) mold is a fuck ton of dairy. 25 bottles - an incomprehensible amount for a family with a 15 cubic foot fridge. Did Little Johnny sneak a bottle of milk behind the school and now mom is going to teach him a lesson by making him drink a whole flat of them in one go? Is this some kind of sinister Hitchcockian message left by the milkman? I don't know, but if any family - and I don't care if you've bred like Duggars rabbits and have a boatload of children - drank that much dairy, I can guarantee you you'd all be bunged up. Like banshees.
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My name is Jen and I look like that picture at all times. I enjoy appetizers as entrees, fountains choreographed to music and television shows intended for teenage girls. Oh - and I really dislike it when people spell it "Jenn"; it's practically a phobia.
Chuck Lorre Club "music" CUPCAKES Extremism Factory farming Fruit-flavoured teas Humid days Hypocrisy (EXCEPT MINE) Laugh tracks Mice Mob mentalities Mondays My typos PC policing Prop 8 Self-defecation Sexy Halloween costumes Snakes Social media obsession Sports highlights The Easily Offended The Easily Outraged The Humourless The Super Cynical
Need words? I'm a Toronto-based freelance writer who injects great ones into blogs, websites, magazines, ads and more. So many services, one lovely Jen (with one 'n').
(the book)
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