Part of me actually believes I'll miss this seering cold when I one day don't live here anymore. Because, complain as I might about the extremes, there's still a tiny amount of enjoyment in planning your days around Arctic style temperatures. Justifying your coffee habit each morning and your hot chocolate each night. Something about cozying up on your couch each evening when you return home, with a fleece blanket, some hot soup and ridiculously hideous but comfortable fluffy pajamas you hope no one will ever have the misfortune to see you in, is the guiltiest of pleasures. It's quantifiable. You can be lazy in winter because that's what winter's for. Staying home and taking stock. No one can scold you about laziness when it's the same temperature as the North Pole. It helps when you have a big hunk of man to warm you up as well, I won't lie.
Besides, it's not like you can go for a jog.
That's what I tell myself anyway, as I slob around in old comfy red sweat pants with "Canada" embroidered on the leg, because I'm planning on staying home doing some work. It doesn't matter that I wouldn't be seen dead outside in them or that they have an ink stain right on the back seam making it look like I had some unnatural colored anal leakage.
This week I have to take care of the unpleasant weeding out of possessions for my big move in March. Whittling down all the things I don't need and working out how to move the things I do. Although El Cerebro's not coming till later in the year, he's about as useful as a chocolate coffee pot (but luckily also as tasty I think!) when it comes to organizing things for packing. He's like a lot of men, who think just tossing a bunch of clothing and items in a bag equates "packing". It's exasperating to me who likes to pack in a way everything fits at its most efficient. Underwear or socks rolled up inside shoes, every bit of space used. Not him. His packing always looks like he was escaping a burning building.
He's the same way with the dishwasher. I won't let him near it usually. I like to stack things logically and neatly and they always come out clean. Him? Things everywhere, all higgedly piggledy at all sorts of geometry defying, illogical angles. No, no, no!
Don't get me started on his desk. I think men just have a chromosome missing or something when it comes to logical order. But at least they come with some excellent benefits too, if you know what I mean, ladies?
Yep, the man can put up a shelf!
Reminiscing Your Way Out Of Winter
Sometimes I think the French have it right, at least when they're not surrendering or making us look at Gerard Depardieu. I came to this conclusion after a recent delightful afternoon enjoying mouth orgasms from eating croissants filled with melted chocolate, from a French bakery in town.
This made me remember that I went to France years ago, on a camping road trip with friends and when asked to sum up what was so wonderful about that trip, it's not the culture, the fields of golden sunflowers against a cornflower blue sky or the turquoise views of the French Riviera that are foremost in my memories, it's the food. Basically if you enjoy quaffing down scads of baked goods so delicious you'll melt, you will be at home in France with its exquisite cakes and pastries and fresh baked breads. It's a wonder anyone in France has seen their own feet in decades.
Every day we were there, we would get up early, find the local bakery, stuff those still warm, almond croissants down our faces in blissful contentment while sipping strong, fragrant coffee and then, fuelled up on pastry and caffeine, drive all morning. Before lunchtime arrived and everything closed down for the afternoon siesta, we'd stop in some rural village somewhere, once again find the local bakery and buy a bunch of fresh baked baguettes, get a lump of good, local cheese and some wine and go sit in a field somewhere to eat, drink and fall asleep in the long grass.
Every day was like that. Eat, drive, eat some more, sleep, drive some more, find a place to pitch the tent, have a shower, go out and eat again, sleep. Wash, rinse, repeat. Heaven.
Compare with my current early morning start: Smash alarm clock off the wall while grunting, "6am already, WTF?" in disbelief. Drag shivering carcass out of bed and fall asleep on toilet while peeing. Brew lame, no-name brand coffee and while it's doing its thing, take a shower that runs hot then cold at will, making me screech obscenities to all the neighbours. Get dressed and drink lame no-name coffee. Maybe eat a Poptart or if I'm really adventurous that day, oatmeal. Stub toe on bookshelf. Swear. Check temperature outside. Curse Canada and ask why it can't move closer to the equator.
Not a croissant or sunflower in sight. Sometimes it's just not fair.
This made me remember that I went to France years ago, on a camping road trip with friends and when asked to sum up what was so wonderful about that trip, it's not the culture, the fields of golden sunflowers against a cornflower blue sky or the turquoise views of the French Riviera that are foremost in my memories, it's the food. Basically if you enjoy quaffing down scads of baked goods so delicious you'll melt, you will be at home in France with its exquisite cakes and pastries and fresh baked breads. It's a wonder anyone in France has seen their own feet in decades.
Every day we were there, we would get up early, find the local bakery, stuff those still warm, almond croissants down our faces in blissful contentment while sipping strong, fragrant coffee and then, fuelled up on pastry and caffeine, drive all morning. Before lunchtime arrived and everything closed down for the afternoon siesta, we'd stop in some rural village somewhere, once again find the local bakery and buy a bunch of fresh baked baguettes, get a lump of good, local cheese and some wine and go sit in a field somewhere to eat, drink and fall asleep in the long grass.
Every day was like that. Eat, drive, eat some more, sleep, drive some more, find a place to pitch the tent, have a shower, go out and eat again, sleep. Wash, rinse, repeat. Heaven.
Compare with my current early morning start: Smash alarm clock off the wall while grunting, "6am already, WTF?" in disbelief. Drag shivering carcass out of bed and fall asleep on toilet while peeing. Brew lame, no-name brand coffee and while it's doing its thing, take a shower that runs hot then cold at will, making me screech obscenities to all the neighbours. Get dressed and drink lame no-name coffee. Maybe eat a Poptart or if I'm really adventurous that day, oatmeal. Stub toe on bookshelf. Swear. Check temperature outside. Curse Canada and ask why it can't move closer to the equator.
Not a croissant or sunflower in sight. Sometimes it's just not fair.
Oh Lord, A Serious One
I've realized lately that while some things in my life are not yet in a state of nirvana, I pretty much have a lot of sweet reasons to be happy and that I should learn to just appreciate what I do have as opposed to what I don't.
For instance, I have a boyfriend who bemuses me in his perfection. Sometimes I look at him and I think, "This is what I've waited for my whole life." And I'm genuinely amazed. Partly to think that I could ever be that sappy and partly because no one is ever the right one, are they? Yet somehow he is.
You see I used to be married. My husband was difficult. He wasn't a bad guy really, but he was a troubled one. He had more issues than the National Geographic. And I wasn't entirely aware of these issues before I married him, which made things extremely difficult later. I loved him but I couldn't help him in any way. He was jealous and devious. He suffered from an extreme form of depression and anxiety. He had a bad temper and was incredibly needy, due to abandonment issues stemming from his childhood and was not above resorting to emotional blackmail and extreme verbal abuse to get what he wanted. He sat around at home all day, doing nothing and getting more depressed while I was at work. And I was worried all the time. Every minute of every day. And worry makes you snappy and uptight. And that made us fight.
And I got sick of the panic. The dread of going home and not knowing what mood I'd find waiting for me. The moment he'd next pick a fight over nothing. The never being able to make him happy or solve his problems. Wondering where the rent was coming from with one wage. Knowing I'd have to get home from work and provide dinner and company and tread on eggshells all the time, while making him feel like the most important person in the world, even though I was exhausted and drained.
And it wore me down. Year after year I got more tired, more depressed, less like myself. Until I didn't recognize me anymore. As though I was hiding away deep inside myself and this facade had replaced me on the outside. I was introverted and quiet. And I had to get out because, although my heart was breaking because he was so troubled, so mentally sick and I just wanted him to feel better and function as a normal human being again, I was fading away into a haze of depression and anxiety myself and I had to do something or go down with the ship. The last two years we were married I was drowning and I'd forgotten how to swim.
So I saved myself. I felt guilty over it. I felt devastated. I didn't respond to his harassment or attempts to humiliate or belittle me. His threats or his attacks. I got out and I stayed out. And slowly, over the last few years, the real me tentatively stepped out from her hiding place and found a path back.
El Cerebro gets me. I never really expected anyone to understand me fully. No one ever has. But he truly gets me. We are both mellow, laid back people who rarely get angry or frustrated. We never fight. We laugh at the same inappropriate things. Where I used to feel aggravated and snappy, I now feel relaxed and happy. I finally understand when people say, "he's my soul mate" or other things I previously thought corny. We're like two halves of one entity.
Even I barfed reading that. I do apologize.
But I never dread coming home. I never lie awake at night worrying about El Cerebro or wondering what horrific mood tomorrow will bring, I just go with the flow. I look forward to things again and although it sounds like such a small thing, it makes all the difference in the world.
For instance, I have a boyfriend who bemuses me in his perfection. Sometimes I look at him and I think, "This is what I've waited for my whole life." And I'm genuinely amazed. Partly to think that I could ever be that sappy and partly because no one is ever the right one, are they? Yet somehow he is.
You see I used to be married. My husband was difficult. He wasn't a bad guy really, but he was a troubled one. He had more issues than the National Geographic. And I wasn't entirely aware of these issues before I married him, which made things extremely difficult later. I loved him but I couldn't help him in any way. He was jealous and devious. He suffered from an extreme form of depression and anxiety. He had a bad temper and was incredibly needy, due to abandonment issues stemming from his childhood and was not above resorting to emotional blackmail and extreme verbal abuse to get what he wanted. He sat around at home all day, doing nothing and getting more depressed while I was at work. And I was worried all the time. Every minute of every day. And worry makes you snappy and uptight. And that made us fight.
And I got sick of the panic. The dread of going home and not knowing what mood I'd find waiting for me. The moment he'd next pick a fight over nothing. The never being able to make him happy or solve his problems. Wondering where the rent was coming from with one wage. Knowing I'd have to get home from work and provide dinner and company and tread on eggshells all the time, while making him feel like the most important person in the world, even though I was exhausted and drained.
And it wore me down. Year after year I got more tired, more depressed, less like myself. Until I didn't recognize me anymore. As though I was hiding away deep inside myself and this facade had replaced me on the outside. I was introverted and quiet. And I had to get out because, although my heart was breaking because he was so troubled, so mentally sick and I just wanted him to feel better and function as a normal human being again, I was fading away into a haze of depression and anxiety myself and I had to do something or go down with the ship. The last two years we were married I was drowning and I'd forgotten how to swim.
So I saved myself. I felt guilty over it. I felt devastated. I didn't respond to his harassment or attempts to humiliate or belittle me. His threats or his attacks. I got out and I stayed out. And slowly, over the last few years, the real me tentatively stepped out from her hiding place and found a path back.
El Cerebro gets me. I never really expected anyone to understand me fully. No one ever has. But he truly gets me. We are both mellow, laid back people who rarely get angry or frustrated. We never fight. We laugh at the same inappropriate things. Where I used to feel aggravated and snappy, I now feel relaxed and happy. I finally understand when people say, "he's my soul mate" or other things I previously thought corny. We're like two halves of one entity.
Even I barfed reading that. I do apologize.
But I never dread coming home. I never lie awake at night worrying about El Cerebro or wondering what horrific mood tomorrow will bring, I just go with the flow. I look forward to things again and although it sounds like such a small thing, it makes all the difference in the world.
Sundays Are For Nothing
Some weekends are a delightful waste of time. When I was younger, I was driven by the unqualified belief that to be using your time productively, you had to be doing something at all times. Creating. Doing. Nowadays, I’ve realized that you can provide satisfaction in your life by having periods of complete inertia without ruining anything at all. Lazing around watching movies or napping or reading trashy magazines are all fine.
This weekend I finally got my new laptop. Getting the new machine demonstrated immediately just how antiquated my old computer was. This one is a little powerhouse with a great powerful processor, a shiny bright widescreen, lots of hard drive space and giant quantities of RAM. It zips through programs like a warm spoon through gelato.
As if on cue, yesterday, while moving the last batch of photos and files to their new home over here, the old machine froze and died. Like it had been holding on and now it didn’t have to anymore.
It’s really sort of sad. But at least timely.
El Cerebro’s parents are off on their annual three week vacation to Mexico today, making me drool with envy and long for balmy nights on their balcony drinking a cold Corona and looking at the ocean. All I can see is a hazy, white frozen highway and some naked trees from my window. It hardly seems fair. Of course, they don’t get to witness the antics of a large, pale, naked, wobbling man in an opposite apartment, dancing to Madonna.
So it’s really a trade-off.
Start the New Year With A Bang!
Another year, another adventure I like to say. Actually I’ve never said that but it seems like a good motto going forward, I think. What will 2011 bring? Hang Gliding maybe, I’ve always wanted to try it. Or Para-gliding. Maybe water skiing or becoming a better cook. Who knows, it’s early days yet. But I like the throbbing possibility that anything is within my reach, because the turn of another year means a blank slate ready to be written. I’ve already been trying to drink more water and pledge my sanity to tomatoes instead of cheese, so that’s a start.
I don’t normally bother with resolutions, mainly because honestly, who ever keeps them for more than a week? I’m like everyone else. I want to eat better, exercise more and be svelte and sexy by summer so I can let my pale limbs loose on the world without terrifying small children or dogs. I’d settle for dogs. I like dogs! Small children terrify me with their incessant questions and their silent scrutiny, I’d really welcome a reason to blind them with my pasty white, untoned appendages.
Instead of resolutions I decided to write a list of ten things, that in a fantastical, beautiful existence, I would absolutely accomplish this year.
1) Grow two more inches so I can finally be five foot eight and pants would fit me properly without hemming
2) Learn to appreciate good wine instead of whatever’s on sale
3) Go to Spain and speak Spanish complete with sexy accent and tantalize the locals with my giant beauty that is mainly just in my head
4) Do something naked and scandalous with Captain Mal Reynolds from “Firefly”.
5) Get a haircut that costs more than twenty bucks for a change and that doesn’t look like I drank a forty of gin and hacked it off myself with a carving knife
6) Do something else naked and scandalous with Captain Mal Reynolds from “Firefly”
7) Invent creamy, great tasting, yet aspartame and calorie-free chocolate that is full of vitamins and therefore good for you
8) Get rich from above invention and possibly win the Nobel Peace Prize
9) Go somewhere tropical and drink cocktails with umbrellas in them, till I pop. These will be magic cocktails that are not only good for you but make you slimmer and look like you’re 25.
10) Maybe I could do another naked and scandalous thing with Captain Mal Reynolds from “Firefly”. You know…three’s the charm and all that.
Happy new year, everyone!
Resolution Schmesolution
It’s at this time of the year a person starts taking stock of their life and resolving to fix all the holes. We all do it, every year, and by January 6th we’re all over it and back to our bad ways. We get all gung ho about exercise and our health then in a few days realize “what’s life without chocolate?” and gasp at the error of our ways, cutting out one of the things that makes life that little bit nicer.
I’m hoping 2011 will be a nice balanced year. I’ll do the exercise and eat the salad but I’ll also have a nice piece of good chocolate or a cupcake now and then. I’ll drink more water but I won’t beat myself up if the odd glass of wine or beer or soda creep in here and there. I’ll take a language class or something to keep my brain ticking. I’ll start drawing again.
I also will try to stop growling at Olay commercials featuring 17 year old pouting girls, promising to make all my fine lines disappear and turn me into some sort of feral, smooth skinned, supermodel, because obviously once you hit 40 you’re an eyesore that must be corrected or no one will want you to go out in public. Surely there are better ways to spend our time than worrying that we’re too fat, too wrinkled, too old or too late? It’s not constructive at all.
I’ve also resolved to learn to cook more dishes. I don’t have a great repertoire in the kitchen, if I’m perfectly honest. The few dishes I can cook, I can cook pretty well but I need some expansion in my menu. I have collected some fine sounding recipes and aim to start actually producing them for dinner in the new year. El Cerebro, being a man, and “a man” being a synonym for “I am hungry 100% of the time”, is very encouraging in my intention to use him as a guinea pig for my new meal ideas. He’s even offered to provide Gordon Ramsey type advice if I need a little support. Like there isn’t enough swearing in a kitchen while I’m cooking without a copycat of a blonde mop top Englishman turning purple and screaming “Call that Risotto, you fat little cow!” in my face.
First on my new experimental menu - a breakfast snack: Bacon and cheese cornbread muffins. Yes please. For weekends only. The rest of the week will be Special K and growling at myself in the mirror.
2011 is going to be a year of change, there’s no doubt about that. I’m going to be moving in the spring, for work. I’m going to be doing new things. It’s kind of scary. And kind of exhilarating.
Hope your new year is equally satisfactory. Be healthy but don’t deprive yourself either. What’s health without happiness now and then?
Christmas Cheer Is Code For “You Are Fat”
Well that was Christmas. Another year’s culminating in an over-indulgence of confectionary and alcohol and zero exercise. I’m absolutely certain that I managed to grow a muffin top in the last week that could shelter a family of orphans from a typhoon. Either that or my jeans shrunk in the wash. I prefer to think that’s the reason. They do that, don’t they? Denim just isn’t what it used to be and everyone knows if your jeans are too tight you get muffin spillage and that it’s absolutely not your fault. It’s nothing to do with being FAT or anything.
Cough.
Things went well for El Cerebro and I. Snacking, movie watching, more grazing, napping every few hours to keep up our eating stamina, then last night, happy and relaxed, we had to watch several ultra somber commercials reminding us that there are poor African orphans out there that have nothing more than sand to eat this Christmas. We were so consumed by guilt that I felt compelled to bake a chocolate cobbler and whip up some cream to soothe our conscience. Because when we feel guilty we eat. And we needed comfort. Seriously though, what’s with the guilt tripping on Christmas? I feel beyond sad that there are people in the world with nothing to eat and severe circumstances, but part of me is a little peeved at being reminded of it while I’m shovelling pie into my face.
Like everyone else in this free world of excess, I’m determined that the second the clock strikes in 2011 I will be a changed person. I will eat lettuce and other green things that aren’t candy. I will drink more water. I will buy a treadmill and run on it several times a week, clutching a fancy reusable water bottle and sporting a healthy ponytail.
Naturally, when I say “the second the clock strikes in 2011”, I actually mean when I wake up hungover the next morning and definitely after the customary hang over breakfast of grilled cheese. Just so we are clear.
Anyway, Santa was good to me. He brought me a handmade voucher promising me a new laptop once I choose one (yay!) some excellent clothing articles, and a fun new toy that’s especially for ladies and requires ahem…batteries.
I hope you all were as lucky.
Won't Someone Think Of The Workers?
We've all done shitty jobs in our time. Years ago, just after college, I worked, for a period, in a novelty gift store. I'm not talking about naughty adult novelties or anything remotely fun like that - although we did stock chunky chocolate penises at one point, which constantly made our elderly clientele cluck disapprovingly and our cheapskate teenage shoppers blush and giggle with joy as they fingered the chocolate shaft and nudged their companions.
For the record, the chocolate was nasty. I know because one afternoon, during the holiday season, after a hectic morning with no time for food breaks and shaking from lack of sustenance, I gobbled one up, remembering to pay for it first, in case our shrill harpy of a district manager showed up and caught me snarfing down penises from in-store stock. You haven't really experienced life until you've stood at a cash register ringing up sales with one hand and wielding a half eaten chocolate penis in the other.
As you can probably imagine, working in a store filled with cheap, plastic novelty gifts, you had a particularly busy period around Christmas, when everyone and his uncle would come in and buy some crappy plastic piece of trash that would probably break in two days. This time of year was a chore that involved long painful 12 hour days on our feet and working seven days a week for minimum wage, all while pretending to be uber excited about flashlights that played the national anthem and cookie cutters shaped like giant bottoms or boobies. We never got bonuses or two days off in a row. We were the lowest of the low.
The best and worst parts of the job were the customers themselves. There were some regulars who were wonderful lovely people. Who'd brighten your entire day by coming in and being pleasant. Then there were others who'd make life a living hell with their nastiness. You learned to gauge them and handle them accordingly. Last night, while trudging around The Superstore buying holiday snacks, I saw how harassed cashiers were, by customers demanding reductions and hurling accusations about broken packaging or prices.
Working my old retail job was the entire reason that I am as nice as possible to cashiers and store workers these days. It's a thankless job for very little money where you have to pretend that some arrogant blowhard customer is always right when they are clearly not. Where you work every holiday while others are relaxing and where you are constantly pulled in on days off to cover for someone else. Everything is your fault and you take on the whole reputation of the company if someone has a complaint.
So if you're working in some godforsaken hell of a store this Christmas, dealing with sale shoppers and last minute gift buyers, bless you and your blisters. You deserve some extra strong eggnog and maybe a chocolate penis.
For the record, the chocolate was nasty. I know because one afternoon, during the holiday season, after a hectic morning with no time for food breaks and shaking from lack of sustenance, I gobbled one up, remembering to pay for it first, in case our shrill harpy of a district manager showed up and caught me snarfing down penises from in-store stock. You haven't really experienced life until you've stood at a cash register ringing up sales with one hand and wielding a half eaten chocolate penis in the other.
As you can probably imagine, working in a store filled with cheap, plastic novelty gifts, you had a particularly busy period around Christmas, when everyone and his uncle would come in and buy some crappy plastic piece of trash that would probably break in two days. This time of year was a chore that involved long painful 12 hour days on our feet and working seven days a week for minimum wage, all while pretending to be uber excited about flashlights that played the national anthem and cookie cutters shaped like giant bottoms or boobies. We never got bonuses or two days off in a row. We were the lowest of the low.
The best and worst parts of the job were the customers themselves. There were some regulars who were wonderful lovely people. Who'd brighten your entire day by coming in and being pleasant. Then there were others who'd make life a living hell with their nastiness. You learned to gauge them and handle them accordingly. Last night, while trudging around The Superstore buying holiday snacks, I saw how harassed cashiers were, by customers demanding reductions and hurling accusations about broken packaging or prices.
Working my old retail job was the entire reason that I am as nice as possible to cashiers and store workers these days. It's a thankless job for very little money where you have to pretend that some arrogant blowhard customer is always right when they are clearly not. Where you work every holiday while others are relaxing and where you are constantly pulled in on days off to cover for someone else. Everything is your fault and you take on the whole reputation of the company if someone has a complaint.
So if you're working in some godforsaken hell of a store this Christmas, dealing with sale shoppers and last minute gift buyers, bless you and your blisters. You deserve some extra strong eggnog and maybe a chocolate penis.
Feliz Navidad
As I have no real family obligations this Christmas, I'm in a state of high anticipation. I'm envisioning entire days spent in my flannel pajamas and a bathrobe with an enviable bedhead, watching "Diehard" movies with my boyfriend, El Cerebro.
Instead of spending all day cooking a giant traditional meal, I will eat festive buffet snacks and chocolate, while nursing a nice glass of red wine at all times, my feet propped up on an ottoman, poised like a beautiful lady villain from a James Bond movie, only with substantially less chance of being caught pouting sexily as I plant a bomb in a Russian embassy before bedding the suave 007. And perhaps a bit less grace and beauty.
It's not that we have anything against family Christmases. El Cerebro and I both are blessed with rather splendiferous families who all get along swimmingly and provide many hours of informal hilarity, however, as both of our families live far away, we delighted in opting out this year in order to indulge our own mean feast of awe inspiring selfishness right here at home. The possibilities are endless. We could dance naked, except for chocolate body paint, around the Christmas tree, drinking eggnog if we so desired. We could stay up all night playing video games then get up at noon and stay in pajamas all day long without anyone frowning at us. We can eat chocolate. For breakfast!
Our fantastic lazy Christmas will involve having a buffet table stacked with snacks and drinks and some desserts and of course, booze of varying types which we will dip into all day whenever the mood takes us. Tonight we go shopping for some tasty cheeses, crackers, pickled items, cocktail sticks, maraschino cherries, variety of breads, condiments, dips and chips and some wine and spirits. It's shaping up to be quite the holiday - a feast of food, drink, naps, debauchery and movie watching, while avoiding going out in the snow.
There will be devilled eggs and home made potato salad, stuffed olives, caramel shortcake, cheese balls and cocktail sticks loaded with sweet pickled onions with strong cheddar and pineapple chunks. There will be assorted chips and dips and carrot sticks and carmelized onion hummus.
There will be gluttony on high and much drooling. And a wetbar!
Then on Sunday we will lie around groaning and holding our stomachs before tucking into leftovers and wine and complaining about our swollen bellies and starting diets.
May all your holidays be as jolly.
Instead of spending all day cooking a giant traditional meal, I will eat festive buffet snacks and chocolate, while nursing a nice glass of red wine at all times, my feet propped up on an ottoman, poised like a beautiful lady villain from a James Bond movie, only with substantially less chance of being caught pouting sexily as I plant a bomb in a Russian embassy before bedding the suave 007. And perhaps a bit less grace and beauty.
It's not that we have anything against family Christmases. El Cerebro and I both are blessed with rather splendiferous families who all get along swimmingly and provide many hours of informal hilarity, however, as both of our families live far away, we delighted in opting out this year in order to indulge our own mean feast of awe inspiring selfishness right here at home. The possibilities are endless. We could dance naked, except for chocolate body paint, around the Christmas tree, drinking eggnog if we so desired. We could stay up all night playing video games then get up at noon and stay in pajamas all day long without anyone frowning at us. We can eat chocolate. For breakfast!
Our fantastic lazy Christmas will involve having a buffet table stacked with snacks and drinks and some desserts and of course, booze of varying types which we will dip into all day whenever the mood takes us. Tonight we go shopping for some tasty cheeses, crackers, pickled items, cocktail sticks, maraschino cherries, variety of breads, condiments, dips and chips and some wine and spirits. It's shaping up to be quite the holiday - a feast of food, drink, naps, debauchery and movie watching, while avoiding going out in the snow.
There will be devilled eggs and home made potato salad, stuffed olives, caramel shortcake, cheese balls and cocktail sticks loaded with sweet pickled onions with strong cheddar and pineapple chunks. There will be assorted chips and dips and carrot sticks and carmelized onion hummus.
There will be gluttony on high and much drooling. And a wetbar!
Then on Sunday we will lie around groaning and holding our stomachs before tucking into leftovers and wine and complaining about our swollen bellies and starting diets.
May all your holidays be as jolly.
Out With The Old, In With The Shiny New
I'm currently in the market for a new laptop. My current one, or "Old Faithful" as I like to call it, has been showing signs of dementia of late. In her colossal eight year lifespan she's been upgraded, expanded and pushed to her very limits each and every day with my giant graphic and media demands, my music and video libraries, my photo folders and home videos and useless applications I've acquired gleefully, used once then never gotten around to removing. She's charged my iPod, allowed me to make phone calls, send inane instant messages to my boyfriend regarding the current state of his penis and to finally watch that infamous Pam Anderson/Tommy Lee video (seriously, what was all the fuss about?)
Sadly she's not long for this world. I mean "Old Faithful" here, not Pam Anderson. I believe she'll outlive the cockroaches in any apocalypse.
Christmas is no time to shop for a laptop. If you're thinking about it, just don't. There are laptops everywhere, advertised in shiny letters. You read specs until your head is spinning, then, when you make a decision - this processor or that, this hard drive capacity or x amount more for the maximum, this screen or that - the computer you finally select is not available. Anywhere. Infuriation.
Much as I have a childlike excitement for my impending new companion, I'm sort of dreading saying goodbye to "Old Faithful" and the good times we have shared. The time I Photoshopped my boss's head onto that of a jackass, for example. A jackass that was in the midst of depositing the remains of his lunch, from his rear end.
The time I Photoshopped my boss's head onto a tranny prostitute and gave him ruby red lips. I wasn't at all fond of that man, perhaps you can tell?
The time "Old Faithful" caught a nasty virus from some research I was doing into online fetish porn sites. I'm not even kidding either, it was for an article I was writing, not personal interest. That research was eye opening in its hideousness. There are certain things you never want to see being done to a vagina. "Old Faithful" will attest to it though. You can get diseases even from online whores. I'll go back to being somewhat vanilla in my sexual tastes if I can go back to unseeing most of the stuff involving bodily fluids I witnessed during that article.
Then there was the time I dropped "Old Faithful" on my own foot during a foolish foray with some rum and some stairs. She isn't exactly a slimline lightweight either. She's like the girl in gym class who won every event - sturdy, stalky, freckled, athletic and built like a brick latrine. Nice personality and accommodating but you wouldn't want her sitting on you for long. I checked "Old Faithful" over thoroughly and anxiously but she was okay in her tank-like perfection. I limped for three weeks and had to endure months of my colleagues calling me "Kaiser Soze".
Still I'm excited for a shiny new gadget to corrupt and fill with my fine files. And maybe this time she'll actually be portable without a forklift and three sturdy men.
Or "he". I'm an equal opportunities tech buyer, you know.
Sadly she's not long for this world. I mean "Old Faithful" here, not Pam Anderson. I believe she'll outlive the cockroaches in any apocalypse.
Christmas is no time to shop for a laptop. If you're thinking about it, just don't. There are laptops everywhere, advertised in shiny letters. You read specs until your head is spinning, then, when you make a decision - this processor or that, this hard drive capacity or x amount more for the maximum, this screen or that - the computer you finally select is not available. Anywhere. Infuriation.
Much as I have a childlike excitement for my impending new companion, I'm sort of dreading saying goodbye to "Old Faithful" and the good times we have shared. The time I Photoshopped my boss's head onto that of a jackass, for example. A jackass that was in the midst of depositing the remains of his lunch, from his rear end.
The time I Photoshopped my boss's head onto a tranny prostitute and gave him ruby red lips. I wasn't at all fond of that man, perhaps you can tell?
The time "Old Faithful" caught a nasty virus from some research I was doing into online fetish porn sites. I'm not even kidding either, it was for an article I was writing, not personal interest. That research was eye opening in its hideousness. There are certain things you never want to see being done to a vagina. "Old Faithful" will attest to it though. You can get diseases even from online whores. I'll go back to being somewhat vanilla in my sexual tastes if I can go back to unseeing most of the stuff involving bodily fluids I witnessed during that article.
Then there was the time I dropped "Old Faithful" on my own foot during a foolish foray with some rum and some stairs. She isn't exactly a slimline lightweight either. She's like the girl in gym class who won every event - sturdy, stalky, freckled, athletic and built like a brick latrine. Nice personality and accommodating but you wouldn't want her sitting on you for long. I checked "Old Faithful" over thoroughly and anxiously but she was okay in her tank-like perfection. I limped for three weeks and had to endure months of my colleagues calling me "Kaiser Soze".
Still I'm excited for a shiny new gadget to corrupt and fill with my fine files. And maybe this time she'll actually be portable without a forklift and three sturdy men.
Or "he". I'm an equal opportunities tech buyer, you know.
