Category Archives: story

Oh…That’s the Chest Cavity

The fiance is a fantastic cook, but when it comes to cooking things unfamiliar to him he’s woefully inept.  Once when I was sick I asked him to make some hard boiled eggs.  As somebody who hates eggs he was confounded. 

“How do I make hard boiled eggs?” he queried. 

“Um…put an egg in boiling water for a while.”

After the eggs had boiled away for a while he drained the water.  “Now what?” he asked. 

“Now you just remove the shell,” I replied.  Duh. 

“But won’t they run all over the place?”

“No you idiot.  You just hard boiled them.”

“Oh, is that what I’ve just done?”  Ha!  I still give him a hard time about that.

Tonight he ventured into the realm of poultry again, making his first roast chicken.  I observed him in the kitchen looking puzzled.  He grumbled, “there’s no way all this stuffing is going to fit in there.”


“Oh…that’s the chest cavity.  I was trying to stuff the chicken’s butt!”  Turns out he was trying to stuff the neck.  Which makes me wonder if he was planning on tying the wings together to cover the neck hole.  How does one confuse a neck hole with a butt hole?  Thankfully his knowledge of the female body is far better than his knowlege of chicken anatomy!


I Am My Wardrobe

There are many milestones that can signal becoming and adult.  Some consider turning 18 and being able to vote their transition into adulthood.  Other things like moving out of home, graduating from college, earning your first paycheck, buying a car, paying bills, living alone, buying your first home, getting married, or having your first child marks adulthood for some.  I’ve done all those things (minus the last two) but I’ve always still felt like a kid.

Last week I realised that I’m officially and adult.  No, the realisation didn’t come as a result of my 27th birthday (although at 27 I should feel like an adult).

I’ve been working on a project out in the factory for the past couple of weeks.  The factory is not the cleanest place around so I’ve been wearing “grubby” clothes.  These “grubby” clothes are the same clothes I wore throughout college, in the evenings and on weekends.  After five days of this routine I ran out of clothes.  When did I run out of ‘normal’ clothes, the clothes that I’ve been wearing my whole life?  I used to LIVE in jeans, t-shirts, flip-flops, running shoes, gym shorts, tank tops, yoga pants, and hoodies.  Anything with buttons was for special occasions.

Now my closet consists of sensible work pants, knee-length skirts, button-up blouses and comfortable heels.  Pretty, but not fun.  Adulthood, like my wardrobe, is sensible but kind of boring.

To the person who broke into my car:

Hey Asshole,

Thanks a lot for breaking my window.  What a great way to start the week!

The least you could have done is actually take something.  You’d be doing me a favour seeing as I need to clean out the car.  What, the scraggly old sweater in the back wasn’t good enough for you?  How about the broken fan in the boot?  No?  The two year old bottle of Advil with said Advil melted in a big brown lump not potent enough?  Jeez thieves are picky these days.

So now I’m out $450.  Not that I needed it for my mortgage or anything.  Plus the seat is soaked because it rained all night, so that’s an added bonus.

Word to the wise, thief: breaking into the crappiest car on the street won’t get you enough money to buy those drugs you so desperately need.  Why not go for the Mercedes parked behind me?  Or how about the BMW parked in front of me?  If I can’t afford a nice car, I probably can’t afford nice things to leave in it.  So you should have at least taken the Advil because those are the only drugs you’ll score as a result of breaking into my car.



Update: They did take something! The spare deodorant I keep in the glovebox.  So somewhere in Sydney is a thief that is presumably less stinky than they were the day before.


I’m seriously worried about my Mom’s sanity.  Today while talking on msn messenger this gem came through the interwebs from her fingers:

I was looking at a cute picture of a little monkey today and said, if i can’t have grandchildren now can i get a monkey?

Wow.  What do you say to that?

494e7f;>Roberto Gonzalez/Orlando Sentinel</span>

Apparently she’s not alone in her desire to be Mom to a monkey.  This article claims that there are people out there who actually buy monkeys and raise them as kids.

Many self-described “monkey people” don’t dare call them pets. They are playfully referred to as “monkids” and reared in a world of pierced ears, monogrammed clothes, a seat at the dinner table and their own bedrooms.

Some monkid parents must shop at Dior for Monkeys

When you have someone who spends $500 for monkey tops and bottoms, and this is your spring wardrobe, you know the pet is being taken care of.

Spending $500 on monkey clothes does not necessarily make you a good parent.  It does however, make you insane.

A Superficial Victory

I think we’ve already established that I’m lazy.  My weekends usually consist of me napping more than most cats and eating whatever requires the least amount of effort to prepare (cheese, chocolate, microwave burritos etc.).

I’m not much better during the week.  I’m a weekday slob.  As the only female in my department, I could wear the same outfit every day and nobody would notice.  In fact, I’ve often worn the same pair of pants to work five days in a row.  Luckily the dress code at our workplace is business casual so I basically wear whatever is clean.

If I put that little effort into how I dress, imagine how much attention I gave my hair.  You can correctly assume that doing my hair is low on my list of priorities.  Not only because I’m lazy, but because I have thick, dry, unmanageable hair.  My hair strategy: put it back in a ponytail and hope for the best.  In almost every photo of me from the past few years, my hair is either back in a ponytail or under a baseball cap.

Sure I’ve tried to make my hair cooperate, but no amount of blow drying or straightening on my part has ever lead to success.  I figured that all the hairdressers were miracle workers with special powers I could never attain.  Turns out those stupid magazines are right.  The right products make all the difference.

Today I claim victory over my unruly hair.  And all it took was moisturising shampoo, smoothing conditioner, smoothing serum, heat seal styling spray, a hair dryer, a boar bristle brush, a ceramic straightening iron, and the time it takes to watch Boston Legal. 

I feel that after twenty-something years of bad hair days, I have earned the right to brag.  My hair looks awesome!  It’s bouncy, wavy, shiny and all around glorious!  It took a crazy amount of work to get it looking this good, but even after sleeping on it my hair still looks fab.  I suppose I can’t claim total victory though because I do not have the time or patience to do this every day.

So, good hair days might become a monthly occurrence, which is a far more often than the four times a year I get my hair done by those aforementioned miracle workers.

RIP Favourite Jeans

We’ve been inseparable for more than eight years now.  We met at the GAP back in 1999.  I was a naive high school senior preparing for Winter.  They were a pair of low-rise, boot cut jeans without back pockets that made my butt look ass-tastic.  We were destined to spend a very long time together.

My previous pair of favourite jeans had been bordering on obscene for the past few months and had finally crossed the line from normal jeans to hooker-jeans, complete with an easy-access hole in the crotch and a rip for both knees and butt cheeks. 

Jeans are a lot like men; you have to try out a few before you find your perfect match.  I had to try out about 50 to find the one for me (50 pairs of jeans, that is).  Luckily, being rejected by a pair of jeans is far easier than having my heart broken, or experiencing another soulless one night stand.  My best friend has been there when I’ve had my heart broken and when I’ve looked for jeans.  I think she finds jeans shopping more painful. 

My jeans have always been there for me, through good times and bad.  We’re attached at the hip.  My favourite jeans are like a second skin.  We used to spend nearly every day together, but after college our time together was relegated to weekends and the occasional casual Friday.

Lately my jeans have started falling apart.  The seams are frayed, holes are starting to appear in inappropriate places, and no matter how hard my jeans try to help, my butt no longer looks ass-tastic.  We’re both getting older.  I’m a little fatter and the denim in my jeans is a little thinner. 

I’ve reached that critical point in any relationship where I have to decide whether to try to patch things up, or move on?  Sadly, I think it’s time to find a new favourite pair of jeans. 

I am a Danger to Myself and Others

I miraculously survived the long weekend, but not without nearly burning down the house.  Again.  Twice. 

To banish the burning pita bread smell that permeated the house from my previous adventure, I lit a few scented candles.  Then while attempting to exercise with the exercise ball, I pushed the newspaper over the flame with my foot.  The newspaper went up in flames.  I picked it up by the part that wasn’t burning, ran to the sink leaving a trail of ash in my wake, threw it in the kitchen sink and turned on the faucet.

The next day I  made tortellini for lunch and left the electric burner on the stove on…for three hours.  Not only a waste of energy, but a fire hazard.

I am such an idiot.  How I managed to survive past the age of 6 is anybody’s guess.

Now before you think that I’m completely incapable of caring for myself, I should say that apart from nearly burning down the house I had a very productive long weekend.  I not only tidied the house (put stuff away), but cleaned it as well. 

One fundamental difference between men and women is that men cannot see dirt.  Before the fiance moved in, he figured that as long as he kept clothes off the floor, the place was clean.  Tidy, yes.  Clean?  Not by a long shot!  

His whole apartment was carpeted and he didn’t even own a vacuum cleaner.  I avoided using his bathroom for fear of catching malaria or hepatitis.  When I began staying there more regularly I decided that something must be done.  Armed with thick rubber gloves, a variety of bathroom cleaning supplies (I had to purchase – there were none in the house), and a bottle of bleach, I got to work.  His small bathroom took FOUR HOURS to clean!  This place hadn’t seen a sponge in years.  I won’t get into the disgusting details but as you can imagine, it wasn’t pretty.  After that thorough clean, the weekly clean took a mere 5 minutes.

Now that we live together our cleaning habits have clashed.  I’m naturally untidy, meaning I leave clothes everywhere, and he doesn’t know how to clean.  He wouldn’t be able to identify a bottle of Windex or tell you where the sponges live.  He wants to get rid of the vacuum cleaner to make room in the closet for all our wine.  That’s not practical!

So I’m the cleaner in the house, but he makes up for his lack of cleaning ability by doing all the cooking and most of the laundry.  That’s why we work.  I can’t cook and he thinks the vacuum cleaner is a waste of space.  Without each other, I would starve and he would be neck deep in dust bunnies.  Not that he would notice.