Too ugly to be seen

There are a number of "firsts" you can count on when the weather gets delightful and hot in Toronto. For example, you can count on the first time you have a bbq, the first time you prance around in a bikini, the first smog advisory day of the year...and the first Crazy Asian Sun Visor spotting. You know you've seen them. They have a hinge and can be worn straight out like a "normal" visor, or flipped down to obscure the entire face. They are so unbelievably ugly. Eric and I were driving past Pacific Mall a couple weeks ago, and both spotted, at the same time, a Chinese woman wearing a full-face visor crossing the street. We both started to gag exaggeratedly, and went on a typical tirade about the ugliness of the sun visor craze. This has been on my mind for years now.

Time to bitch, yo.

What the hell is up with those crazy tinted full-face sun visors that the Chineses wear? They are hideous! Totally and completely hideous! What does this look say to you? I am a welder? Luke, I am your father? I am too ugly to be seen? I have disgraced the family honour by not getting 100% in math school/quitting piano/not becoming a doctor, and now must hide my face in shame?

No, most likely, it's: I am so obsessively terrified of getting sun on my face, that I forgo all sense of fashion and attractiveness.

Man.

I remember the first time I ever saw a Crazy Asian Sun Visor. I was going for dim sum with my Mom one day in the summer, and we were walking through the Pacific Mall parking lot to get to Market Village. Suddenly, I grabbed her arm.

Carol: Mom! OMG!! Look at that woman driving, she's wearing a black plastic face mask! She can't see!!

Mom: Wah! Kuy chee seen!! Kuy deem yeung ja cheh?!!

Carol: Aw deem gee, ah?!! Oh. Ohhhh, I think it's a visor, Mom. Wow, yeah it's just a really dark visor.

Mom: So ugly!

This was one of those summers when I worked for my dad from home, and would go out for dim sum with my Mom about 3 times a week. So we were at the Chinese malls a lot. These things had cropped up overnight, and taken the Toronto-Chinese population by storm.



Unlike most of my race, I love the sun. I love to tan, I love having a healthy sunny glow. And in my opinion, I look kind of ill when I don't have at least a little bit of a tan. I don't have the same issues as blonde-haired, blue-eyed, fair skinned beauties who burn if they so much as glance out the window at the sun. So why not enjoy the sun in moderation?

My poor mother. I suspect that she's secretly a little bit torn over this issue. She's vain (that's where I get it from), and she honestly thinks these visors are ugly as sin. But the Chinese are a practical people. Ever wonder why we would pick rice up with chopsticks and eat it that way? We don't! It's a stupid and impractical idea. We use the chopsticks to shovel the rice over the edge of the bowl, into our mouths. It works great. I know that my mother's practical side sees the benefits of these Crazy Asian Sun Visors, and if I wasn't such an adamently vocal bitch about the whole thing, she might have given in and gotten one. Ah well, too bad. No mother of mine will be seen wearing the headgear of ugly crazy.

Yay summer is here.

Bye bye car

Tomorrow, the lease is up on our little Mazda Protege5. Eric just left to take it to the dealership; they're going to clean and assess it tomorrow during the day, and then at night, we'll go back to sign some paperwork and it will be all done.

I knew all of this would be happening, but when Eric came to pick me up from work today, and I opened the passenger door to get in, it suddenly struck me - this was the last time I would be picked up from work in this car. Our dear little peppy car was going to be given back to Mazda, and sold to someone else. And I suddenly felt extremely sad. So sad that I started crying, and continued to cry all the way home.

I thought, what if our poor little car doesn't know we're giving it back? What if it just thinks it's being taken to get all cleaned up for summer? We love cleaning our car, and every time we get it back from the detailing place, it's shining proudly, "See Mommy? See Daddy? I'm like new!" And then we drive away together, a happy family.

Eric will drop it off tonight, and our car will be happily oblivious. And then tomorrow, when we return, it will wait patiently for us to finish whatever we're doing and take it home again. But instead, we'll just sign some papers, say goodbye, and get into another car, and leave it there at the big cold dealership lot! Our poor car! It won't know what happened!

Will it be sad? Will it miss us? Will it wonder what it did to make us return it?

After we got home, I sobbed for about 20 minutes while Eric handed me tissues. He suggested ways we could possibly keep the car, but none made any sense. We agreed that this was for the best. Later, then we took a big bag and went down to the parking garage to clean out our cds and maps. Rather, I started weeping once I saw the car again, and sat in the backseat crying while Eric cleaned out the cds and maps. Then we took one last little drive around the neighbourhood, and tried to explain to the car why it had to go. And I said goodbye.

Eric dropped me back off at the condo, and I handed over my car key. He's gone to the dealership by himself - I would have cried all the way there, and likely also once we got there, and that would have been embarrassing. He's sad too, I can tell. He probably doesn't think the car has feelings, but he's really going to miss the sport shift and the moonroof.

It's a sad day.

It's probably not a good idea for us to get a doggy or a kitty.

I will end with a send-off haiku.

We will miss you, car
May your road be filled with joy
Farewell...zoom zoom zoom

We almost died

Yesterday as we were leaving the gym, we stopped at a red light, waiting to make a left turn.

Eric: (fumbles with cell phone) My mom called while I was doing my abs.

Stoplight: RED

Carol: ...okay.

Stoplight: RED

Eric: (on phone) Hi Mum! Yeah, just calling you back...

Stoplight: RED

Carol: Doo doo doo...

Stoplight: RED

Eric: (still on cell phone, takes foot off brake, drives into intersection with zero provocation)

Stoplight: RED

Carol: (screaming like a woman deranged) THE LIGHT IS RED!!!! THE LIGHT IS RED!!!!!!! YOU FUCKING IDIOT, THE LIGHT IS RED!!!!!!

Eric hung up on his mother, and stopped in the middle of the intersection. Four seconds later, the light turned green. He completed his turn. I don't know how we're both still alive, and he also managed to scare the living shit out of his mother for about 30 seconds before I called her back.

This is why you don't use a cell phone while driving. Like my mom, I get mean when I'm worried or scared, so I told Eric that one day, he's going to die while driving and talking on a cell phone, and that when he does I will put on his epitaph "He deserved it".

And I will.

We don't know how to pack

When we went on our honeymoon last summer in France and Spain, we brought over 80kg of luggage with us. It was a sweaty, painful process as we made our way to five or six different cities, luggage in tow. We swore we would never pack heavy again. We lied, to ourselves and to each other.

This past weekend, we spent two nights chez Chalet Myles. Chalet Myles is a modern little ski chalet belonging to the parents of Luke Livingston Sidney Myles, of "Luke and Cathy" fame. The chalet has a fully equipped kitchen, three bedrooms and a futon, two washrooms, two showers, a gas fireplace, a hot tub, a washer and dryer, and loads of towels and sheets and pillows and blankets. We certainly weren't going to be roughing it, and it wasn't our first time going. We were told to bring whatever food we wanted to eat on Friday after we arrived (at approximately 10:30pm), and any particular food we wanted to eat for breakfast the next day. Plus booze. We were to depart Sunday afternoon.

This is what we brought with us:

• 6 pairs of underwear each
• 6 pairs of socks each
• bathing suits
• sweaters
• 5 t-shirts each
• shampoo, conditioner, bodywash, face wash
• other assorted toiletries (ie: Eric's shaving stuff, Carol's moisturizer and make-up)
• hairdryer
• jeans and jackets
• shoes and sandals
• warm pyjamas
• cool pyjamas

• 4 towels
• 2 pillows and two pillow cases (just in case)
• 2 sleeping bags (just in case)
• 1 queen size inflatable air mattress with electric pump (just in case)

• half a dozen red delicious apples
• half a dozen magical oranges
• 6 assorted protein bars
• 4 containers pre-measured protein shakes
• sunflower seeds, pine nuts, peanuts, raisins
• 1 jug of Tropicana orange juice
• 1 big bottle of Coke Zero
• I bottle of multivitamins

• 18 beers
• 16 coolers
• 3 bottles of wine
• 1 bottle of rum
• 1 bottle of vodka
• 1 bottle of amaretto
• 6 strawberry-vanilla shots (looked cool)
• 2 small bottles of Limoncello
• 1 bottle of Malibu

• XBox and four controllers
• Nintendo GameCube and four controllers, plus 4 games
• Splitter/switcher attachment for easy flipping between the two

Our hatchback trunk was packed full, and half of the backseat as well.

And after all that, I forgot my birth control pills.

Gym Night

We just got back from the gym. Here's something about me - when I enter the condo, the first thing I do is take off my shoes...not a big deal, but the second thing I do is take off all my clothes. I can't get out of them fast enough. Sometimes I re-dress with cleaner, softer clothes, but more often than not, if it's not chilly and there's no one but Eric around, I'll just enjoy being naked in my home.

I'm feeling pretty good, because from the front and the side, I can see my body slowly changing shape back to its cuter, smaller formation. I can't see my back so well, but I don't think it's doing as well as the front and sides. In particular, my buttocks and my hips. I just caught Eric checking out my rear:

Carol: Don't look at my ass, it's the worst part.
Eric: I love your ass! It's my favourite part about you!
Carol: (shocked) What? My ASS is your favourite part? Oh god, that's sad...
Eric: (quickly) Well okay no, your FACE is my favourite part about you. But your ass is a close second, if not equal to your face.
Carol: WHAAAT?!!! Did you just say my ASS is equal to my FACE?!! Do you mean my FACE LOOKS LIKE MY ASS?!!!
Eric: (panicked) What?? NO!!!!
Carol: I'm going to blog about this RIGHT NOW.

Metropolitan Heterosexual

If Eric didn't regularly do the sex with me (a girl), I might think he was gay. I don't mind or anything, I'm just saying. I think he has come to embrace his metrosexuality, and it has become a source of pride. In the first months of dating, he admitted to me shamefacedly that when he was in high school there was a rumour going around that he was gay, this despite the fact that he was the ultimate kissing slut. Now when he brings it up he says it proudly, like a kid pointing out his spelling bee trophy. And now, a list.

Why My Man is Gay-Minus-Bumjamming:

• He is obsessed with designer hairstyling products. Not just the gel you can get at Shopper's, no he has to go to Trade Secrets or another special hair products store and buy the flexible hair wax mousse gel with polymers for $50/tub.
• He goes to a stylist and a colourist instead of a barber.
• He went to Sephora and bought a bottle of man face lotion, which he carefully, lovingly, sparingly applies every night.
• He shaves more than just his face.
• He tweezes more than just his nosehair.
• He owns three expensive watches (that's two more than I own).
• He talks about getting a man purse so that his wallet, keys, and cell phone don't ruin the drape of his pants.
• He obsesses about his bodyfat, and makes comments about other people's bodyfat.
• He can't pass a Mexx store without going in and possibly buying something.
• He wants all his clothes to be fitted very close to his body.
• He avoids white carbs and loves ordering salad for a meal.
• He wants manicures and facials.
• He uses a bodypuff and moisturizing bodywash.
• He wears tighty whitey meshy underwear so that his tight pants and jeans look smoother, and so his buttskin can still breathe.

In other news, I started putting my Queen's photos into albums, and there are many pictures of me with my tongue down other girls' throats, sometimes scantily clad. I don't know what that makes me, but my kids are going to think that Mommy was a lesbian slut in university.

My future car smells like old man

We heart our Mazda Protege5. It's midnight blue, and is a peppy little car, eager to squeeze into tight places. It has a moonroof, and four-wheel disc-brakes. We took over the lease of it a year and a half ago, and we knew our time with it would be short. Little did we realize how much we would come to love our little protege. I mean, Protege5.

The lease is up for the car at the end of the month, and we had been debating whether to buy it out. Then my dad announced that he wanted to buy himself a new car, a RAV4. And he offered to give us his current car, a black 1998 Nissan Altima. Free car!!! FREE CAR!!!

Yessssssssss.

We accepted. No more car payments! I was stoked. That's almost an extra $400 a month!

Eric has the Mazda today, so he can leave work faster. I had nothing for lunch and needed to run out and buy a sandwich. Since my dad and I work in the same office, I went through his jacket pockets and took his car keys and went out to the parking lot. I opened the door to the car and got in. And oh god, this car was stinky! It smelled like old chinese man!!

There were crumpled up kleenex all over the place. There was a piece of bread sitting on the floor. Some loud mandarin woman was singing in the cd player. And the whole car had a chinese medicinal sweaty quality about it.

It's okay, after I got back, I told everybody at the office that my dad's car is stinky, and that his steering wheel is sticky. Now they think he's some kind of car pervert. Which he might be.

Bad Habits

I maintain that I was an exceedingly good kid when I was young. I practiced my piano, did my math problems, and never loitered at the mall or movie theatre after school. I didn't drink or smoke or do drugs. I don't know why my parents sent me to Army Cadets when I was 14. They said I was undisciplined. I felt they were unfairly overcritical.

I've felt this way about my parents' opinions for most of my life. I've tearfully screamed that they were overprotective and oppressive. I've threatened to call child services when I got my ass whipped with chopsticks for being insolent. I've accused them of trying to make me into something I'm not. And just like that scene in The Joy Luck Club, I've shouted that I'm not their slave and that this isn't China.

Since then I have learned a saying in which I wholeheartedly believe: There's no such thing as bad kids, only bad parents. This made my rebuttals much easier.

Mom: You're so difficult, why are you such a little jerk?!
Carol: Whatever Mom, you raised me. You must have screwed up somewhere. You can probably just blame yourself!

Okay, I boast and I lie. I would never say anything like that to my mom, I'm too scared (okay, maybe once I said something like that to her during a big fight, and it didn't go well at all...sorry, I digress). But I do like to blame things on her a lot, just to get a reaction. Like this winter when I was sick a lot...my mom likes to get angry with me when I get sick or injured. She berates me for being stupid enough to get sick/injured. Then she becomes offended, because it's a personal insult to her. The logic behind this is that SHE gave me my body, SHE gave me life, SHE made my body with her own body, therefore, my body IS her body. So if I cut open my finger, I'm ACTUALLY cutting open HER finger, and what the hell kind of daughter cuts open her own mother's finger?? So I was really sick this winter...

Mom: You stupid girl. Why are you so stupid? Your body is wimpy and weak!
Carol: I don't know, Mom. It must be because you didn't let me suck on your boobies when I was a baby, and so I didn't get all the proper vitamins and antibodies the other babies got. You were selfish with your boobymilk. Derek and I are going to die.
Mom: Oh, isn't that nice?! Blame everything on your mother!! You ungrateful daughter!!!

I laughed my ass off.

Anyway, the point is that my parents and I never really saw eye-to-eye about my faults. But I have since learned that they were 100% correct about a particular recurring battle-topic. They used to go on and on and on about how I was like a sponge with new friends. They said that every time I made a new friend and hung around with them, I would inevitably start to imitate the things they did. Not all the things they did, no, only the BAD things they did. Usually bad attitudes and potty mouths. I drove them up the wall. I loved making new friends, so I was always coming home with new bad habits. I thought they were being stupid and crazy, and overcritical as usual. But it turns out, they were right.

I noticed this a few years ago...now understand, I met some of the most AMAZING people at university, people I worship and adore and admire and love with all my heart. That's not to say that they don't have certain habits. I first noticed my sponge-like quality when Peggy graduated and we stopped seeing each other all the time. Peggy is just finishing up medical school and is one of the most caring, loving, giving, beautiful people I have ever had the honour to know. She was my best friend, and my maid of honour at my wedding. I love Peggy all the way to death. And Peggy has a big potty mouth.

You don't even really notice it that much, because she's so sweet when dropping f-bombs. But they're all over the place. She does it in front of her family too, so there's really no censorship. She also uses extremely explicit phrases, all with a gorgeous smile, and all said in the most casual and breezy fashion. When she swears, you don't think it's rude.

Carol: I can't believe how that Russian guy treated you, that's ridiculous.
Peggy: I know! But it's okay, I'll be seeing him next week, and I have a great tan. I'm going to look fucking gorgeous, and he's going to cream his fucking pants!
Carol: Wow....

The following week, I'm on the phone with my brother.

Derek: ...and I watched that movie with Rachel McAdams.
Carol: Oh yeah? Isn't she so fucking hot? Did you cream your fucking pants?!
Derek: .........

Sometimes it's not even bad habits. It's just habits that are totally uncool on me. Like when we visit Lindsay Hardy. She's one cool cat, and she speaks all cool with her cool lingo. After we visited Lindsay...

Eric: Do you want to stop and get Wendy's for dinner?
Carol: (all cool) ...Whatev.
Eric: I'm going to stop you right there. You can't pull that off.
Carol: (not cool) ...WHAT...EV!!!!

And recently, I discovered that I don't even need to be hanging around with my friends to pick up habits. I can just read bad language and pick it up. Iain Gomme pointed me towards www.tuckermax.com, and this guy is potty-mouth-and-a-half. I'm so addicted to his crazy stories, he's hilarious. Yesterday I was walking around, behaving like an ass, and dropping f-bombs all over the place.

Me: (on the toilet) I'm going to have a shower, get me my fucking towel?
Eric: ...okay.
Me: (on the toilet) Am I swearing a lot?
Eric: Yes.
Me: (on the toilet) I think it's that website I'm reading.
Eric: Yes.
Me: (on the toilet) You don't swear?
Eric: Try not to.
Me (on the toilet) Even if other people swear?
Eric: No.
Me: (on the toilet) My parents were right. Fuck fuck fuck.

I will end with a slightly disturbing haiku.

You're your parents' flesh
With their bodies they made yours
They can smell your soul

Happy Birthday Curry Crab with Rice

It was my Dad's birthday yesterday, and he turned 54 years old. I offered to take him out for birthday lunch, but he had joined the (until recently all-women's) yoga class at work, and was busy yogaing during lunch, so we decided to go out today instead.

Carol: Think about where you want to go for lunch today.
Dad: There is a small Chinese restaurant on Don Mills. Their curry crab is quite good. What do you think?
Carol's stomach: JESUS, NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!
Carol: Sounds good! You drive.
Carol's stomach: YOU SONS OF BITCHES!!!!

Curry Crab with Rice looks a lot like a cooked crab covered in yellow vomit. It was sticky and hot and delicious. I ate so much, I think my stomach died. Not to mention, my intestines ceased to be able to handle curry about a year ago, so my bumhole will be seeing drippy fire tonight.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Random bits of general confusion

I've been assailed with complaints, and I apologize for neglecting the blog. I've been unceremoniously jerked into oceans of guilt, with the return of ThePeach. ThePeach went on blog-hiatus a fortnight ago because of a break-up with her boyfriend. They are now reunited, and she has started blogging again. I just happened to stop blogging about two weeks ago and haven't been able to think of anything good to write. But now that she's started blogging again, I'm feeling especial pressure. That, and the threatening msn messages from angry friends. Thank you, angry friends.

There's nothing happening. Well, no. There are some things happening, but nothing is particularly interesting or bloggable. But here are the random bits, pushed out due to high pressure and guilt.

The Gym Does Nothing
We've been going to the gym for three weeks, and I'm tired and I still weigh a million pounds. Okay, so three weeks isn't a very long time. And even if my weight hasn't gone down, my stomach is a little less blorpy than it used to be, and my jeans seem to be fitting oh so very slightly looser. So I suppose that's progress. I wish I had money and time off so I could get extensive lyposuction.

Battlestar Galactica Has Ruined My Life
Season 3 doesn't air until October, and I need to know what happens. The end of Season 2 was crazy messed up, and if Starbuck and Apollo don't get together soon and screw each other so hard they bruise all over, I'm going to throw myself off the condo balcony. I'm also upset that I'm not a viper pilot protecting a ragtag fleet from cylon invaders. Stupid SAP ABAP HR programming, what the hell kind of career is that?

I Broke Up With P.Willy
And I'm so over him! I still think he is awesome and a half. But the wave of obsession has been wiped out - by another wave of obsession...

I Heart Jamie Bamber and Katee Sackhoff
A.K.A. Apollo and Starbuck. Jamie Bamber has a crazy wicked body, and has a British accent in real life. Katee Sackhoff is so unbelievably cool, and Starbuck kicks everyone's ass. Unfortunately, Jamie Bamber is married with three small daughters. Equally unfortunately, Katee Sackhoff is a girl, and neither of us are lesbians. Luckily, none of this matters in my head.

Eric Turned 25
And his car insurance went down.

We Cleaned the Condo
And holy gross, we had a ton of dust! In fact, I made a great joke at my in-laws house on Easter Weekend...

MIL: Did the Easter Bunny visit you this weekend?
Me: No, but I think the Dust Bunny did!
Everyone: Mwafwafwafwafwa!!

We Got a New Mattress
The first one they sent us had a lopsided corner on the pillowtop, and we didn't like that, so Sleep Country sent us another one as a replacement. Now according to my friend Rob, I will be reincarnated as a South African child in my next life, with no mattress at all, as punishment for my materialistic pickiness and wasting a perfectly good mattress. Rob is an halfie environmentalist hippie accountant who refuses to take Tylenol when he has a headache. I don't take anything he says seriously.

We Went to The Dentist
And the hygienist told me that Eric makes a lot of saliva.

And that's about it. No real goals, no sense of purpose, just aimless existence. I will end with a dejected haiku.

Life is dull, I'm bored.
Battlestar Galactica...
Frakkers ruined my life

Happy

Spring is finally waking up, stretching and scratching her ribs and wondering what to make for breakfast. I look back on the winter that has just (mercifully) finally dragged his drunk ass off to bed, and it's hard to think of anything that sustained my emotions during that dark, bleak time (I don't like winter). After much thought, I came up with this:

A List of the Happies of My Average Winter Workday

or

The Things That Make Me Joyful Relative to My Standard State

(in Chronological Order)

7:30am - Hard to believe that there can be a highlight at this ungodly hour, but this is when I get in the car and sigh blissfully at the sound of P.Willy singing some cheesy broadway song on my cd player. I drive 5 minutes to work - that's usually one and a half renditions of AIAOY, or up to 2.3 renditions of Big Ass Rock, with some rewinding to listen to my favourite parts. I only listen to the soft slow quiet songs in the morning, because the loud fast songs are too jarring, and the truth is I'm not actually awake yet.

8:30ish - My co-worker Sophie comes to fetch me to make tea. She doesn't actually need the tea, but I do, because it means that we can sit in the servery for about 15 minutes waiting for the water to boil. Then she makes my tea for me, because she insists it tastes better that way. She's a good lady.

9:00ish - Depending on the day, this is around the time that my friend Jen comes online, and we discuss all things from gossip to science to poo. I really do like to talk about poo. I know as a certainty that this is a highlight of my day, because on the days that Jen doesn't show up, I am despondent and moody. Today may be one of those days and I'm not amused. Where are you, woman?

11:45 - This is the time to walk quickly walk quickly walk quickly....HAHA! Beat the rush for the microwave in the servery!!! If I arrive at noon, I have been known to have to wait in line for up to 25 minutes. I consider beating the microwave line one of the major accomplishments of the day, and I especially enjoy marching back to my room, clutching my tupperware in triumph, mocking people along the way who have unheated tupperware containers of food in their hands.

1:00ish - Time to eat my apple! Whooo apple!

3:15 - HOMETIME!! I celebrate this moment by inquiring of the man across from me in a gross and creepy voice "Guess what time it is??" I do this every day.

5:00ish - The moment that I hear Eric's key in the door, I get EXTREMELY happy. Understand though, that this moment lasts about 4 seconds. Because once he enters the condo, I'm actually annoyed that he's speaking to me and trying to kiss me with his gross public transit lips, and interrupting whatever television program I'm watching. I'm kind of a bitch when I stop to think about it.

7:00-9:00 - If there is an episode of CSI I haven't seen yet on Spike, I get really excited. If however, there is an episode that I've already seen, my life falls into listlessness. It's really a toss-up between 7:00 and 9:00.

10:00 - I love climbing into bed, the cool fresh sheets caressing my flannel-swathed overweight body, the open balcony door letting in a cool fresh breeze. I read my book for a little while.

10:30 - Snuggletime! Eric is uber cuddly!! If you think this is a euphemism for doing the sex, you're sadly wrong. If there is actually any doing of the sex, it's not a highlight, it's more of a drain on time and energy, and then the next day if we're tired, it gets blamed on the sex. We've become too practical for bedtime sex, and one of us (usually Eric) is complaining the whole time anyway, so it's like resentful sex, and who wants to have that? So we snuggle and drift off to sleep. Or as I like to call it, sneep.

10:45ish - The happy that starts the day is much the same as the happy that ends the day. As I drift off to sneep, visions of a singing P.Willy dance in my head. Naked.

I can't help myself

Not five minutes ago, I asked a friend whether I should blog about this, and he said "No, I don't think you should blog about this". But I can't help myself.

I've had gas for over 12 hours. Last night Luke and Cathy came over to watch Battlestar Galactica, and I was secretly painfully bloated and gassy. Then they left, and on the advice of another friend, I went to sit on the toilet for five minutes, to make sounds with my bum. I harmonized with much moaning and groaning. Eric ignored the whole thing.

So when I woke up this morning, I was certain the gas would be gone, but I'm blowing up like a balloon. What would give me gas for this long? I need help!

Yesterday I ate:

• 1 protein fruit smoothie
• 2/3 Isoflex chocolate marshmallow fudge protein bar
• 1 apple
• 1 1/2 pieces of stuffed pizza (pepperoni, onions, green peppers, mozzarella)
• 1 handful airpopped popcorn
• 1 After Eight mint

Finally, what should I do to get rid of the gas? It's painful and altogether really annoying. And my torso is puffed way out!

I will end with a gas-inspired haiku.

Filled, buttoxic fumes
Feel the pushing on my sides
Swelling, stretching, hiss

Deja vu and a punch in the stomach

I'm back downtown at the SAP Training Centre (I just had Manchu Wok for lunch) (and I warned anyone who would listen to stay away from Soup It Up). It wasn't so long ago that I was just here...taking the subway in the morning with pungent people and eating free food court food. Here I am again. Hence the deja vu.

There is a crucial difference this time - it's not a public class where I can meet new people who are doing similar SAP-related things. It's a private class for TDSB employees especially. This means that I'm in a room with 24 other TDSB employees, most of whom I never see except for some bi-annual meetings etc etc. It's a boisterous group of people I don't - how do I put this nicely - really like. And we have to share computers because the class size is too big. Hence the punch in the stomach.

For those of you TDSB employees who read my blog, these comments do not apply to you. If you read my blog, then I like you very much. Smiley face for you... :)

No sleep for the wicked

Guess what time I finally got to sleep last night? 4:00am! It's a perversion of all that is good and pure.

After posting that palpably bitter blog entry last night, something unexpected and delightful happened. I made poo. I had already made an excellent poo earlier that day while I was at work. I had attributed the work-poo to the orange I consumed the night before while Luke and Cathy were over watching Battlestar Galactica. The poo was firm, plentiful, and pleasing. But hark, the twitching sphincter sings! So I grabbed a book (Watermelon by Marian Keyes), and made yet another firm, plentiful, and pleasing poo. That must have been one hell of an orange.

My book was really good. And seeing as I was wide awake, I sat down on the couch and read for a little while. I ended up reading the whole book. I was so not tired! By the time Claire had ended up with the right guy and was proceeding to live happily ever after, I was realizing that it was 3:45am. This was an ugly moment. I still wasn't tired, but I knew I needed to wake up in about 3 hours, and that the least I could do was try to get some rest.

I turned out the lights, climbed into bed. Still wide awake. Couldn't sleep.

Eric was asleep...but The Boss was awake, if you get my meaning. So I got The Boss to make Eric wake up and do the sex with me. It was rather excellent. The Boss outdid himself this time. The result being that I passed out completely afterwards and got in a 3 hour nap before having to get up and go to work.

Eric, on the other hand was wide awake and couldn't get back to sleep until 6:30am...and then the alarm went off half an hour later. I do feel bad for him. We both woke up groggy and upset and despairing and walking into things. He seems to be in quite a good mood though, and I'm too tired to be really bitchy about much of anything. So this was possibly a good thing. Though I doubt it.

I will end with a sleepy poo haiku. A haipoo, if you will.

Sweet slumber denied
Restless wand'ring - who's that there?
Welcome poo, my friend.

Miles to go

It's 11:30pm, and I can't sleep. I feel helpless and frustrated and like all of tomorrow will be ruined. Time was when 11:30pm was laughably early, and the party wasn't due to begin for at least another hour.

Okay, I exaggerate, I was never that cool.

But I got into bed TWO HOURS ago, and I am still awake. Awake and bitter.

I don't deserve this. I had determined today at work that I would go to the gym, no excuses. I was pumped, I felt fat, I needed to DO something about it! I got home, changed into soft formless comfy clothes, and waited for Eric. I read my book. Slowly, my energy faded. I became over-content on the couch. I didn't really want to get up to go anywhere, especially not the gym.

Eric got home at around 5:00pm, saw that I was content with my book on the couch and wisely left me alone. He made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and we ate our snacks together. Then I snuggled into his arms on the couch and drifted off to sleep.

I woke up a half hour later with a mild headache and a definite grumpy feeling not to go to the gym, and I said so. Eric agreed lovingly, and suggested we go for a nice walk instead. Seeing as he had agreed so lovingly, and I had already reneged on my plans, I also agreed lovingly, and went to change my clothes. I put on my bra, zipped up my jeans, and went to brush my hair while I decided what top to wear.

I looked in the mirror. This was my undoing. My torso looked like a plastic bag full of water with a goldfish in it, except there was no goldfish. I moved experimentally, and just like the bag of water, there was a slight delay, and then disturbed jiggling. It was so so depressing.

So long tormented story short, I quickly made up my mind to go to the gym, and even had a disgusting orange protein shake. I worked out quickly and efficiently, and actually did a good job killing my triceps. Then I picked up an aerobics class schedule and decided to go completely OCD crazy about going to the gym, and committing to developing one of those adrenaline addictions I'd heard about, where you keep going to the gym to get that rush. Or is it endorphins? I don't know, it's 11:30pm and all I know is that I was completely ripped off of a perfectly planned and well-deserved good night's sleep.

I want to eat a steak.

Sick beyond reckoning

I had a shower last night around 10:00pm, during the Amazing Race. I shampooed, I conditioned, I face-washed, I bodywashed, scrubby scrubby scrubby. I even ran the razor down my my legs and underarm stubble. I was fresh as a daisy, shiny and new, like a virgin with a waxed yoohoo.

I sat on the couch, wearing my white comfy bathrobe, with my hair wrapped up in a white comfy bathtowel. Hubby went to have a shower also.

When he returned, we sat on the couch together and watched the Amazing Race, both of us fresh as daisies, shiny and new, like virgins.

Then something seized my attention. "What's that smell?!" I wondered.

My first horrified and doubting thought was "...is that my yoohoo?" But this smelled NOTHING like ANYBODY'S yoohoo might be expected to smell. Plus, I just don't have issues like that with my yoohoo. It was like moldy cheese that had been consumed along with feces, and then vomitted back up where some FRESH moldy cheese had been added in, and left to waft in the wind.

I was tired. I thought that maybe I was imagining it. Those antibiotics were probably just screwing with my senses. But that smell, that disgusting wet putrid smell, kept on gently ebbing and flowing back and forth in front of my nostrils. I shifted my weight, and moved around my robe, to see if a stronger waft would come out at me, indicating that there was something terribly wrong with my body. No such indication.

I finally glanced over at Eric during a commercial break, nervous that he had smelled it too, and thought it was my yoohoo. What did I see??

HE HAD HIS FINGERS BURIED IN HIS TOES, DIGGING OUT TOE-PASTE!

I gaped at him in horror. "Is that smell coming from you?!!!" I shrieked.

His jaw dropped, he gaped back in horror. "You can smell it?!!?!!" he gasped.

He jumped to his (clearly rotting) feet and ran away. I sat immobilized on the couch, wanting to die. He started babbling... "Oh my god, I'm sorry. It smells SO BAD!! I peeled off my toenail and I held it up to my nose - like this! And it was SO DISGUSTING! But I didn't think you would be able to smell it!!"

I screamed back about how I could totally smell it for the past 15 minutes. And he went on to reiterate how he had been basking in the raunchyness, secure in the delusion that I couldn't smell what he was smelling. I screamed back that I had been sitting two feet away from him. And he demonstrated several times by holding the offending estranged toenail up to his nose "I sniffed it - like this! And it was SO GROSS!" And I screamed back at him to STOP DOING THAT.

He then sat down in the hallway in his underwear with a pair of clippers and a paper towel, and he removed several small piles of black toe-paste from under his toenails. Then he clipped his nails extremely short, and got back in the shower - under protest - to wash his feet again.

This confirms all theories - boys are disgusting, they have germs, and they smell.

I will end with a despairing haiku.

I was fresh and clean
Then his foot stench raped my soul
Why me? Why me? Why?

I am Carol Chan

I haven't changed my name yet. I had totally planned on taking Eric's name after we got married, because Carol Chan is very very common. Have you ever Googled Carol Chan? None of these people are me. Neither are these.

My Chinese name is also very common - Wei-Yee. Again, none of these people are me. And since "Chan" is the Chinese equivalent of "Jones" in terms of common-ness, my name is basically the Chinese version of Jane Jones, only I don't look anything like Angelina Jolie.

But somehow, I'm now in no rush to change my name.

Carol Johnston sounds pretty good to me. My issue is whether to let go of "Chan" completely. Because my middle name will still be "Wei-Yee". So I'll be "Carol Wei-Yee Johnston". Which isn't bad...just a little unexpected.

Maybe I'll incorporate "Chan" into my middle name. Like:
First name: Carol
Middle name: Wei-Yee Chan
Surname: Johnston

Or, because in Chinese the surname comes first...

First name: Carol
Middle name: Chan Wei-Yee
Surname: Johnston

Carol Wei-Yee Chan Johnston
Carol Chan Wei-Yee Johnston

Princess Consuela Bananahammock.

Hahaha! Oh, Phoebe.

Then there's always the idea of changing BOTH our names to a hybrid name - Chanston. But I'm not that progressive, and I don't even like the way it sounds. So nix that.

And just today, I got an idea that I can change my name to Johnston completely, and then get the Chinese character for Chan tattooed somewhere on my body. Eric loves tattoos, so he loves that idea. I'm a little worried that like the other Chans in my family, the tattoo will stretch out with age and develop a double chin.

What should I do??

I will end with a pensive haiku.

What's in a surname?
Desperately, I cling to mine
Am I a Bad Wife?

LOTR makes me covetous

Last night we watched Lord of the Rings - Return of the King the extended edition on dvd.

I wish I had:

• Anduril, forged from the shards of Elendil's sword, Narsil
• An Army of the Dead
• A prophecy fortelling that I will be killed by no man
• A choice between the immortality of the elves and the mortality of men
• A Mithril shirt
• A Phial of Galadriel, containing the light of Earendil, so that I can strike fear into the hearts of the Enemy's servants
• An all-seeing Eye
• Legolas sex-slaves
• Aragorn sex-slaves
• Eomer sex-slaves
• Faramir sex-slaves
• ....Eowyn sex-slaves

I wonder if:

• Aragorn and Arwen ever had a big fight after they got married, and whether she threw in his face the fact that she had given up the Immortality of the Elves for him
• The men ever actually did sexual things to each other - they really act gay
• Frodo lived in seething shame for the rest of his life because he couldn't actually throw the ring into the fire
• Frodo ever got an infection from where Gollum bit his finger. I got an infection on my finger, I think he would have too - Gollum was way dirtier than my cleaver was.

We have gained 55 pounds since the wedding

I'm totally not kidding. This is 10lbs additional weight each since November. It's so sad, I can't even describe it. We bought a scale not long ago, and were horrified at the results. Practically nothing I own fits me properly anymore, it all rides up because my bodyfat is pulsing and undulating and pushing the material where it ought not to go. I've been joking around about my weight gain, but the truth is that I've basked in a fair amount of denial. This scale has thrown reality right up my ass, and it hurts.

Eric is also very sad. He begged me not to post this news on the blog, but I feel it would be dishonest not to. Lying by ommision. His favourite Mexx pants don't button up anymore, and he has taken to hiking his shirt up over his "belly" and pushing his abdomen out. Then he walks around the condo stroking the mound he has created. The sick thing with Eric is that he actually gains weight quite gracefully, and he carries it well, and still looks sexy. I look like a little Chinese girl gone horribly wrong. In any case, a sense of guilt and regret hangs in the air as we eat biscuits and play videogames.

When I saw my mother two days ago, she pat my tummy and told me I'm a bad and naughty girl for getting fat. She's trying to shame me into losing weight. Then she said that after I get well from my sinus infection, I have to commit to a program and lose weight, and implied that if I don't, she won't love me anymore.

In an aggressive move yesterday, I did a pilates video for my abs. I'm getting the hell rid of this fat! Booyah!!

In other news, I made chocolate-buttercream-filled vanilla cupcakes last night.

I can't taste anything

Being sick isn't cool, and I'm not SUPER sick or anything. Just sick enough to prevent me from doing anything fun for fear of making it worse. My fever has finally subsided, and I finally got some antibiotics, but my plugged sinuses still haven't opened up. As a result, I can't really smell anything, I can't really hear anything, and I can't really taste anything. I'm basically relying on sight and touch alone.

The best way to describe my sense of taste at the moment is that while I can't taste the food, I can feel the taste of the food. So for example, right now I'm eating an orange and I'm feeling the juicyness, and I can feel my mouth reacting to the tangyness by salivating out of my cheeks, and plus I can actually taste a hint of orange. So it's like a muted taste experience.

This altered sensory state makes me nervous, because of Eric and food. When I was growing up, my mother loved to throw things out of the fridge. It was one of her favourite hobbies. We would have leftovers that were two days old, and she would gleefully toss them. I'm sure I never came within 10 feet of spoiled food even once while I was living under my mother's roof. One time I bought a small jar of mayonnaise and used it once, like just a little bit off the top. The following week my mother took it out and said (in Chinese) "Can I throw this out yet? I think it's gone bad." The woman is crazy.

In contrast, Eric once bought a giant package of ground beef from Costco. He put it in his refrigerator, and then the next day, the refrigerator broke. Their landlord didn't get it fixed for like a week. Eric desperately divided the giant package of rotting meat anyway, and put it in the freezer. Then about 5 months later, he brought the frozen rancid meat over to my house and asked me to make spaghetti and meatsauce with it. I defrosted it, and it totally stank, and felt really slimy. I told Eric we couldn't use it, it was horribly bad, and he insisted that we try, and that maybe the sauce and spices would cover it up. I enlisted my housemate Gloria's help, and we ganged up on him and threw it away. Then he got upset that it had gone to waste. The man is also crazy.

I'm kind of afraid that he will feed me something rotten, and I won't notice because I can't really taste anything. He bought some sandwich meat early last week, and we still have it. He says it's still good, but sandwich meat totally sketches me out. I think that you need to use it well within a week, otherwise you'll get a tummyache. He has also kind of touched it all over and taken it out of the deli packaging and put it in a Ziploc bag. I don't know why. But yesterday, when I realized we didn't have leftovers for lunch today, he suggested that we have sandwiches with the sandwich meat. I gently refused, and so today I have turkey kielbassa sausage slices and crackers. He also packed me some cheese, but I totally can't taste the cheese. I can sense the saltiness of the kielbassa in my mouth though, which is cool.

Yesterday, we got new groceries, and I cleaned out the fridge semi-Mom-style. So I should be okay. But if I get food poisoning, you'll know why.

I will end with a haiku.

Senses on their backs
Clumsy, fumbling with my tongue
That sounded like porn

I Hate Public Transit So Much

I've been taking the subway every day to training this week. I go from Bayview/Sheppard to Yonge/Bloor. That's one subway switch, and thousands of stinky people! Stinky people!

People you see on the subway are significantly more pungent than people you see elsewhere. The subway is an underground festering cesspool of filth and bacteria, writhing, breeding, oozing. I hate the subway more than most things.

Here are the two most scarring experiences I had on the subway with stinky people this week:

1) One morning, I got on the Yonge subway for the "long" stretch of my journey, and grasp one of the metal bars. Somehow, I got stuck in the middle of a circle of young men, all speaking a language I couldn't identify. I caught the words "Espana" and "Italia" here and there. I don't know what they were talking about, but I know that they stood very close to me, in a ring. And I know that they laughed a lot in ways that suggested there was a lot of moisture escaping their mouths and seeping into my hair. Like "HHaa HHaa HHaa" and "Chhhee Chhhee Chhhee". And their odours combined gave off a musky spicy sweaty aroma. After they left, I felt oily.

2) I got off training at 3:00pm today, and was excited as this meant that there would be fewer people about, and I would likely get a seat for the subway ride home. I did indeed get a seat for the ride home. Next to an old man who looked clean at first glance, but in fact smelled like sausages. I don't know if this means he burped, and his breath smelled like sausages, or whether he's a sausage chef and his clothes smelled like sausages, or whether he simply had freshly grilled sausages in his pocket. But I was horrified, and at the same time reluctant to give up my hard-earned seat. I should point out that I actually love the smell of sausages. But I don't expect the source of the smell of sausages to be an old man on the subway at 3:00pm. After he left, I once again felt oily. I just got home and had a hot shower.

I ate Manchu Wok today, and it was disgustingly delicious.

Sleeping with Eric

Hahahaha...did you think I was going to post something about doing the sex with Eric? You're silly. Silly and WRONG!

Our new bed arrived yesterday! We ordered a Sealy Posturpedic KING SIZE bed last week from Sleep Country Canada, and two rather clean delivery men brought it yesterday. It was complete heaven. I never once had to touch Eric at all during the night. Even if I had wanted to, I would have had to skootch over really far! I'm content with staying on my side.

The issue of getting a new bed came up several weeks ago when Eric had trouble sleeping for two nights in a row. The problem wasn't so much that he was having trouble sleeping, it was more how he chose to deal with it. He decided that a good way to try and induce sleep was to launch himself into the air, perform a quarter-turn, and land on another side of his body. Continuously. Eric is not a fat man by any means, but he is also not a skinny waif man. His muscular form came crashing down, limbs flailing on our small double bed over and over again until I started screaming profanitities. The honeymoon was officially over. The sexy and intimate novelty of sleeping close together on a double bed had finally worn off. We decided we needed the largest bed our room could accomodate.

We ended up with this king size monstrosity, and our room is basically just one huge bed. It's good times. I highly recommend king size beds to all people. My cousin Loy (who doesn't currently suck, by the way) and his wife actually went one step further and got separate duvets for their king size bed, so they don't even have to share blankets. We'll have to see if we need to do that too...I kind of think no, but it's definitely something to keep in mind.

In other news, I dined at Sukiyaki for lunch today, and nothing tasted like socks.

I will end with a pre-meditated haiku:

Posturpedic bed
UniCased and flexible
You! Stay on your side.

Grossest soup ever

I've always thought it was difficult to screw up soup. There are certainly soups I don't like (cream of mushroom, anything with cheese melted in, etc), but I'm sure other people enjoy them.

I'm on training this week. I'm downtown at Yonge and Bloor in the SAP Training Centre. I've been here before, and SAP training courses have a few perks:

• Free drinks and free snacks
• Lipton Cup-a-Soup in the student lounge
• Free lunch

We get vouchers for lunch down at the food court, and we can use the vouchers at:

• Sukiyaki
• Mr. Souvlaki
• Manchu Wok
• Druxy's
• Lemon Grass
• Soup It Up
• Bacaro's Italian Eatery
• Roasty Jack's

Yesterday I went to Lemon Grass, and I got a great thai chicken with rice thing, with shrimp spring rolls. The shrimp spring rolls were lame. But otherwise, it was a tasty choice. Today, I opted for Soup It Up. I got clam chowder and an egg salad sandwich. Sandwich was excellent. Soup was horrible. Really horrible. Eating it gave me the feeling of the smell of sweaty socks steeped in half and half cream. It was gross to the max. I didn't even try to finish it. Instead I came back up to the student lounge and I made myself a nice packet of Lipton Cup-a-Soup.

Class is about to start again. Better go. I will end with a spontaneous haiku.

Soup It Up is gross
Slurp the poison down your throat
Taste the sweaty bile

Squoosh

I go through small lusty obsessions, and I know you do too. They come in phases, with some recurring themes. Like for example, when I was 16, it was all about Brad Pitt. I had a trillion Brad Pitt posters and I even bought the Brad Pitt Biography. Poo-Defensive-Jen and I got together one weekend and had a Brad Pitt Video-Fest, where we watched a whole bunch of Brad Pitt movies in a row. I remember watching Seven, and being scared out of my mind, but it was okay, because Brad Pitt was in it. Brad Pitt is always a recurring theme.

Other lucky winners of my favour have included Orlando Bloom, Christian Bale, and Matthew McConaughey.

Recently, the love of my imaginary life has been Patrick Wilson. He's not as showy-good-looking as Brad Pitt, and I think he's actually balding a little bit. At the very least, I think his hair might be thinning. But he's very goodlooking and sexy upon sexy. To make a long rant short, he's a good actor, and a good singer, and he's really hot, and it would be pretty awesome to be routinely pinned under him for no particular reason.

Now everyone is going to jump to Eric's defense. Go ahead, say it...

"Eric is a wonderful husband, and you are terrible."

"You should be happy being pinned under Eric! And if you're not, I'm sure there are people who would love to take over your job for you."

"Poor Eric, he loves you so much, and he's so good to you. And you are not good to him, look at you with your lusting after imaginary men who are balding."

"My name is David and I want Eric for myself."

To be honest, I was starting to worry that my big big imaginary crush was heading into Pathetic territory. And then yesterday, I went on a Patrick Wilson internet browse.

I Googled "Patrick Wilson" (I'm not going to lie, it wasn't the first time) , and clicked on random sites to see if there were any cute images I'd missed. Is that sad? I don't care, you're probably going to do it after reading this post to see what the big deal is. And there are message boards. So yesterday, I thought I'd read some of these message boards to see what they were all about. There was an "Official Patrick Wilson Love" board which sounded especially intriguing, so I went on to read...

And wow, I'm nowhere near as obsessed as these people. I felt instantly better about my big big crush. Because as much as I have a big big crush, I do not belong to a message board like that!

These people (women mostly, I presume) post passive aggressive comments that are designed to edge out other people in the competition of Who Loves Patrick the Most. Oh yes, they're on a first name basis with him. And they call his (sexy pregnant) wife Dagmara Dominczyk "Dag". Which really just creeps me out. One woman told everyone how she bought her husband an outfit like Patrick Wilson's in Phantom, and made him wear it. They all list how many times they watched Phantom of the Opera, both in the theatres and on their special edition dvd at home. You get extra special bonus points if you went to see him live in The Full Monty or Oklahoma!, and the people who have actually met him? They're super-cocky, and they get the most bragging rights, and everyone is endlessly jealous of them. They also abbreviate his movies and songs and make them into acronyms. So Phantom is 'POTO' and the song All I Ask of You is 'AIAOY'.

Yet nobody actually has the guts to come out and say anything like "I want him to violate me in ways that would make my father want to stick his fingers in his eyes and scramble his own brains." They say things like "He is squooshy. I would love to squoosh him". What does that mean? Obviously a thinly-veiled euphemism for "I want him to violate me in ways that would make my father want to stick his fingers in his eyes and scramble his own brains.", but I imagine because they all want to try to meet him, they're afraid that he'll know what they said. And the person who made the "squoosh" comment was 'playfully' chastised by someone who was probably pretty upset that this girl was thinking sexual thoughts about him, "Oh, you need to wash your mind out with soap! LOL"

But the best part was when one person proclaimed "I want him!!" Then someone jumped all over her and told her to get in line. Then everybody else chimed in to agree, and to announce their own presence in the line. Then they argued over who was at the front of the line.

My own lusty obsession pales in comparison. I might be silly, but I'm not that silly.

You're probably going to wonder how Eric feels about P.Willy. He's cool. He actually really likes Patrick Wilson himself, and agrees that he's a good actor, a good singer, and he's really hot. The only part he doesn't agree with is my enthusiastic assertion that it would be pretty awesome to be routinely pinned under him for no particular reason. Which is fair.

He's a good man, my Eric. And hot as hell himself. Actually, the ladies at work say that the only reason I like Patrick Wilson is because he's an older, blonde, singing variation of Eric. Not too shabby for Carol.

I will end with a spontaneous haiku.

Hey Patrick you're so
Fine, you're so fine you blow my
Mind, hey Patrick. Squoosh.

Good Wife/Bad Wife

We're now almost seven months into our marriage and I'm wondering, how am I scoring on the Good Wife/Bad Wife meter? I really wanted to be a Good Wife. I would feel pretty bad if I ever overheard someone saying to Eric "Shit dude, you've really got a Bad Wife."

You know who's fault this is? It's my friends. My childhood friends are always so quick to defend Eric in everything, and I start to wonder how Bad of a Wife I have to be for my friends to turn on me at the drop of a hat. I'm talking about friends I've known so long, we may as well be cousins.

Like perfect example, my post yesterday about the soup. I wrote what, one sentence about Eric having non-satisfying poo? And my friend Jen, who I've known since before we both had braces, messaged me on MSN almost immediately with "I don't think Eric will appreciate you talking about his poo on your blog."

Completely unprovoked.

Anyway, it turns out that Eric really didn't appreciate me talking about his poo on the blog, but he's okay with it because he loves me and knows I like to talk about poo.

See, it's crap like this that makes people think he's so very good to me and I'm not good to him. I'll bet Eric could strangle a retarded person in front of my friends, and they would go "Aww. Eric's so good with his hands."

Here's what happened from yesterday evening to this morning. I will divide the story into alternating categories.

Why I Think I'm a Good Wife:
When Eric got home, I had timed a nice pasta dinner to come off the stove just right, because I knew he was hungry and was craving pasta. He had just enough time to change out of his work clothes before sitting down to a kiss and a delicious meal. I also brought him a beer, because I know he likes it when I bring him beer. It makes him giddy.

Why I Suspect I May Be a Bad Wife:
I started strongly hinting that he should do the dishes about 3 minutes after we finished eating.

Why I Think I'm a Good Wife:
Eric wanted to watch the Olympics after cleaning the kitchen, and I wanted to read my book. So as a compromise, I decided to read my book on the couch next to Eric while he watched the Olympics so we could be near each other, despite the fact that the tv noise is distracting.

Why I Suspect I May Be a Bad Wife:
I ignored Eric when he tried to talk to me about stuff on the tv. I wasn't watching the tv. Why did he insist on having conversations with me about the US snowboarder when I wasn't watching? Finally, he got the hint and said "I guess I should stop talking to you while you're reading?" And I said without looking up "Yeah, you really should."

Why I Think I'm a Good Wife:
After I finished my book, I went to have a shower and get ready for bed. I've been exhausted lately and my main goal every day is to get to bed early. But then Eric got worked up and started complaining and whining. He complained that I hadn't spent any time with him at all, and he wanted me to watch figure skating with him so we could discuss the individual performances. I felt pretty helpless at this point, because what are you supposed to do when your hetero husband pulls a big-eyed face and guilts you for not watching figure skating with him? My hands were tied. So I had a quick shower, and came out just in time for Plushenko. Together, we watched as Jeff Buttle won the bronze. Eric was happy again, and we kissed and snuggled down into bed together and went to sleep.

Why I Suspect I May Be a Bad Wife:
This morning, Eric sat on the bed after his shower and tenderly stroked my hair.
Husband: "Wake up, sweetie-pie..."
Wife: (wakes up, suddenly not so helpless, starts shouting) "I don't know why the fuck you made me stay up last night to watch figure skating!! I am so GODDAMN TIRED!!!"
Husband: !!!!
Wife: (shouting, near tears) "All I've wanted all week is to get to bed early, I am on my PERIOD! I am BLEEDING between my legs, and because of YOU I've been sleeping late EVERY NIGHT!"
Husband: "I'm sorry, Carol. I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do to for you?"
Wife: (sarcastic) "Yeah, you could have put some gas in the car for me yesterday!"

Oh yeah, that was another thing, the gas light had come on, but I hate going to the gas station, plus the car was frozen from the freezing rain. So I had driven the car home to thaw in the parking garage, then suggested that Eric go to put gas in the car last night sometime during Weir's long program. He didn't want to, and I guess I was bitter about that.

I guess the the question is "Does this good stuff compensate for this bad stuff?"

As a visual example, does a bride who looks like this:

make up for the fact that the same bride can look like this:

I will end with a spontaneous haiku.

Do good wives awake
Swearing like ill-groomed diseased
Whores? O, I fear not.

I overheated my soup

Campbell's "Soup at Hand" was 3 for $5 yesterday at Loblaws. We were at Loblaws because Eric complained that he hasn't been making satisfying poo all week, so I suggested we go to Loblaws and buy oranges. My entire family, immediate as well as extended, has believed for decades that if you have trouble pooing, you need only eat an orange, and poo will come racing out. My brother once couldn't poo for over a week, and then he ate an orange and had a huge poo within two hours. We went on a ski trip with my uncle's family last year, and they brought oranges with them, and we were all required to eat a minimum of one orange each night. If you ate two, you were loudly praised.

Anyway, back to the soup. I had never tried it, but my co-worker said they were good. We happened to be checking out the soup aisle, and I saw the 3 for $5 sign. Priced normally at $1.99 each, I had abstained from purchasing them, because almost all Campbell's soups contain msg, and $1.99 for 284mL of msg soup was not a good deal in my books. $1.67 for 284mL of msg soup is more like it.

I stopped liking the cream soups awhile ago, so I got three of the "Chicken with Mini-Pasta" soup. Just now I went to microwave it for the prescribed 1 minute and 15 seconds. We have a really ghetto microwave at work, with a turn dial. I have never had any experiences with a microwave that wasn't digital before starting this job. So I kind of had to estimate, and ended up microwaving it for more like 1 minute and 40 seconds. I took it out and stirred it with a stir-stick like they say you should, to make sure your soup is uniformly hot. But it didn't seem hot enough at all. So I put it back in the microwave, for an extra 15 seconds, like the container suggests you do if your soup doesn't seem hot enough. Except that this turn dial doesn't go to 15 seconds, you have to put it to at least a minute before it does anything. And so I just turned it to 2 minutes, and counted to 15 myself. Then I took the soup out and stirred it again. And it still didn't seem hot enough. So I put it back in the microwave and just let it run the full two minutes. By the time I took it out, I had microwaved my 284mL of soup for almost four minutes. It was starting to get kind of frothy on the top. But honestly, the soup really didn't seem that hot. I might have put it in for longer, but someone else had come into the servery and wanted the microwave (she also had Campbell's "Soup at Hand", in "Creamy Tomato").

So I took my soup back to my desk. And that's when I realized my soup was too hot. Way too hot to put to my lips and drink from the sippy cup mouth slot. I would have burned off my lip-skin. This is why they don't want you to heat it to near-boiling temperatures, because it's meant to be drunk from a sippy cup mouth slot, not aired out in a big wide soup-plate, and blown on in a soup-spoon before being slurped with lots of air to help cool it down. It has now been 25 minutes since I got back from the servery, and I'm still too scared to drink my soup.

Nothing is happening

The complaints are pouring in.

"Carol, there's nothing new on your blog."

"If you're not going to update your blog, don't put it in your msn name it's very misleading!"

"Carol, you're too hot for words, how do you do it?"

All are valid comments. So I promised to post something new...and I have nothing. Nada. Nothing is happening in the Life of Newlyweds. Last week, I was kind of down. With my 26th birthday coming up, I haven't been in the best of moods, and I'm convinced I haven't done enough growing. But who wants to write about that?

Last night, I made a giant lemon cheesecake. It must have weighed 10 pounds. I use the people at work as guinea pigs for my culinary adventures, and they all said it was delicious. This means that they couldn't detect the arsenic, which is what I was hoping. Success!

Also last night, Eric did some laundry, including my new Victoria's Secret robe. Then he hung it up to dry on top of our existing robes behind the bedroom door. Who does this? Our existing robes therefore became damp.

This past weekend was Chinese New Year, and for the first time, I was responsible for giving out cash to people. This is a barbarous practice inflicted on newlyweds, for the Chinese are a cruel people. See also 'foot binding'. Only I never had to do that.

My highlights are growing out.

I'm not sleeping well, and the new hairdryer we bought likes to savagely suck in the ends of my hair and not let go, causing me to have to pitifully pull them out, snapping each strand apart, the acrid smell of burning hair hanging like death in the bathroom air. We need to return that piece of crap.

My left knee hurts.

Eric started spelling it "nasagna", which I find cute. My Wusthof knives are heaven to use, it doesn't matter what I'm cutting, it feels like I'm cutting a peeled hard-boiled egg.

And that is about it. I will end with a spontaneous haiku.

Winter makes me ill
Inwardly my soul vomits
Eric cleans it up

Accidentally making out with Eric's armpit

I hate it when I accidentally make out with Eric's armpit. It happens at night, while we're sleeping, or while Eric is sleeping and I've just gotten into bed. Just last night, I accidentally made out with Eric's armpit at least two, maybe three times.

If you're standing facing our bed, I sleep on the righthand side, and Eric sleeps on the lefthand side. The problems start when Eric sleeps with his left arm over his head. He likes to put his left arm over his head, and very seldom does he put his right arm over his head. More often than not, he has one or both hands guarding his crotch, but they were off duty last night.

Sometimes, when I get into bed, the room is already dark, and I'll snuggle in and give Eric a few goodnight kisses on what I fondly believe is his shoulder or face. Unfortunately for me, when Eric is sleeping with his left arm over his head, I end up lovingly making out with his armpit. In the case of last night, I was already sleeping, and had rolled over and apparently started snuggling in my sleep. Being a besotted bride, I must have given Eric a couple kisses in my sleep...but was awoken by the slightly dewy moist flesh that met my lips. Not to mention, the faint smell that met my nostrils was one that was distinct and unique to...you guessed it. Armpits.

This happened more than once. Like I said, it may have happened up to three times. I must have been in a very cuddly mood last night. But I am VERY upset about it today.

My finger is stinky like feet

So you know how I chopped my finger? And how the doctor at the clinic recommended the finger condoms? I've been wearing the finger condoms a lot, they keep my bandaids from picking up dirt. But since they're made out of latex and don't allow my finger to breathe, I think my finger sweats and the sweat soaks into the bandaids and fester, so that when I take off the finger condom, the bandaids are moist, and my finger smells like feet! Stinky feet!

I thought maybe I was being paranoid, and maybe the bandaids just smelled like rubbery latex with Polysporin. So when Eric got home, I casually took off my finger condom, thrust my finger under his nose and said, "Hey, does this smell funny to you?". And he freaked out! He said my finger was very stinky, and that I had to stop wearing the finger condoms all the time. Then he told me to stop sniffing my finger. But it's difficult, because I know it's not actually feet, but it smells like feet, and I can't stop sniffing it. It's gross, and I'm gross.

I went and had a shower, with the finger condom on. And when I got out, I took it off again, and I think that being in the warm steamy shower made the stink worse! So just to make sure, I casually walked into the computer room where Eric was, thrust my finger under his nose and said "Hey, I just had a shower, smell my finger now". He paused to let the scent waft out, thinking it would smell like soap or shampoo. Then he got very upset. He said it smelled REALLY bad now, and I wasn't to wear the finger condom anymore. Then he told me to stop sniffing my finger again.

It really smells bad.

Owwwwwwwww II

You're not going to believe this, I chopped a big cut into my left middle finger with a cleaver last night. It was painful upon painful. It's on the neighbour of the finger off of which I grated a chunk about a month ago. I also chopped off a piece of the ring finger on the same hand when I was in grade 10 Family Studies. My wedding and engagement rings don't even fit on the hand anymore because the whole thing is kind of swollen.

I was making a seafood lasagna, and making it up as I went along. I had been planning it for over a week and I was very excited. I had peeled and de-veined the shrimp, cleaned and sliced the mushrooms, and was chopping up an onion...I was on the last piece of onion and my hand slipped, just as I gave a mighty and enthusiastic chop with the cleaver. It was necessary to be enthusiastic with the cleaver because it had dulled a bit over the years. I know how to preach the dangers of using a dull knife, and yesterday I feel I gave a fantastic demonstration of that lesson. Anyway, the cleaver sliced clean through the side of my nailbed, and hacked a big gash on the left-diagonal tip of my finger.

I. Freaked. Out.

Then I remembered that Eric's sister Haley was over, and I didn't want to freak her out too much. So I tried to be cheeky and cool about it. Plus, it's embarassing to have your husband's 14 year old sister see you having a panicked crying wail over your finger boo-boo.

So we bandaged it up, blood gushing everywhere. It took several tries, as every time I took away the tissue I was holding onto tightly, the blood would pour out. Haley had to go get a whole other paper towel. But finally, one time I pulled it away, quickly smeared some Polysporin on it, and Eric pressed a bandaid onto it. Then I kept on applying more bandaids until it was all covered and secure.

Before this was all done though, I did get a good look at the cut, and it's big. Like at least 3-4mm deep, and possibly a full 1cm wide. On the tip of my finger, I think that's a lot! I should ask Simon Chan, he would know. But in any case, my finger looks like a muppet's head, the way the gash gaped open. Specifically, it looks like Bert's head.

I got to work today and couldn't handle the pain, so Eric came back to get me and we went to a walk-in clinic. Doctor Engineer (that was his name!) said that he would redress it and maybe put a steri-strip on it, but then he saw my stellar bandaging job and didn't want to move it. He said that my awesome bandaiding skills had created the same effect as stitches, and that I should leave the bandaids on for about a week. He said to buy these finger cots, which are basically finger condoms. They're to keep the bandaids clean. He also recommended no programming because my hand should be elevated. I came back to work anyway. I can type with one hand. I do however, look like I'm giving the finger to everyone who comes in the room, due to my arm being propped up on my armrest with the middle finger loosely extended.

Spinach Dip

I make awesome spinach dip, I really do. I wasn't going to get all puffed up about it a few years ago when I just started tinkering with spinach dip, but now I really have no choice.

It all started back in my first year, when I was friends with a cheerleader named Cookie (does this sound like the beginning of a porn story?). She had a party for her 23rd birthday and made a spinach dip off of which I could not keep my hands (definitely sounds like the beginning of a porn story). After that party, I became obsessed with spinach dip, and made RSVP decisions based on whether anyone was bringing spinach dip.

By the time second year rolled around, I had discovered Costco spinach dip. It came in two large cylindrical containers shrinkwrapped together and tasted mostly okay. Unfortunately, I got sick of it real quick.

In third year, I started looking for a spinach dip recipe of my own. I tried a few...but some were too sour creamy, some were too mayo-y, some were too spinachy. I wouldn't even touch the cream cheese ones. I don't like cream cheese. And then one day, it happened. I had combined and tweaked all the right combinations of spinach dip recipes and had come up with one that was perfect for me. And it was low-fat too!

But like I said, I wasn't about to get puffed up about it. Some people like more sour cream or fat or whatever in their spinach dip. My own humble concoction was simply one that I loved. Often. But when I started making the dip for gatherings, the rave reviews started pouring in, and my head started getting very puffy (this would be a good time to point out the puffiness of my ass again...insert snarky self-deprecating ass comment here).

But luckily for all of you, I'm not a selfish recipe monster so here, as promised, is my spinach dip recipe. Have fun, Hilda!

Ingredients:
1 package chopped frozen spinach, thawed and drained
1 small can of water chestnuts, drained and chopped
1/3 cup chopped green onion
1 cup non-fat sour cream
2/3 cup low-fat mayo
1 tbsp lemon juice
1/2 tsp seasoning salt
2 tsp dried parsley

Instructions:
Mix it all together and serve with cubed up pumpernickel and crusty italian bread. I like using two kinds of bread to make it look prettier, but you can just go with one if you like.

This recipe is very forgiving, and the measurements are mostly guidelines. I've made it so many times now, I've started eye-balling everything, and as long as the sour cream : mayo ratio is mostly right, everything else falls into place. Presentation in a bread bowl is optional. I stopped doing this because A) after you use the bread for the bowl, there isn't much left for dipping, so you almost have to buy two pumpernickel loaves to have enough bread and B) the bread bowl looks disgusting after people have scooped out all the spinach dip. It's just wet and whiteish all along the inside with bits of drying spinach stuck on it, and it looks like garbage. Some people say that after the dip is gone, their guests will rip up the bread bowl and eat it as well. These people perhaps have raccoons for guests.

My Cousin Loy Sucks

If you look on the list of Links on the side of this page, you will find a link to Loy and Cecilia's Blog. Loy is a cousin on my dad's side of the family, and I'm crazy about his kids. But Loy, he sucks.

You will notice that on his list of postings, there is one entitled Chan/Kong/Chiu/Yu Christmas. You will also notice that neither my picture or Eric's appears in the ones posted. You know why? Because Loy had a Chan/Kong/Chiu/Yu Christmas party WITHOUT US.

What is that? WHAT IS THAT??

I can think of only one excuse, and it is this: Eric got a call/msn message from Loy on Thursday December 22nd or Friday December 23rd, asking if we wanted to come over for "A last minute dinner with Elaine and Gary and the kids." Unfortunately, we had tickets to go see Blue Man Group with my brother downtown. If this Chan/Kong/Chiu/Yu Christmas party is the same as "A last minute dinner with Elaine and Gary and the kids", then mollification may be in the cards. But still, "A last minute dinner with Elaine and Gary and the kids" is very different from a big cousins gathering with Elaine and Gary and Jocelyn and Matthew and Carrie and Peter and Jordan and Taylor and Grace and Francis and Christie and Corinne - in addition to Loy and Cecilia and Kendall and Trinity and Duncan. Very different. And there was KFC! Come on!

But if this isn't the case, and a Chan/Kong/Chiu/Yu Christmas party occured excluding us, I plan to hate Loy forever. And I will steal his kids and keep them for myself.

Loy, you suck.

Carols

I like Christmas songs. I especially appreciate how they are named after me. I know the holiday season is upon us when I start humming Carols while washing my hands after using the washroom. But there are some Christmas songs that drive me bonkers. While I delight in my own renditions of songs, and numerous recorded versions of old-time favourites, some recorded songs are very very bad. These are the ones I hate the most:

Andy Williams - Happy Holidays/Holiday Season
This song is played in all malls without exception. I don't know who made the decision to include it in the mixed CD for Christmas, but it's just awful. The worst part about it isn't the slightly nauseating melody, but the non-sensical lyrics.

It's the holiday season,
So hoop-de-doo and dickery dock
And don't forget to hang up your sock
'Cause just exactly at 12 o'clock
He'll be comin' down the chimney down

Seeing as this verse comes fairly late in the song, I can only imagine that they ran out of "holiday" lyrics and decided to make up some words. "Hoop-de-doo and dickery dock"? I'll bet they thought of the "sock" line first, and then couldn't think of anything that rhymed with "sock" other than "cock". So they made up some random words instead. And then, what exactly does it mean when he says "He'll be comin' down the chimney down"? I think they just needed another syllable, so they picked a random one-syllable word. Unfortunately for them, they picked a word that occured just three words previously. In any case, it makes no sense, and it makes me crazy.

Britney Spears - Any song she ever recorded for Christmas
Every time I hear a Britney Spears holiday song (ie: My Only Wish), I come away singing to myself, not the song I just heard, but "Sometimes". This is annoying.

The version of "I'll Be Home for Christmas" at Williams Sonoma
So I may have lied - not everything at Williams Sonoma is awesome beyond belief. Their Christmas music mix is overall extremely good, with two exceptions. That awful Andy Williams thing mentioned above, and this rendition of I'll Be Home for Christmas by a woman who sounds like she was constipated on a toilet at the time of the recording. I've actually acted out my interpretation of this song for my colleagues to great acclaim. I kind of squat a little and scrunch up my face and sing along to the recording, drawing on my own past experiences in bowel difficulty. Aside from the attention I get from my performance, I enjoy nothing about this song.

Any version of Coventry Carol
This song, with its haunting melody and creepy "lully lullay" chant at the end of every verse makes me think of worms and death.

That Porky Pig version of "Blue Christmas" they play on CHFI
Enough already.

I don't want to give the impression that I am Scroogey about Christmas songs. There are many that I adore, and would sing all year round if I could! Here are some of my favourite Christmas recordings:

Mariah Carey - All I Want for Christmas is You
This song makes me dance till I'm silly in the head. What's even better is that it also makes Eric dance till he's silly in the head. We like to put it on and dance together till we're both so silly in the head, we need to sit down for some quiet time.

John Rutter and the Cambridge Singers - Candlelight Carol, Angel's Carol
These are wonderful choral pieces by John Rutter, which we sang in high school. The melodies are beautiful, and the Cambridge Singers did recordings of them. I sing these a lot in the shower, and also in the car by myself on the way to work. This simulates early morning soprano sectionals at school where I would sing out of tune with a very tired and gross voice.

Percy Faith - Christmas Is
A cheesy upon cheesy rendition of The Christmas Song, which we also sang in choir. The sheet music was complete with stage instructions, including the point at which a young boy should run onto the stage and open a gift box containing a puppy. I don't actually have a recording of this song, I just sing it a lot - again, in the shower.

Lee Ann Womack - The Man With the Bag
This song is very jaunty and gets me jiving and boogeying. It's nice because this song is also included in the Williams Sonoma Christmas selection. I have a personal problem with the song because for some reason, I like to sing "Everybody's waiting for the man in the bag". I'm pretty sure there's no man in any bag in Christmas tradition and lore but for some reason, it seems to roll off my tongue real nice.

South Park - Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo
I find this song hilarious, and it uses the word "poo" a lot.

Happy final Christmas shopping, and may the malls and restaurants you patronize this season play all carols that don't piss you off.

Egg Fry Rings

It doesn't get any better than this. Egg Fry Rings. We used them this morning, and they rock so hard, I'm going to buy more. So that I can make 8 perfectly round fried eggs at the same time. And then eat them.

The Egg Fry Rings are a Williams Sonoma Exclusive. They are made out of a heavy duty metal, and the rings don't bend. The metal is coated with some kind of non-stick coating, and they slip right off the eggs with little resistance.

I recommend using the Egg Fry Rings with the QuickMist oil sprayer bottle. This oil sprayer distributes a lovely even mist of oil onto the pan. No more puddles of oil for me! Just a fine spray to ensure that my foods won't brown all funny and dull. This sprayer is especially good with my All-Clad double burner griddle, as the oil won't run down into the sides.

Eric and I each consumed two perfectly round fried eggs for breakfast, sandwiched between sections of fresh french baguette. It is now 10:44pm, and we returned from a big dinner at the Scarboro Golf and Country Club not long ago. However, I have just made myself another perfectly round fried egg, sandwiched between sections of fresh french baguette. The yolk burst as I took my first bite and splattered on my face. A small amount also got on my pants. I mopped off my face with the sandwich, thus salvaging the splattered yolk. I am very very full, but very very happy.

Owwwwwwwww

Christmas is fast approaching, and I have accidentally grated off a large chunk of my left index finger with a Microplane Ribbon Grater.

It was a distinctly unpleasant experience. See, we had done some employee-discount shopping at Williams Sonoma, and had invested in a nice collection of Microplane graters. Eric had a real hankering for them back in the summer and wanted one of each kind. So we brought them home, and he proceeded to try to wash them. Well, when it came time to wash the ribbon grater, the cover was stuck! Eric brought it out to the family room where I was innocently and demurely watching tv. I tried to get the cover off a few times and we agreed, it was stuck. But then I had to try one last time. I applied a steady force, and suddenly the cover wrenched loose!

Unfortunately, my left forefinger was roughly pulled by momentum right down the front of the grater. I screamed bloody murder. I jumped up and down. I cried. I don't react well to pain. I quickly ran it under some water...I don't know if I'm supposed to do that. But we had no BandAids or Polysporin, so Eric made me hold a wad of tissue tight against my bloody mangled finger while he ran out to buy some.

When we gingerly pulled back the tissue, we found that it had already crusted up onto the open wound. I had to pry it off, moaning and wheezing the whole time. A large and thick flap of skin/flesh was still attached on one side. Eric made me fold the flap down onto the wound and assured me that the skin would "reattach". I kind of think he made that up. I tried, but the skin had already started to dry out, so it was hard and not very pliable.

Then we bandaged it up, and I've been whimpering about my hurty finger ever since. I am experiencing difficulty typing, washing my hair, and doing dishes of any kind.