it's official

I'm old.

Okay, so I may look about 20 years younger than I actually am and I haven't quite hit middle age, but the old lady in me is showing.

I look forward to getting that bundle of weekly flyers and delight in pouring over the deals. I'm not talking about half-price markdowns on designer fashions; I'm talking about 40 rolls of double-ply toilet paper for $5.99. Did you hear me? Five ninety-nine! That's 15 cents a roll! Vitamins are 2 for 1, my favourite Yali pears are on sale and yogurt is $2.99 for a 16-pack. That's right, 19 cents each! I can hardly contain my excitement. I am making a list as I go...

So I call my brother and share the news. Just the other day he texted me in the middle of the afternoon to say:

Yep. We old. Who cares? Frankly, I would have been more upset if he hadn't told me and I found out later that I could have been washing twice as many loads for the usual price.

And when I come home with enough toilet paper to wipe the entire neighbourhood's behinds, Mr. Man just grins at me. He's heard the explanation many many times. If we need this stuff anyway, we might as well take advantage of it whenever we can. And, yes, that also applies to the sale on ice cream.

Mom would be so proud.

note to self

You and Mr. Man have issues with iron.
Eat more red meat. Or legumes.

Wha? That's like comparing apples to oranges. That's too many food groups to consider.

My doc has told me before that my haemoglobin levels are low, and today Mr. Man's doc told him the same thing.  Mr. Man's brain involuntarily performs quick math:

            more iron = (steak + veal) x burger

Any reason is a good reason for Mr. Man to eat more meat, but I'd rather have fish, shrimp or Moroccan turkey burgers.

Whenever we do have steak, it's because Mr. Man makes it. I have steakophobia and can't [read: won't] cook it. An impressive cut of meat requires an equally impressive cook. If steak is supposed to come out a perfect shade of medium rare pink, juicy and melting in your mouth, it isn't going to happen under my direction. The meat won't submit to me. It senses my reluctance. It knows.

It's psychological, yes. The meat is winning, yes. That's okay. Mr. Man can continue to be the steak whisperer at our house. I will just work on building a better chili pot.

sour puss

There is a candy jar on my desk at the office. I never quite fill it to the top because I have little to no discipline when it comes to sweets planted in front of me, but there are other reasons too.

I don't like to share. Is that bad? I should qualify: I don't like to share my candy. MY candy. Mine. I will share and often find myself encouraging people to take some but, really, I would rather not if given a choice.

For one, I don't believe in the communal bowl. I don't want people molesting my sugary bliss with their flu-season-poor-bathroom-washing-habits-money-exchanging hands. [shudder] That's what the spoon is for, people! Second, the more they eat, the less I sweet. And I need it.

Daily stress on the job can be moderated by a little shot of sugar. Hell, even the non-stressful days are a more fun with a treat. It may only be temporary but I don't care. I eat well, otherwise. I'm not a fast-food junkie (save for this week's party mix fiasco) and I exercise moderately. Put a pack of dark chocolate or gummy somethings in my hand, and I'm skipping down the street like a kid again. Nerd. I know.

But back to my selfishness. People have been helping themselves to my candy more frequently these past few weeks.

I suppose it's nice that it makes other people happy too but, you know... So this week, I put in sour cherry balls. Love these. Love. Love. Love.


The other sweet teeth in the office aren't too pleased with my latest choice and have already aired their grievances. Truthfully, I chose these sours because I knew it would put them off, but my boss (go figure) is a big fan.

So while I've successfully managed to keep the mass consumers at bay, I've now drawn the attention of the actual hand that feeds me... What to do?

late for dinner

Yesterday was the first big storm of the year and the snowflakes were feisty. That's right, feisty.

They were barbed, I swear. Like tiny forks tenderizing my face. It hurt. They encrusted themselves to my chic cashmere toque, like a frozen plate of armour. Even my eyelashes had snowflake crusties. It wasn't pretty. And it was tiring walking through this mini blizzard.

By the time I got home, my face was devoid of feeling. You'd think I would have taken advantage of my already frozen state and gone out to shovel the drive right away.


Well...  I:

1) made myself some chai
2) watched some Olympics
3) answered my emails
4) thought about having a proper dinner, but
5) snacked on party mix instead
6) advised my friend on how to avoid a poorly set up blind date

It was around 9 pm that I thought: I should probably shovel.

So out I went, with a belly full of spiced tea and baked-not-fried party mix. Not a good combination, I might add. I cleared what I could, threw down some environmentally-friendly snow melter and was back inside in 45 minutes. Too late to eat a real dinner now, I thought, so I finished some leftover coleslaw. Talk about bad combinations. I paid for my poor menu choices today. Ugh.

So what did I learn from all this? Nothing, except that shovelling is no party. But I already knew that.

whine and geez

When the boys all get together, alcohol consumption and pick-a-carb-any-carb activities rise quickly. While I am happy not to be part of this gross display of manliness, I will miss the moment when all 5'2" of me gets to stand up and yell at 6'-somethings: Simmer down! I said, simmer down!

Festivities will begin with wine, bread, cheese, cold meats and stuffed olives.

It's their show of civility before the truth of their get-together surfaces.

When that time comes -- and it's usually as dinner begins -- the wine will turn into beer, bread and cheese will turn into several pounds of potatoes and (I'm guessing) broccoli, and the cold meats will turn into 8-oz. steaks. The olives will remain intact.

All of this will go on during today's Olympic Super Sunday. It's Canada vs. the US in men's hockey, so this means the testosterone levels will be exponentially higher than usual. And the alcohol has a way of making them deaf, thus prompting them to yell all communications in each others' presence:

"OFF SIDE! THAT WAS OFF SIDE! FOR CRYIN' OUT LOUD, I CAN SEE IT FROM HERE! OFF SIDE!" 

"WHERE IS MY BEER? IS THAT MY BEER? WHO TOOK MY BEER?" 

"PENALTY! PENALTY SHOT! IS THERE ANY SALAMI LEFT? PENALTY SHOT, MAN!" 

"PASS THE OLIV... GOALIE INTERFERENCE! DID YOU SEE THAT? GOALIE INTERFER... I DON'T WANT OLIVES. WHAT ARE YOU GIVING ME OLIVES FOR?"

So while their evening will consist of filling themselves with various foodstuffs and yelling maniacally at the television and each other -- fun, I know -- mine will consist of watching this hockey battle on my own terms. I will whoop it up with a yummy helping of shrimp and veggie orzo and a glass of wine and, better still, in what is sure to be a gas-free zone.

These boys, that broccoli and this hockey battle? It's a combination I know I can't handle.

world war beef

Tonight, Canada's Olympic Men's Hockey Team is playing Switzerland. The announcer said we would be "exacting our revenge" against them. Revenge? Really? 

In between stuffing himself full of crackers and goat cheese, Mr. Man wonders why revenge is even necessary against a neutral country. We weren't doing battle against them in either of the World Wars. Where's the beef? It's here, apparently, and it's hockey beef -- the juiciest kind. 

So in celebration of this event, Mr. Man has made hamburgers and potato wedges for dinner. I don't quite get the connection, but it's a night free of cooking for me so I'll take it. And in typical meat-eating man style, these burgers are Olympic sized. I tried to flatten them a bit before taking a bite, as my first attempt messily showed me I'm not quite the big mouth I sometimes know I can be.

[uh oh, Switzerland just cut our lead in half]

Dinner was consumed fairly quickly -- pub grub at home often is -- and now Mr. Man has moved on to a beer, firmly cementing himself into a corner of the couch.

But my favourite part of the evening is not the sound of oohing and aahing at the shots on net. It's not even that dinner was made for me. It's the squeaking of the coffee table during the plays. Mr. Man plants his foot on a corner of the coffee table when he's watching hockey, and his knees and ankles twitch as if he's actually skating in the game. I don't even think he knows he does this, but I find it endearingly funny.

Now if only I could train him to unconsciously make those dish scrubbing and rinsing motions and lead him to the kitchen sink more often.

[yikes. Switzerland just tied it up]

all bitter now

Seventy percent. That's about as far as I can go.

Of the box of extreme dark chocolate cocoa hearts given to me for Valentine's Day, only eight have been consumed. Half of those by Mr. Man.

Sweet of him, no?

I love and prefer dark chocolate to milk chocolate, and I'm not a fan of white chocolate -- which, by the way, isn't even chocolate -- but I haven't devoured these little jewels the way I was probably expected to. And they meet my bitter threshold at 70% cocoa.

For someone that doesn't drink coffee and finds arugula disagreeable (unless finely chopped), it's a wonder I fancy the stuff at all. Of course, I do like to eat them while I'm having a glass of red, so maybe it's about how much better it gets when paired with something else.

Oh... just like me and my bittersweet other half. Got it.

what did you call me?

It's Mardi Gras. Fat Tuesday. Shrove Tuesday. The last day to stuff ourselves before giving it all up.

Give what up? Every day is Fat Tuesday at my house. Just ask my Wii. It burps a startled "ohh" each time I step onto the balance board. But this is no deterrent.

Yesterday, I made extra fluffy buttermilk pancakes with a massive side o' bacon. Forgot to pick up juice during that grocery store jaunt on the weekend, so I had a cup of chai instead. For good measure, I put blueberries into the mix. How's that for fulfilling the daily serving of fruit requirement?

And today? I had a yogurt and banana, swallowed a handful of vitamins and tried to eat a shrunken clementine -- those suckers are hard to peel when they're old -- for breakfast. A mixed green salad with roasted chicken and cherry tomatoes was my lunch, and dinner consisted of maple glazed salmon and wasabi-laced soba noodles.

Yes, Monday probably should have been my Tuesday, and Tuesday could have been my Friday, and tomorrow I was thinking of making a stroganoff using some leftover turkey balls. Hee hee. I said turkey balls.

Whatever the day of the week, food is always welcome in our home. In fact, the more the merrier!

much ado

Too many do's on my to-do list this weekend.

I had planned to do some grocery shopping, visit the parental units and get my laundry done. The Winter Olympics are also on and apparently so is NHL hockey. And there's a giant bag of petrified brown sugar still sitting on the kitchen counter that was intended to be used for a batch of ginger molasses cookies ...

Multi-tasker? Sure. Executioner? Not so much.

Well, I did the grocery shopping on the way to the parents and watched some Biathlon while I was visiting. Next time, I'll start the laundry as soon as I get home, while scanning the channels to see how Canada is competing. And I'll only buy the sugar the day of or day before I actually intend to bake, so that I can roll those perfect little balls of dough while the rinse and spin cycles are running.

Although, breaking for a dark chocolate or two and a glass of red wine is okay. It is Valentine's Day, after all.