The Olympics are on at the moment, and I have to admit, they hold almost no interest for me whatsoever. I'm completely alone, it would seem, on this one, because when it comes up that I couldn't care less about who "medals" (a term that makes me grit my teeth) in what, it earns me a look usually reserved for seeing-eye-dog thieves.
I found this on YouTube the other day, and this, this makes me almost want to watch the Olympics. If I could be assured that I would see something this entertaining every day, I'd be glued to the set. This clip was from the 2000 Olympics in Sydney, and not only do I love "Eric the Eel", it's the Australian commentary that really makes it for me.
Eddie the Eel gives me way more to think about than Michael Phelps.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
A Trip To The Vet
Poor Toby, this morning dawned like any other day ("God, when will they get up and get me my tuna???"). He had no idea that this day would bring his worst nightmare to reality: his annual trip to the vet. There is so much to hate about that annual half-hour of his life that Toby hardly knows where to begin.
First there was the indignity of the cat carrier. Toby had never actually been in a cat carrier before, every other vet trip had involved an unwilling child to accompany us, but this time I had been able to acquire a carrier for the express purpose of managing by myself. Toby was deeply suspicious of the cat carrier, (with good cause, as it turned out) and would have preferred a long, slow, thorough examination before getting in, but I had other ideas, and Toby was deposited rather unceremoniously. His look of deep disappointment spoke volumes of his knowledge that he always knew I would turn on him eventually.
Then we had to get in the car. Toby hates the car. Loathes the car. Is repulsed by the car. Except when it is coming in the driveway, and he runs up to greet it and has to be physically removed from harm's way. But getting in the car? Not to be borne. Toby views the car the same way he does the vacuum cleaner: it is large and noisy and mobile, and it is very likely to dismember you in the blink of an eye; run away. In the car, Toby let out a series of very loud, desperate and altogether bone-chilling meows that were equally pitiful and hilarious. I tried talking to him to calm him down, I even sang a few verses of "Sexy Cat", but he would not be comforted, and nearly herniated himself vocalizing his intense desire to get. out. of. this. damn. car.
When we got to the vet, he decided that the cat carrier was not such a bad place after all, and refused to get out. After a bit of gentle persuasion (involving the vet's assistant and a steely grip on his legs. The cat's, not the assistant's) Toby came out onto the examination table, whereby he proceeded to make himself as teeny-tiny as felinely possible. Honestly, he was so compact you could have put all 12.5 pounds of him in your pocket.
I'll skip over the humiliation of the vet's exam, but Toby occasionally sent me such malevolent looks that I was glad he couldn't reach the big knives, and didn't have opposible thumbs.
After the exam, which went pretty well, all things considered, he resumed his hatred of the cat carrier (probably because the last time he got in that thing, it took him right into the car.) and I had to pretty much had to don oven mitts and a haz-mat suit to get him in. But I am more stubborn than he is, (and I outweigh him by 130 pounds) and so, in he went.
The car ride home was just as fraught with yowls and squawks of protest, and I was very happy that the vet is only a two minute drive from our house. When we got home, I opened the cat carrier and Toby leaped out, only to pause to look at me over his shoulder with the deepest loathing before sitting down to lick all the vet stink off his fur. I reminded him that, not only did I do this for his own good, I paid a hundred bucks for the privilege, and perhaps he could dial down the hatred a mite. But then I remembered that he had a thermometer stuck up his bum, so maybe a little animosity wasn't completely out of the question. (I did remind him that is was not me who stuck the thermometer up his bum, but he didn't seem to think that relevant. I was in the room, wasn't I?)
And then I gave him tuna for being such a good boy, and he loved me all over again. Just 364 more days until we do it again.
First there was the indignity of the cat carrier. Toby had never actually been in a cat carrier before, every other vet trip had involved an unwilling child to accompany us, but this time I had been able to acquire a carrier for the express purpose of managing by myself. Toby was deeply suspicious of the cat carrier, (with good cause, as it turned out) and would have preferred a long, slow, thorough examination before getting in, but I had other ideas, and Toby was deposited rather unceremoniously. His look of deep disappointment spoke volumes of his knowledge that he always knew I would turn on him eventually.
Then we had to get in the car. Toby hates the car. Loathes the car. Is repulsed by the car. Except when it is coming in the driveway, and he runs up to greet it and has to be physically removed from harm's way. But getting in the car? Not to be borne. Toby views the car the same way he does the vacuum cleaner: it is large and noisy and mobile, and it is very likely to dismember you in the blink of an eye; run away. In the car, Toby let out a series of very loud, desperate and altogether bone-chilling meows that were equally pitiful and hilarious. I tried talking to him to calm him down, I even sang a few verses of "Sexy Cat", but he would not be comforted, and nearly herniated himself vocalizing his intense desire to get. out. of. this. damn. car.
When we got to the vet, he decided that the cat carrier was not such a bad place after all, and refused to get out. After a bit of gentle persuasion (involving the vet's assistant and a steely grip on his legs. The cat's, not the assistant's) Toby came out onto the examination table, whereby he proceeded to make himself as teeny-tiny as felinely possible. Honestly, he was so compact you could have put all 12.5 pounds of him in your pocket.
I'll skip over the humiliation of the vet's exam, but Toby occasionally sent me such malevolent looks that I was glad he couldn't reach the big knives, and didn't have opposible thumbs.
After the exam, which went pretty well, all things considered, he resumed his hatred of the cat carrier (probably because the last time he got in that thing, it took him right into the car.) and I had to pretty much had to don oven mitts and a haz-mat suit to get him in. But I am more stubborn than he is, (and I outweigh him by 130 pounds) and so, in he went.
The car ride home was just as fraught with yowls and squawks of protest, and I was very happy that the vet is only a two minute drive from our house. When we got home, I opened the cat carrier and Toby leaped out, only to pause to look at me over his shoulder with the deepest loathing before sitting down to lick all the vet stink off his fur. I reminded him that, not only did I do this for his own good, I paid a hundred bucks for the privilege, and perhaps he could dial down the hatred a mite. But then I remembered that he had a thermometer stuck up his bum, so maybe a little animosity wasn't completely out of the question. (I did remind him that is was not me who stuck the thermometer up his bum, but he didn't seem to think that relevant. I was in the room, wasn't I?)
And then I gave him tuna for being such a good boy, and he loved me all over again. Just 364 more days until we do it again.
Friday, August 8, 2008
The Power Of Fudge.
My kids were at day camp for the past two weeks, and yesterday they had to bring something for a big potluck at lunch. Hmmm, what can I make, cheaply, for 40 people, that contains no nuts or gluten, and doesn't require refrigeration? The answer: fudge. (In fact, you would be surprised at how many times "fudge" is the right answer to so many of life's questions.)
This fudge recipe is courtesy of my friend, Big Liver Girl, and has been so appropriated by the Loudshoes family that we consider it now our own. It's quick, it's very easy and uses entirely mundane ingredients that hardly anybody is allergic to. It's only downside is that it contains about a million calories per gram. People are very happy when they get this fudge, and it's nice to make the world a happier place. It's my own little way to be more like Mother Theresa.
Fudge
Put 1/2 cup butter, (never, ever margarine), 1/2 cup cream (or evaporated milk) and 2 cups of brown sugar in a medium saucepan. Melt the butter and bring the whole mess to a rollicking good boil, stirring occasionally. When it's come to a good boil, time it for 6 minutes. Take it off the heat, and add 2 teaspoons vanilla extract. (Don't use imitation here, the real stuff will make all the difference. In fact, never use imitation vanilla extract, ever, in anything.) Give everything a good stir and let it cool down to warm. (I hurry this along by putting a couple of inches of cold water in the sink and putting the whole pot in.) When the fudge has cooled down sufficiently, beat the daylights out of it with an electric mixer, or if you are really ambitious, your own brute strength. When the fudge has become stiff and glossy and lighter in colour, pour the lot into a greased 8x8" pan and put it in the fridge for a couple of hours. Cut into teesy little squares (about 1x 1/2"), lest people get too big a piece and collapse into a sugar coma.
This fudge recipe is courtesy of my friend, Big Liver Girl, and has been so appropriated by the Loudshoes family that we consider it now our own. It's quick, it's very easy and uses entirely mundane ingredients that hardly anybody is allergic to. It's only downside is that it contains about a million calories per gram. People are very happy when they get this fudge, and it's nice to make the world a happier place. It's my own little way to be more like Mother Theresa.
Fudge
Put 1/2 cup butter, (never, ever margarine), 1/2 cup cream (or evaporated milk) and 2 cups of brown sugar in a medium saucepan. Melt the butter and bring the whole mess to a rollicking good boil, stirring occasionally. When it's come to a good boil, time it for 6 minutes. Take it off the heat, and add 2 teaspoons vanilla extract. (Don't use imitation here, the real stuff will make all the difference. In fact, never use imitation vanilla extract, ever, in anything.) Give everything a good stir and let it cool down to warm. (I hurry this along by putting a couple of inches of cold water in the sink and putting the whole pot in.) When the fudge has cooled down sufficiently, beat the daylights out of it with an electric mixer, or if you are really ambitious, your own brute strength. When the fudge has become stiff and glossy and lighter in colour, pour the lot into a greased 8x8" pan and put it in the fridge for a couple of hours. Cut into teesy little squares (about 1x 1/2"), lest people get too big a piece and collapse into a sugar coma.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
A Trip To Ikea
The Mister and I went on a roadtrip last Monday to Ikea, which was mightily successful. Not only did we buy a whole lot of stuff we both liked, we were still speaking to each other by the time we went home. Tell me that happens all the time at Ikea. (Once, when I was perusing the paint aisle at Home Depot, I was able to clearly hear the couple down the way....she raised her voice and said to him, in a deadly serious tone, "you can stop that passive-aggressive shit right now, or I am out of here!" And I thought, man, you haven't even started the paint job yet; it's only going to go downhill fast from here. I'd get out now if I were you.) Usually, I get so overwhelmed at Ikea that I leave without anything I came for, but with 100 tea-lights and a garlic press. Having the Mister there was a big plus, if only because he has no use for tea-lights.
A few months ago, we started re-doing the bathroom, and have only now gotten around to finished the paint job and getting the whole thing finished. (Those frigging hearts were a bitch to paint, let me tell you. We painted every single one with primer, and then again with beige. I was seeing hearts in my sleep, I tell you. The decendents of that tiler will be feeling my curses for many generations.) At Ikea we got a new light fixture and some stuff for the walls. Very successful.
Then we went to get new curtains for our bedroom, and ended up getting a new duvet cover and a headboard for behind the bed. The Mister put the whole thing together and mounted it on the wall before bedtime. We were delighted with the transformation....now it looks like real
grownups, and not students, live here!
I am a terrible decorator, without any ablity to see what things will look like when they are actually in my home. The Mister is much better than I, and could see the potential in that headboard way better than me. I just thought it looked like an overgrown Venitian blind, but it looks very sleek and modern.
But while we were at Ikea, I managed to make an absolute fool of myself. I was wandering around the bedlinens area, and I had one of their big bags slung over my shoulder with a towel rack in it. The towel rack was largish, and metal, but not too difficult to carry. But somehow, I managed to absolutely nail some poor young man in the goolies, not once, but twice, with it as I was looking at pillow cases and bed sheets. Honestly, I completely compromised his manhood both times. Then, I goosed him from behind, as the Mister and I were trying to see the price on some curtains. He was really, really not amused by this, and the fact that I was starting to giggle somewhat hysterically probably didn't help. (It wasn't that I was entertained by sexually assaulting him, it was that I was getting increasingly frantic that I stop.) Then I started to get a little annoyed at him, because really, he might want to think about being somewhere where I am not if he wanted to ever father children. The Mister ignored the situation as mightily as he could.
Then we went for lunch (Swedish meatballs and potatoes and lingonberry sauce. Why do would you put jam on meatballs, anyway? Makes no sense to me.) and talked about re-doing the kitchen and why there are no Ikeas anywhere near us but three within a half an hour of each other in Toronto, and what kind of coffee table do we want anyway, and then we went home.
We had a good day, and will definetly start in on the kitchen soon, and another trip to Ikea will happen. I just hope that guy stays home this time.
A few months ago, we started re-doing the bathroom, and have only now gotten around to finished the paint job and getting the whole thing finished. (Those frigging hearts were a bitch to paint, let me tell you. We painted every single one with primer, and then again with beige. I was seeing hearts in my sleep, I tell you. The decendents of that tiler will be feeling my curses for many generations.) At Ikea we got a new light fixture and some stuff for the walls. Very successful.
Then we went to get new curtains for our bedroom, and ended up getting a new duvet cover and a headboard for behind the bed. The Mister put the whole thing together and mounted it on the wall before bedtime. We were delighted with the transformation....now it looks like real
grownups, and not students, live here!
I am a terrible decorator, without any ablity to see what things will look like when they are actually in my home. The Mister is much better than I, and could see the potential in that headboard way better than me. I just thought it looked like an overgrown Venitian blind, but it looks very sleek and modern.
But while we were at Ikea, I managed to make an absolute fool of myself. I was wandering around the bedlinens area, and I had one of their big bags slung over my shoulder with a towel rack in it. The towel rack was largish, and metal, but not too difficult to carry. But somehow, I managed to absolutely nail some poor young man in the goolies, not once, but twice, with it as I was looking at pillow cases and bed sheets. Honestly, I completely compromised his manhood both times. Then, I goosed him from behind, as the Mister and I were trying to see the price on some curtains. He was really, really not amused by this, and the fact that I was starting to giggle somewhat hysterically probably didn't help. (It wasn't that I was entertained by sexually assaulting him, it was that I was getting increasingly frantic that I stop.) Then I started to get a little annoyed at him, because really, he might want to think about being somewhere where I am not if he wanted to ever father children. The Mister ignored the situation as mightily as he could.
Then we went for lunch (Swedish meatballs and potatoes and lingonberry sauce. Why do would you put jam on meatballs, anyway? Makes no sense to me.) and talked about re-doing the kitchen and why there are no Ikeas anywhere near us but three within a half an hour of each other in Toronto, and what kind of coffee table do we want anyway, and then we went home.
We had a good day, and will definetly start in on the kitchen soon, and another trip to Ikea will happen. I just hope that guy stays home this time.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Accent Game
I always thought I was pretty good at identifying accents, but this website proved me totally wrong. Accent Game has you guess the person's accent from a two line recitation, and I did appallingly badly. I didn't even get some of the English accents, which I would have thought were easy. At least I got the Canadian!
Monday, August 4, 2008
Those Were The Days.
Back in the day, when he was young and waggish and hurtling towards his ultimate destiny as Mr. Loudshoes, Himself worked for a while at a cheese factory. It was an okay job, all things considered, he said, and it was there when he needed it. He learned, among other things, to drive a forklift, and that he probably was not suited to a life devoted to manufacturing dairy products.
Occasionally he will mention his former life as a cheesemaker, usually in the context of warning people not to eat Cheez Whiz. ("You do not want to see how that stuff is made.") Also, that the factory supplied many different companies, and that they made the same cheese day in, day out, but that they would regularly stop the production line to change the wrappers. Anyone who claimed that Brand X was vastly superiour to Brand Y would probaby not believe that it was exactly the same cheese, but the Mister says it was so, and that the same practice goes on in factories all over God's green earth.
The other day, Thing 1 and I were at the grocery store, and I referred to his former job because of a perceived difference on her part in various shampoos. (Don't even get me started on shampoos....25 years in the beauty business has taught me that shampoos have far more similarities than differences. When some supplier wants me to sell a $40 bottle of shampoo because it contains alien life forms and hummingbird saliva, I know to show him the door. Except that stuff you can get at the dollar store; that stuff really is crap.)
Thing 1 looked at me in astonishment and exclaimed "Dad really worked in a cheese factory?? I thought he was just making that up!!"
Because naturally, if you were going to invent a job that you never had, you would pass up orchestra conductor, pit boss and lion tamer, and pretend that you worked in a cheese factory. Because of the glamour of it all.
Occasionally he will mention his former life as a cheesemaker, usually in the context of warning people not to eat Cheez Whiz. ("You do not want to see how that stuff is made.") Also, that the factory supplied many different companies, and that they made the same cheese day in, day out, but that they would regularly stop the production line to change the wrappers. Anyone who claimed that Brand X was vastly superiour to Brand Y would probaby not believe that it was exactly the same cheese, but the Mister says it was so, and that the same practice goes on in factories all over God's green earth.
The other day, Thing 1 and I were at the grocery store, and I referred to his former job because of a perceived difference on her part in various shampoos. (Don't even get me started on shampoos....25 years in the beauty business has taught me that shampoos have far more similarities than differences. When some supplier wants me to sell a $40 bottle of shampoo because it contains alien life forms and hummingbird saliva, I know to show him the door. Except that stuff you can get at the dollar store; that stuff really is crap.)
Thing 1 looked at me in astonishment and exclaimed "Dad really worked in a cheese factory?? I thought he was just making that up!!"
Because naturally, if you were going to invent a job that you never had, you would pass up orchestra conductor, pit boss and lion tamer, and pretend that you worked in a cheese factory. Because of the glamour of it all.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Squidhammer
Today has been very busy, and I have endured about a million interruptions since I sat down at the computer. (My children have proven themselves incapable of anything without consulting me. I guess that's the downside of being a control freak most of their lives.)
I will pass you onto my brother's blog, Squidhammer. I hope it amuses you as much as it did me.
I will pass you onto my brother's blog, Squidhammer. I hope it amuses you as much as it did me.
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