In Which I Contemplate, Extrapolate and Masturbate

Black Day in the Office

Henceforth to be referred to as the Den of Industriousness (Ha!). We’ve just had some new ‘improvements’ to our internet connection and technical stuff in the office that I frankly don’t understand. These ‘improvements’ to my gateway to the outside world has resulted in corporate blocking of sites such as Facebook (typical) and its ilk as well as blocking any photos that are remotely interesting.

In addition to this travesty, the connection has slowed to a sails pace. It’s almost faster for me to write letters longhand and post them now. Dealing with a slow connection, like back in the ol’ dial up days, is the equivalent of sitting in traffic. There is nowhere to go (because that whole regular paycheque thing is kinda boss), there is nothing to see (because the screen is stuck on white until it’s reached it’s intended destination), and nothing to do. Perhaps I’ll try working tomorrow.

For the Love of Orange

I don’t know exactly what it is about fruit, but I struggle to eat it. I am a champ at buying it, ace at letting it sit in the fridge for a week or two until the stench of rotting food causes me to do a full fridge purge which sends me into a tail spin of guilt for all those malnourished kids in the world who would have enjoyed that bag of apples I so callously waste on an alarmingly regular basis.

That being said, I awarded myself a gold star this afternoon when I chose the orange over the chocolate bar. Unprocessed food, for the win! And, I have to say, it was satisfying and incredibly delicious. When I have fruit that’s as tasty as it was today, I wonder at my reluctance to eat it. I have two more oranges and a bag of grapes that I will endeavour to eat before their respective use by dates.

What Is That?

Apparently, I got dressed in the dark this morning (on reflection, I think I did). And when I got to work in the morning, I noticed this:

I have no recollection of eating any blue food, nor did I use Windex this morning, so I can only surmise that it is Smurf spooge.

-Going to watch smurf porn, Anna

Kitchenland Nightmares

I am, for the most part, completely useless in the kitchen.

Last week, I attempted a vegetarian stroganoff with tofu, and it was hideous. Disgusting, even. To be fair (to me) the recipes were ‘healthy’, which stroganoff isn’t, so much. So, what I created wasn’t really stroganoff, but it wasn’t really edible, either. Instead, it was a congealed mass of egg noodles, low fat yogurt and tofu with spices.

Again, to be fair (to me), it was the day of the flaming, intolerable tooth pain and, potentially, I suppose, could have coloured the dining experience. In any case, that recipe has been exiled to the never, ever again pile.

One area where I do tend to be proficient in the kitchen, however unlikely that might be, is baking things. I can usually turn out a decent cake or batch of cookies.

I typed a really self-righteous post glorifying my baking skills over the weekend, while I had a cake baking, and it turns out that it was slightly premature. The cake in question, a moist yellow cake, was fucking atrocious. Not due to the recipe, but the supposed baker.

Steps to baking fail:

1.Not having a mixer, stand or otherwise, of the electric variety, I had to use my body as such

2.Being lazy and not being bothered about actually spending 70 minutes creaming the butter and sugar

3.Not understanding the significance of having the rack in the right spot in the oven

4.Using the timer on the stove to time the baking properly.

The recipe called to cool the cake in the pan for 10 minutes, then wrap it in cling film for the rest of the cooling time. Trying to wrap a still very warm and very crumbly cake is an impossible feat, as I found out. This is he area where I excelled: throwing mostly inedible cake all over the kitchen during cling film wrapping theatrics.

After giving a slice to my neighbor, the new official taster, we determined that the cake was really, really unusable and that I should, perhaps, destroy what was left of it. So I did, but with a tear in my eye, from the concrete-like shards that pierced my skin as it shattered in the bin.

This left the dilemma of needing to make another of the super moist (ha!) yellow cake for the birthday Hodge for tomorrow (now today - lazy posting).

I would like to state, for posterity, that creaming butter and sugar with a dinner fork is a wonderful way to ruin perfectly good shoulders. And fore arms. And wrists. But, it is done. I baked a perfectly edible cake that is very, very moist, though still quite crumbly - which seems unlikely, but is true none the less. And it is delicious, particularly when paired with the chocolate cake that turned out perfectly (the first time)!

However, because there certainly wasn’t enough cake failure in my recent past, I had to do a quick cover up when Hodge stopped by unexpectedly. The tea towel disguise bonded to the cake and they stuck together like glue. Only a minor disaster this time, and I’m still using the cake, cloth fibers be damned.

Beating well after each addition, AM

Where Have I Been All My Life?

Happy December…ugh.

Christmas is only a few short weeks away. Actually, it’s 15 days away, which is pretty alarming, actually, since I have done simply nothing in regards to it. I had dinner instead.

To be honest, I am looking forward to Christmas this year. It’s been awhile since I’ve been home and the last visit was more of a whirlwind whistlestop where I tried to cram seeing just about everybody I ever knew in Edmonton into five hours. True, this time I will only have a couple of days to catch up with my somewhat nearest and dearest, and one of those days is dedicated to my mother because she is going to take me shopping. Which is a happy fucking occasion, am I right?

Since I am over the age of ten, and have forged some sort of style (Ha!), and my mother isn’t dressing me in pants of the stirrup and MC Hammer variety, things have gone much smoother for us in the shopping department. I remember having amazing, embarrassing temper tantrums about her choice of clothing for me, which I whole heartedly did not want to even try on, much less own. But these days, I don’t think I’ll ever get bored with my mom buying me things. Ever. Because they’re usually generous purchases that I don’t have to feel guilty for going into overdraft for. And, frankly, I’m not above letting someone buy my affection and attention. I am a product of my generation, thank you McDonalds!

Rage at the Chinese Takeout:

Hilarity at lunch was mine to behold at the Pacific Centre Chinese place today. To preface this, I don’t normally frequent this restaurant because I think they’re over priced and it’s just not that good. But, having survived for well over a week on nothing but fried food and cheese (and sometimes fried cheese), I needed some fresh food that wasn’t processed to hell and still looked like something that came out of the ground. I did order a greasy, greasy veggie spring roll to counter all the veggies, though. And it was pretty delicious, I gotta say!

So, imagine my surprise when a woman behind the counter points to my shoulder and tells me to “stop harassing my customers! GO! Leave now! If I see you again, I’m calling security! GO! Etc…”

This was totally baffling, as I’m pretty fucking sure that I don’t scare her customers away by ‘telling bad story about her business’. Maybe by scowling at them, or smelling bad I frighten them, but not by telling tales. Happily (?), she was talking to someone else, not me, and an epic one way shout match ensued.

By one way, I mean the woman who’s ‘business’ it was, ie: the one behind the counter, was yelling, shouting and carrying on in a very badly behaved manner. And I am the authority on bad behaviour, so trust me, it was pretty awesome. And the other, well, she looked pretty harmless in her winter wear, clutching her Louis Vuitton and speaking softly in Chinese to the angry one. The quiet woman eventually wandered off into the crowd while I eventually got my lunch, which was a bit of a cock up due to the angry woman having played musical chairs with our meals while she was yelling and we had to figure out what each one was, this way…*

Captains Log: Stardate – a million miles away

On my way back from lunch, there was a man having a very intense conversation with himself. And as I was walking up behind him, I stepped to the side to notice that this 40 something man was holding two toy models of the Starship Enterprise. And he was indeed captains logging to himself, which I admit I enjoyed immensely.

The best part, though, was the bit where he says: “I was kicked out of the shelter last night because they found me with a porno magazine, which is kind of a true story…” and then he went back into Star Trek speak, which made sense to no one but him.

It seems strange that he would be kicked out for merely possessing a porn mag, unless it was of a very, very naughty nature. And I wonder how that is kind of a true story. Everyone knows that you cannot lie when doing your Captains Log. Sure, you can omit stuff, but not tell half, kind of true stories (I can’t imagine Captain Kirk logging about getting busy with the alien life forms, he would have omitted that nugget).

So I have surmised, most likely incorrectly, that he was perhaps getting off where he (kind of)shouldn’t have been. Like, inappropriately. And that is where my entirely overactive imagination shall end.

As will as this entry. Till Later.

*I totally wasn’t going to actually link to the ball under the cup finding game, but how fucked up is that guy? I think I’m in lurve!

-A

In Which Several Cookies Die

War on raisins:

Dear raisins of the world,

I would really appreciate if you would no longer hide in my food. I have to say that when I bite into a delicious, delicious cookie or cinnamon bun (and/or countless other foods where you have no business), I really, really, really hate it. And that in turn makes me hate you. Just this afternoon, I was indulging in an oatmeal cookie, expecting chocolate chips, when you showed up at the party. Go back to the nursing home you’re too old to party here.

I thank you for your attention and care of this sensitive matter.

-Anna

Scoot-Scoot yourself outta my life:

I had planned, and half wrote, today’s post to be a bitter diatribe about fat people. Well, not just fat people, rather morbidly obese people, particularly the kind who ride scooters, and especially the kind who chase me around grocery stores and corner me for the last cream cheese danish (…almost true story. It was the mars bar she was after). However, I have decided that those people are bitter enough without me spitting venom at them, though I did give her the stink eye and an earful for blocking the aisles for a third time!

Instead, I shall give you the link to this wonderful, wonderful website that fulfils all of your creepy people watching (to clarify, that is the watching of the creepy people, not you creeping people by watching them. Got it?). Make sure you check out the hate section.* Also make sure you have ample time to be distracted for at least 30 minutes by the brilliance of this site.

*doncha get the impression that the haters have found themselves posted here?

Cookies, cookies everywhere, somewhere amidst the crumbs:

My wonderful, talented mother, crazy as she is, made this girl some delicious, raisin-free cookies. I received them today, and they are some kind of awesome…

…except…

…Canada post seems to have not treated my treats with due care and attention. They’re squished. Except, when you squish a cookie, they don’t squish, they crumble, as cookies are wont to do. They are still tasty and delicious, they just need to be eaten with a spoon.

I’m not feeling too upset about this, because of this:

Gingey's head and leg are missing. Mum used these cookie cutters to make them there cookies, and all but one of them have suffered tragic accidents at the guillotine. So, not only are they cripples, but they're also dead. Zombie cookie! Nom nom nom!!

Please note the mother fucking gumdrop buttons! ('Not the gumdrop buttons!, You're a monster!'... I could go on)

And, please pay special attention the the crumbs that are masquerading as fairy dust. I can smell you for what you are, fairy dust. That's a lovely brand of peanut butter you're wearing.

Stay Classy*, Internet,

*oh dear

-Anna