Foodie follie

You know I love my boys. I dote on them. I make sacrifices for them. I happily and willingly share my space with them, my time with them and my money catering to their youthful tastes.

For instance, I have a whole section of the fridge dedicated to lunch meat, cheese, and soda. I have a cupboard filled with cereal, instant noodles and goldfish crackers. I have ceded part of my freezer space to pizza pops and Haagen Dazs… nope sorry that’s mine … to pizza pops and frozen waffles.

That’s all well and good. These things are not to my taste, but because I am a naturally tolerant person I accept my gouda being placed next to the kraft singles, my granola next to the frosted flakes, and my premium ice cream brand next to frozen breakfast waffles. I believe that these two food views can co-exist peacefully.

This has never been an issue for me, until now. I had, of course, hoped that eventually my tastes would influence the boys. After all imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. What I had not considered was the real timeline on which this imitative effect might impact my real life.

Last weekend, after a hectic Saturday attending a civic speaking event, dinner at the hot new tapas spot downtown and then the opera in the evening, I looked forward to a relaxing stress free Sunday.

I slept late, and at my leisure wandered down stairs. I intended to make myself eggs benedict for brunch …

… and discovered we had no eggs or butter.

Then I thought – that’s ok. I opened the cheese drawer to fetch the aged cheddar for a grilled Panini sandwich…

… and it too was gone.

I moved to the next option, bagel and cream cheese. Nope. No bagel, no cream cheese.

I decided to just make myself an Americano…

… but the can of espresso was empty.

At this point I was quite flustered. I decided that before I further explored my options I needed to calm down, so I opened the fridge fully intending to retrieve a craft ale to sooth my nerves.

There wasn’t a can or bottle left in the fridge, although I did note there were several in the recycle bin.

So, what I did I get on my relaxing Sunday morning? I had what was left in the cupboard and fridge.

I had a rootbeer and ramen noodles.

And NO, you cannot see a photo of that.

Intimate instances, for instance (a tale of two toilets)

**TMI Warning**

I love my home. I have a beautiful library, five fireplaces and rooms with french doors. The house is in a wonderful neighbourhood close to my city’s beautiful river valley and cycling distance to restaurants and cafes and shopping. The comfort is real.

I also love my husband. We share the ups and downs of daily life. I laugh in front of him, I cry in front of him. We have a bond and a lifestyle that keeps outside issues from coming between us. Our joy is is real.

(Aren’t we cute?)

I feel a little bad picking at my bliss, but I have a serious problem.

There are intimate instances during which I do not feel it is necessary to keep the proverbial (or actual) beautiful french doors open between my love and me. For instance, any time that I need to use a toilet.

I have the world’s worst en suite bathroom. It makes me want to wail and tear out my hair. What epic idiot renovated this elegant traditional home with the confused theory that modern marital bliss was compatible with uncloseted toilets? It boggles the mind. One wonders if the architect was some alien being, unfamiliar with the uncommunality of the common commode.

When we first moved in I felt the pressure to be flexible, so in the middle of the night I would stumble quietly into the darkness, groping the walls on my way to the bathroom, and stealthily perch on the uncloseted toilet around the corner. It seemed like a workable situation for a while. Then the inevitable happened.

My husband, who will sleep soundly through the trumpets and clashing swords of the apocalypse, had a bladder full at MY usual hour. We have reached the point in our marriage where our bladders are synchronized, which may sound sweet – the world is full of serendipitists who find all togetherness tales endearing – but it created a situation fraught with peril.

You see, I had already rounded the corner in the darkness and was sitting in cognito on the un-private privy.

When my darling rounded the dark corner I saw his outline against the moonlit window and hissed “I am on the toilet!” He recoiled in alarm, swung his arms – nearly sending all my lotions and pill bottles crashing off my sink counter – and, spinning on his heels, lunged back to bed.

Had he taken his final two steps he most certainly would have emptied his bladder on the spot I, and the toilet, currently occupied. I narrowly averted being peed on.

Consequently, my new midnight routine involves a flight of stairs because I simply cannot risk a repeat of watercloset-gate.

I want a door on my toilet.

I need a door on my toilet.

I need privacy to pee, and one of these early mornings I am going to fall down the stairs and break my neck trying to discreetly make my way down to the main floor bathroom to take care of what I should be able to take care of in my en suite.

God grant me the flexibility to accept the things I cannot change,

the willpower to change the things I can,

and the budget for a private toilet.

Coffeeshop down

In the interest of reducing our carbon footprint and sleeping in for 15 minutes more every morning, hubby and I have switched up our morning commute. Now rather than being driven to my office we drive to his office – which is on the train line and a 10 minutes train ride from my office.

When we came up with the plan it made perfect sense. After all, the drive to his office is 15 minutes, the drive to my office is 40.

But you know what they say about the best laid plans.

First of all, the train platform is not heated because apparently the city is run by people who hibernate and are therefore blissfully unaware of winter. I am having increasing difficultly balancing fashion with warmth.

There is a point those two things become mutually exclusive. That point hovers around -25 degrees Celsius.

Second, the train is like a sardine can. There is no way I can hold a coffee, my purse, my lunch, my shoe bag and still hold on so I don’t fall on the lurching train.

So this means I don’t get my morning americano enroute to his office/my transit. That is really making it hard to smile as I arrive at work, but I am being a trooper and enduring my coworkers even while in my non-caffeinated stupor.

I thought that I could manage until 10 by drinking a bit of office coffee, at which point I would simply take a two block saunter to Starbucks. But WTH office coffee? W-T-H? It’s bum coffee. It offends me. It is worse than the caffeine headache.

Plus then we had that series of -37C with windchill days. There was no way I was going outside and Starbucks does not deliver (I asked). So I had a terrible choice. Bum coffee all day, or tea.

I chose tea. It may be caffeinated but tea is a poor substitute for coffee, and the only way to make it better is to be stoic. I have gained much insight into the British disposition. Cultural idiosyncrasies explained.

Well, today the weather broke. It is a balmy two degrees above zero morning and I wrapped up and skipped off to Starbucks. I joyfully got my americano. It sounds like a happy ending. Right? Nope. In my absence they had become lackadaisical about stocking and had let the whole store run out of my preferred raw sugar.

So close, yet so far 😦

bus space train

In private, public transportation

My holiday respite from my crowded commute is over. It officially ended Monday afternoon.

You see, I take the train to meet my beloved and he then drives me home.

I get on the train at the 4th stop going south (there are more stops going north, but I try not to pay attention to anything north of our downtown core because it is too plebeian).

The first stop serves federal and civic government employees.
The second is used by passengers who work in the tall business office towers and exclusive shopping boutiques.
The third stop is close to a college and business school and used by students.
By the time the train reaches my stop, the fourth stop, I and a multitude of provincial government employees are on this platform waiting to embark:

I am willing to stand for my ride south, but I still need personal space during the journey. I have even been known to wait 6 minutes for a second train because I did not think I would have adequate personal space on the first train. The problem is, not everyone seems to share my need for personal boundaries.

After my stop the train crosses the river then stops on the far bank at the university.

Clearly youth is more comfortable with direct physical contact than we, the middle aged.

On the Monday question I got on the first train, having decided I had adequate space. Then at the univeristy 20 more students than common sense and physical space should have allowed for decided to squeeze on.

I was wedged up next to some amazonian proto-intellectual, my head under her chin.

As god as my witness, it took every ounce of my will to not scream and flail about in protest.

I stood suffering for 15 minutes as her breath parted my hair and proceeded down my exposed neck and into my blouse. It was horrific. I prefer to save that level of intimacy for my husband, in private.

The harsh reality

I don’t even know where to start.

My first world problems are interfering with my ability to maintain my first world problems blog.

Does that qualify as irony?

Or does it just qualify as priviledge…?

Either way, the harsh reality is that between the shopping, theatre, socializing, and romantic dinners December is a difficult month to carve out enough ‘me’ time to write about what ever it is I suffer from.

I think I am going to pour a glass of wine and put on my iTunes.

Self insufficiency

I am a creature of habit. I depend on the consistency and routine of my existence to take the edge off my stressful life. On a normal morning my husband drives me in and drops me at my office. I spend the average commute on my smart phone catching up on the news and listening to my meditation podcasts multiple times. I arrive at work relaxed and mentally prepared for my day.

Yesterday my husband had to drive out of town for work. Which of course meant I had to drive myself in to work.

I thought that would be fine; after all I am a self sufficient, empowered, 21st century woman.

I had no idea.

Traffic, oh my god, the traffic. People drive like lunatics. I swear I spent half of the drive idling at a standstill behind a pickup truck.

I thought I would replace the smart phone news reading with the radio. What has happened to radio? I heard a full 37 minutes of commercials, 36 seconds of news, and the first 3 chords of a song.

When when I finally got to work and paid for parking (?!) I then had to walk to a block to Starbucks and then three frigid blocks to my office building.

I thought it couldn’t get worse, but then I had to drive home. I was so frazzled by the time I got to the house I had to insist we go out for dinner because the stress of having to prepare the family meal was more than I could bear.

[Enter Blog Title Here]

I have really been struggling to come up with a new blog topic since my last post on October 29.

I am afraid I have to announce that I have the most severe of all the first world problems currently identified by social science.

I have had absolutely nothing to complain about.

Hopefully something goes awry soon. Otherwise I fear my dreams of being a writer will be irrevocably thwarted by my contentment.

dreams fashion finances

Budget troubles

To counter rumours that I have become an irredeemable princess, I have been looking into way of being more mindful of my finances.

For instance, just this past Tuesday hubby and I had a conversation about spending during which, when pressured to make a guess, my husband estimated that I spend $1000 a month on clothing.

I found that a bit shocking. I couldn’t counter that number because I really never keep track, but I was still taken aback.

Upon further and later thought however, I began to wonder if that was a number he was comfortable with. And if it was a number he was comfortable with, and if I could manage a quick and dirty forensic audit of my clothing related purchases, and if it turned out that I did not spend $1000 per month – was that amount retroactive?

Why, only just last last month I let an Akris Punto dress, discounted at 40%, slip away from me because I was not sure how my husband would feel about the $945 price tag.

Did I miss my chance? Did I unwittingly limit my own horizons and sabotage my own dreams? So many women are self saboteurs after all; we don’t insist on as much as we deserve from the world around us.

You can be sure that henceforth I will not self limit. When I see what I want I will take out my credit card and make my dreams a reality.

I feel more empowered already.

arachnid Arachnophobia bath bathe laundry poetic license princess spider tea

Poetic Princess license

The spider count is now three. Three spiders in my house. I can’t sleep knowing they’re about.

It started with the bathtub spider. He’s dead, but he probably had friends.

There was the spider on the stairs. He got away when I flicked on the lights.

Then there was the spider on the hallway wall. This one was brave, he stared me down. He’s the reason I didn’t do laundry last week.

I think we need to go away for a week and hire an exterminator to come in and purge the house. My husband seems to think I am over reacting and exaggerating the potential risks associated of a ‘few’ common house spiders. I think I am painting an accurate picture of our current household situation, but he thinks I am taking poetic license with my risk assessment.

So I thought I would compromise. I suggested we get a panic button in the bathroom so the next time an eight legged assassin emerges from my bathwater I can sound the alarm. Then my husband, who thinks I am exaggerating the risks, can run upstairs and rid me of the beastly thing.

My husband agreed, with one caveat. That I don’t use the alarm when I just want a cup of tea while I bathe.

Well, I can’t honestly promise that so I guess I just have learn to live with the arachnid invasion.

academy award dress fashion opera Oscar de la Renta oscarss queen

All my fashionable dreams torn asunder

I am so sad. It pains me to even think of my weekend now. I’ll have to wear black to The Barber of Seville, in mourning.

Oscar de la Renta, designer par excellence, has passed away at 82.

Now what will I wear if I ever have tea with the queen?

Or if I ever win an Academy Award?

Or am invited to the university president’s dinner party?

Or the OPERA, what will I wear to the opera now?

😦

darcysfirstworldproblems

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